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And then again.
Ice falls into the bowl.
I crank and crank and crank and crank until there is no more ice coming out and the crank spins freely.
The bowl is half full, the water and ice fusing together in that magical slush we had when the food crew was here. I drag my cup through it to mix it better. I don’t care that I’ve drunk from the cup already. It’smybowl of margaritas.
Mine.
I take a sip from my cup. It’s delicious. I nailed it.
I sit on the cooler and take a deep, glorious swig. I hold it in my mouth for a second, not wanting a brain freeze to mess up this moment, and let the flavors of lime and tequila wash away my misery.
Only when I’ve calmed down considerably do I turn to look at Rhett. He’s leaning against the inside of the hut, watching mewith bemusement. “Is it the best margarita you’ve ever had?” he asks.
“You bet your sweet ass it is.”
“You sharing?”
“I don’t know. You might get dehydrated.”
He nods. “How about we call a truce?”
“We tried that earlier.”
“Well, we decided not to talk about work. I’m still ornery as hell.”
I almost spit my drink. “That you are. It’s good to be self-aware.”
“So, are you sharing?”
I scoot over on my perch on the cooler. “All right. Come sit by me.”
20
RHETT
Bailey dunks my cup into her bowl of margaritas and passes it, dripping, to me.
“Cheers,” she says, tapping her paper cup against mine.
We drink amongst the mud and broken limbs of the hut, the sun pouring down from the missing roof.
Common sense tells me we should find some shade. Move the bowl of crushed ice to a place where it will melt more slowly. Figure out a timeline for eating and drinking the supplies that we have in case our rescue is delayed.
But I shove it all aside. I’ve said enough already. Instead, I soak in the early evening light, sip the perfectly slushed drink, and try to imagine that this interlude with this woman at this location is exactly where I always planned to be.
A breeze rushes in from the ocean, circling through the hut. The saltwater scent returns, pushing away the smell of rain as if nothing unexpected has happened today.
Bailey tucks a wild lock of hair behind her ear. She has a smudge of mud on her jaw. I resist the urge to reach out and wipe it off.
I think of her pink lip gloss, thepopsound her mouth made after she put it on at her desk.
Nope. Gotta let that go.
I force myself to picture the yacht skimming across the ocean, the crew and my employees unaware that their boss and his former assistant have been left behind.
“What are you thinking?” Bailey asks. “I can’t sit in silence for long.”
