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I offer her a grateful smile but fold the towel I used as a blanket and continue preparing to go. I don’t want to be caught in the rain.
Ian wordlessly follows me back to the room. We are well beyond the pool and past the hotel gym when he speaks.
“Are you still in love with Sam?”
I stop and blink several times. My sunglasses cover my eyes. I don’t need them under the dark skies, but I wear them anyway. And I squint at Ian, wondering how he could ask me that.
I’ve been sleeping with him for nine months, and he wants to know if I’m still in love with my high school boyfriend? I’ve already told him I’m not. And this is exactly the problem. You can tell people anything you want, but they’re going to believe exactly what they want to believe. They might bat an eye in recognition of truth, but they’ll easily disregard it if it doesn’t conform to the worldview of choice.
I plow forward without offering an explanation. If Ian, of all people, can believe that, then I might as well give up. Everyone will always believe I’m in love with Sam. And that makes me and Ian reprehensible. An act of desperation.
I should’ve given up a long time ago. This whole exercise in attempting to enjoy ourselves and let’s-relax-Sunny is a farce. I should’ve known better. I should’ve never come here.
“What’re you angry about?” His voice rises to an attention-grabbing level.
A hotel room door opens down the hall, and the exiting couple takes one glance at us and heads the other direction. I don’t blame them. The breezeway is open air, and I glare at a green skink crawling along the balcony railing.
Ian opens our hotel room door. “Inside,” he snaps.
I bow my head and charge indoors. We had one more day in this hotel room, but I can’t stay. Not when he, of all people, can’t see my truth. Not when he, of all people, assumes what every other person we know assumes. I want to scream and throw things against the wall. But I settle for charging into our den, arms crossed, foot tapping a mile a minute.
He enters and runs a defeated hand through his hair. Without his sunglasses, I get a good look at his eyes. His skin tans easily, and he looks healthy, but his eyes are slightly bloodshot. Maybe he drank more than I realized last night.
“This was a mistake. A huge mistake.”
I breathe out heavily in agreement. He is so right, but the truth still sucks.
“I’ll see if we can get a spot out on the flight later on today.”
“Won’t that cost a fortune?”
“Probably just a change fee.” He pulls his phone out of his shorts pocket and presses a number. “We’re scheduled to leave on a Friday. The Thursday flight is probably less full.” He walks past me, toward the balcony. “Yes, hi. I wanted to inquire if I can move my flight up.”
He closes the door behind him, as if he can’t stand to be in the same room with me. I enter the walk-in closet, because yes, this hotel suite has an actual walk-in closet, and begin packing, just in case.
“If we can get out of here in thirty minutes, we’ll make it,” Ian says, stepping past me to pull his suitcase off the top shelf. “The boat back to St. Maarten leaves in forty-five minutes. They’ll hold it for us, but not for long.”
ChapterTwenty-Nine
Ian
The Worst March of My Life
Metallica blares through the ER. The nurse lowers it, and I threaten her with a don’t-you-dare glare.
“You know, Ian, we placed bets you were going through a breakup. But it's been over a month now. Did your music tastes change?” Rosemary taps away at the computer, doing her job, but I don’t like how familiar she’s become with me. Maybe that entire research study that shows working with the same OR team reduces surgical errors is bogus.
“Guess so.”
“Wait. I need clarification.” My nostrils flare. “For the pool. So we know who won.” She says all this as if she’s not testing my very last nerve. “Break up?”
“Fuck off.” I never cuss within the hospital. I find it to be highly unprofessional. But there’s a first time for everything.
Thankfully, the surgery before me is a hip replacement. I lose myself in the job as muscle memory guides my hands. The blaring music becomes background noise, and the surgery unfolds with a meditative benefit.
By the time I meet the family in the waiting room, my tension has eased along with some of the ache in my chest. It will all come back, but I bought myself a reprieve from an emotional hell.
Sandra exited the sedan after our return from the Anguilla flight and dragged her suitcase directly to her car. It was late when we returned home. She probably should’ve stayed at my place. It would’ve been safer. But she didn’t ask, and I didn’t offer.
