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I groan. “God, this place is filled with honeymooners.”
“They’re the worst,” he says.
“Something we can agree on?”
“Apparently, yeah.”
“You know why they’re so bad?” I say, feeling the nerves melt away a little at this sudden common ground. “It’s the constantannouncingof it to everyone around them. Like them being newlyweds matters to the world at large.”
Phillip nods, his jaw tense. “At check-in counters,” he says. “To flight attendants.”
“To the waiters at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Do you know, when I checked in earlier, I overheard someone tell the bellboy… while he was carrying their heavy bags for them.”
“Basically, asking him to congratulate them while he’s helping them out,” Phillip says. “That’s low.”
“The lowest,” I agree. I take another sip of my nearly empty drink. I feel good. Better than I expected to feel on the first night of my solo trip. “Well, I’m not here on my honeymoon.”
“I figured, from your scathing critique of newlyweds,” he says. There’s dry amusement in his tone. Almost like he wants this conversation to end, but can’t quite bring himself to stop engaging.
“Subtle, right?” I say. “But I was supposed to be.”
“Oh.”
The waiter returns with our food. A steak for the gentleman, fish for the lady; both dishes smell amazing. I find that I’m hungrier than I felt. The flight, the stress—it all melts away when presented with hot food.
There’s another long, polite pause between us, and I take a bite of my fish. It’s delicious, well-seasoned, and warm.
“Should I say sorry?” Phillip finally asks.
“Oh, no. It was for the best. Good riddance and all that. But I couldn’tnotgo on a pre-planned, pre-paid holiday, you know? Especially not when it’s my dream destination.”
“I know,” he says with a sigh. “It would be a waste.”
“A colossal waste. So that’s why I’m here.”
“Hating on all the newlyweds.”
That makes me laugh again. “Yeah. Cynical of me, perhaps.”
He shrugs. It’s a single lift of his shoulder, dark-blue eyes on mine. “Cynics come out on top, to use your expression.”
“Then, I guess I’m a newly converted cynic.”
He huffs a half laugh and returns to cutting his steak. It doesn’t take long before he’s checking his emails again, and the frown is back, but I’m pleased. I got some emotion out of him. And I survived my first solo dinner, even if I know Becky won’t give me the win because I wasn’t technically alone.
He asks for the check as soon as we’re done, and when it arrives, he doesn’t give it a second glance.
“Put it on bungalow twelve,” he says.
“Phillip,” I say.
“Of course, sir,” the waiter responds.
“Phillip,I want to pay for my share.”
He shakes his head, pushing back from the table. “No.”
“No? Why not?”
