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1
It’s Valentine’s Day.
I had big plans. I was going to lay on the couch in my underwear, eat a tub of double fudge brownie ice cream, and watch Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.
That’s my annual tradition, started three years ago, after Theo and I broke up and I realized Valentine’s Day sucks when you’re single.
However, my tradition has been hijacked.
I wobble on my incredibly high, incredibly narrow wedge heels and readjust my gold sequin rose-colored sari. It’s Bollywood brunch on the beach at The Pier, an upscale beachfront restaurant that hosts extravagant themed Sunday brunches with champagne towers, free-flowing mimosas and lots of gourmet mini-bites.
Kate texted this morning. All it said was, “The Pier at eleven. Put some clothes on, you sad sack.”
Luckily, The Pier reuses themes, so I had a sari from the last eight Bollywood brunches we’ve been to. I walk down the sandy path to the beach. It’s shaded by a line of sea grapes and palms. There’s a slight breeze today, which carries the salty scent of the sea and the smell of grilled fish. I stop when I spy the white tent set up for brunch.
Oh no.
“Got it wrong, didn’t you?”
It’s Renee.
She’s best friends with me, Arya and Kate. Renee is half-Bajan, half-Trinidadian and a lawyer at one of the top international firms on the island. She works ninety hours every week and from what I can tell, she never sleeps. Every year, a young lawyer at her firm cracks under the pressure, and then Renee gets another promotion. She’s smart, Type A, and loves to argue. She’s also wearing a buttoned up white collared shirt that hits mid-thigh, white socks, a pair of black plastic sunglasses and nothing else.
“It’s the 80s Tom Cruise brunch? Not Bollywood?”
“Bollywood was last week.” She smirks at my sari.
Ugh. I wobble on my wedges. “Whatever. I’m Bollywood Nicole Kidman in Days of Thunder.”
Renee snorts.
Then we see Arya and Kate waving from a table near the champagne tower under The Pier’s white tent. The brunch is packed with people. The champagne has already started to flow and the band is playing Kokomo by the Beach Boys. I pull out a folding chair next to Kate and plop down.
Kate’s wearing the bathing suit Elisabeth Shue wore in Cocktail. She has two empty champagne glasses next to her and a plate full of half-melted chocolate truffles.
Arya is dressed in a bikini, aviator sunglasses and a pilot’s jacket. A subtle nod to Top Gun.
I’m the only one in the whole tent not paying tribute to 80s Tom Cruise.
Oh well.
“What are we talking about?” I ask.
“I broke up with Chet yesterday,” Arya says.
She takes off her sunglasses and rubs them clean on the lining of her coat. She doesn’t seem too broken up about the split.
“Why?” I ask her.
Arya is famous for breaking up for completely random reasons. For instance, she’s broken up with her last three boyfriends for the following reasons: his fingers were too long, his favorite book was Anna Karenina, and he was obsessed with flossing his teeth.
Renee sits down next to Arya and says, “It’s Valentine’s Day. Why would you break up the day before Valentine’s Day? You had a date. You like having dates.”
Arya levels Renee with a serious look. “He claimed cereal was soup.”
I think about this for a second. Then I decide I’m on Chet’s side. “Cereal is soup.”
“No. It’s not,” Arya says.
Renee leans forward, she smells an argument. “It is. Cereal has liquid and floaty bits. What else is soup but liquid and floaty bits?”
Arya’s disgusted with us. “Cereal is cold.”
“So is gazpacho,” Renee says.
We’re silent for a moment.
Then, Kate waves her hands. “It doesn’t matter. Chet made Arya cereal for a romantic dinner and called it soup. He expected some ‘romance’ in return.”
“Oh,” Renee says.
“Eww,” I say.
“Exactly.” Arya nods.
Well, that settles that.
I stare at the crowd around us and then wave over a waiter to grab a few mimosas for the table. The breeze from the sea is nice and the tent is cool from the shade, but even so, the glasses have condensation dripping down the sides. Part and parcel of living on a tropical island. It’s beautiful, but it’s hot.
“How’s work?” I ask.
Renee is the only lawyer in our group. Kate, a British ex-pat, is a luxury real estate agent and a sucker for any man that is bad for her. Arya’s parents are from India, but she grew up on the island. She works as a naturalist for the department of the environment.
“I spent all week cataloging boobies,” Arya says.
Renee smiles at her and lowers her black plastic sunglasses. “How many boobies?”
“Hundreds.”
“Were they old boobies? Young boobies?” Renee asks.
“All ages, really.” Arya shrugs.
“Were there any perky boobies?”
“No. There were no perky or saggy boobies,” Arya frowns at Renee.
Renee snorts.
This never gets old for her. Arya studies the red-footed booby population in the Caribbean. She’s a scientist and doesn’t find the humor in it. However, Renee thinks making serious, science-y Arya say the word “booby” over and over is hilarious.
“My dad called this morning,” I say, interrupting the booby conversation.
Everyone looks at me. I steal one of Kate’s melting chocolate truffle balls and shove it in my mouth.
“How’d that go?” Renee asks.
“Well, he asked what assignment I was working on, so I told him I’m writing an article on the best brunch spots on the island.”
Kate’s eyes go wide and she cringes. She’s the only one of my friends who has met my parents. My dad is a Pulitzer prize-winning war correspondent and my mom is an anthropologist. They met in a war zone where my dad was reporting and my mom was studying the rights of passage in an isolated people’s group. My dad is from New York, and my mom is from the island. I live in the house she grew up in.
“What did he say?” asks Kate.
“Nothing. He was silent for about thirty seconds. Then he asked about the weather.”
My dad has never been shy in his disappointment over my career trajectory. He thought I’d be holding a microphone and dodging bullets by now, not reporting on things like brunch spots and the best places to catch a beautiful sunset.
“That’s fifteen seconds shorter than the last silence,” Arya says helpfully.
She’s not wrong.
“Can we talk about how we’re all dateless, sad sacking it at the 80s Tom Cruise Valentine’s Day brunch for singles?” asks Renee. “I need some stress relief, and I’m looking at him.”
She points to a late-twenties guy with a beer gut. He’s wearing a tropical shirt and short shorts, dancing on top of a table, pretending to mix drinks like Tom Cruise in the movie Cocktail.
Renee doesn’t date, she “stress relieves” for a night or a weekend.
It’s intense.
