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Strange as it is to be on a fake honeymoon, I wouldn’t want to be here with anyone else.
“Let’s have the bride slide your arm around him, too. Get nice and cozy....perfect.”
Ron takes several photos, including one I ask him to take with my cell phone camera, and then moves on, leaving Ben and me alone.
“Want go get drinks?” he asks me.
“You read my mind.”
Five minutes later, we’re sitting on stools at the nearby oceanfront tiki bar, Ben sipping from a bottled beer while I try to pace myself with a pina colada.
“Andrew says Mom’s doing well,” I say. “She talked him through making her Italian beef recipe yesterday. Or today? I don’t remember what the time difference is.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m glad she had a good day.” The corners of his lips tilt up in a grin. “And I can remember eating three of her Italian beef sandwiches in one sitting. Several times.”
“It’s delicious. She always loved feeding you and...X. I’m going to call him X when I have to mention him from now on. Not like e-x, but like a capital X. He doesn’t even get a Mr. before it.”
“Doesn’t deserve one.”
I take a long sip of my drink, feeling Ben’s gaze on me. It’s a little unnerving how much he looks at me. I’m not used to that.
“Is my hair a mess or something?” I ask, reaching up to make sure the tropical flower crown on top of my head is still on straight.
“Not at all. I just can’t get over how you beautiful you look when we had so little time to get ready.”
My cheeks warm from his compliment. When we got back to our honeymoon suite, I put on a shower cap and took a five-minute shower, shaving my legs with one hand while I washed my body with the other. I moisturized in record time, dry shampooed, applied light makeup, dressed in an emerald green slip dress and nude heels and pinned the flower crown into my hair.
“Welcome to all our newlyweds!” All heads turn to Marco, talking into a microphone next to the ukulele player, who’s taking a water break. “If we could have all the couples takes your seats at your assigned spots, please, we’re ready to begin.”
Ben finds the table where our names are written on notecards, pulling my chair our for me. As soon as I sit down, I remember my mom’s request for photos and send her the one Ron just took of us.
“Congratulations, newlyweds,” Marco says once everyone is seated. “We at the Paradise Palms are so glad you chose our Newlywed Deluxe Ambassadors Package, because it means we get to spend a lot of time together this week.”
A woman at our table glares at her husband and speaks in a low tone. “It’s our honeymoon, Tre. We’re supposed to spend it alone.”
“We’ll still get time alone,” he whisper-hisses without looking at her.
“Tonight we kick off the festivities with a luau,” Marco continues. “And tomorrow we’ll have a couples trivia lunch buffet, and I promise you our chef’s special lobster rolls will compete with consummating your wedding for best experience of your life.” A few people fake laugh at his joke, which mostly falls flat, and Marco clears his throat before continuing. “Then you’ll enjoy a sensual couples’ massage, Paradise Palms style.”
“Please, please, please let me get the masseuse who looks like The Rock’s brother,” the man next to me says, steepling his hands in prayer.
“Not if I get him first,” his husband says, waggling his brows.
The man next to me scoffs. “I’ll blow him if I have to. Your gag reflex kicks in if you put a tiny pickle in your mouth and mine is nonexistent.”
I smile at him, his confidence and sense of humor reminding me of Claire. He’s wearing the crown of flowers on top of his short, sandy hair.
“We’ll start dismissing tables for dinner now,” Marco says. “Make sure to try the pineapple whip, and SMILE! You’re our ambassadors. If the photos from this event reach a certain benchmark in bookings, you’ll all receive ten percent off your next stay.”
“What the hell, Tre?” demands his wife. “I get a week away from the kids and you sign us up for a goddamn infomercial? I’m about to unmarry you.”
“Hi, I’m Tre Washington,” he says to the table. “And this is my lovely wife Tanisha. She’s a little cross with me now, but it’s nothing a few gin and tonics won’t fix.”
“Damn right, you cheap bastard,” Tanisha says, picking up her glass. “This glass better never be empty tonight. Making a Black woman put a flower crown in her hair. You better be adding some rocks onto this wedding ring.”
She’s beautiful, her mocha skin looking straight out of an Instagram ad. I already feel a kinship with her, too. Maybe this ambassador thing won’t be so bad after all.
