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A cheer rises.
Interesting. That’s never happened before.
By the time I lift the shutters, almost every stool is occupied.
“Lava flow!” a man calls.
“Make that two,” says another.
“Can you make the chocolate layered one, or do we need the girl?” A lady in a big straw hat eyes me.
“I can get it done.”
“Good.”
It takes nearly an hour to get everyone settled and orders filled. I lean on the counter, drying my hands on a towel, looking out over the sprawling collection of pale-yellow condos with white trim. In one of them, Tillie is sleeping.
The thought of lying next to her sends a jolt through me.
I’d like that.
I realize I still don’t have her phone number and shake my head. We’ll remedy that tomorrow, when we meet for the boat tour.
For now, it’s probably a good thing I can’t foolishly spill my unexpected feelings in a text. I’m used to thinking in the short term, but something about her inspires more.
But that’s impossible. She’s a tourist. I need to hold something back. The remainder of her two weeks in La Jarra is a lot of time to spend feeling this off-center.
But I’m already guessing it won’t be near enough.
When Tillie walks up to my hut the next day in a red polka-dot halter bikini under a white mesh cover-up, I know I’m a goner. My whole body sees that outfit, not just my eyes.
She doesn’t seem to notice me gawking. “I heard you had a crowd last night.”
I spin my keys around my finger to harness my jitters and lead her to my motorcycle. “Where did you hear that?”
“An elderly couple on the deck that adjoins ours. Lila and I made dinner and ate it out there, and they were saying they could barely get a drink order in edgewise.”
It was true. I had a harder time keeping up than I usually do. “It’s residual from the booze brawl.” I pass her the extra helmet. “It will wear off over the next few days as all the tourists who came to it go home.”
She pulls the helmet down. “You should text me if it gets crazy. I’m happy to work it with you to help you catch up.”
I swing my leg over the seat. “It’s your vacation. No working.”
“But I like it. At least with you.” She fits in behind me.
Does she? “I don’t have your number.”
“Right. I realized that when I was late yesterday. Give me your phone.”
I tug it from my pocket and unlock it. “Here.”
She takes it and types in her number, then calls herself from my phone so she’ll have mine. “There.” She passes it back. “We can take photos for the contacts on the boat.”
A photo of her in that bikini. I’ll never want to look at anything else.
I crank the motor, and we take off for the marina.
As we cruise along the highway to the bay, I try to see the island as Tillie does. I’m aware tourists view La Jarra as a paradise, and it is. But when the long beaches and turquoise waters become an everyday scene, the beauty of it wears off. You go through the rainy season, when the roads flood, or get the threat of a hurricane.
