THE SUN SITS low on the horizon by the time we sail back into the lagoon the next evening. Ryan heads for the Lailai’s jetty and moors the Blarney while I watch the preparations taking place on the beach. The staff are busy laying the final touches to a makeshift altar decorated with tropical flowers near the water’s edge. A carpeted walkway lined with lit torches and a handful of chairs faces the ocean. It’s hard to imagine a more exquisite location to share vows.
I sense Ryan behind me at the top of the gangplank. ‘The French couple—Evie and Remy. They’re getting married tonight.’ My heart flutters at the romance of their nuptials, even though my joy is dampened by the last traces of my own personal regret. Regret I can finally let go. There’s no doubt that I did the right thing by halting my own wedding and coming here alone. What seemed monumental in that West End bar over margaritas with Brooke and Neve—the pact, the challenge I set myself—now seems so simple. Because I found the kind of passion I crave.
But the chills cooling me on this tropical evening remind me that, just like bleached coral washed up on the shore, I can’t keep what I found. Not with Ryan, who isn’t long-term-partner material. Longing swells in my throat. Trying to make us work, back in London, would shunt me back where I began, fooling myself I had something real and enduring.
I can’t force Ryan to be something he’s not and I can’t settle like that again.
‘Let’s go wish the groom good luck,’ I say, the impulse bittersweet.
Ryan grunts, grabbing his backpack, his face that of a man about to sit in the dentist’s chair.
‘Oh, come on. Surely you can appreciate how romantic this is. And, at the very least, it’s good for business,’ I say, recalling the photos of similar weddings I saw on the resort website when selecting this as our honeymoon destination.
After our magical night on the Blarney, I felt as if we’d moved closer together, but it seems he’s in no mood to be teased. If only I could dissect his thoughts and feelings and find the slightest chink in his armour, a place to anchor my hope.
He takes my hand with only a cursory shrug of acknowledgement as we head for the beach. I lean into his side, keen to prolong the bubble of existence we’ve shared in the past twenty-four hours. It’s there still, our deeper connection. I feel it in his stares and the grip of his hand.
Confessing the enormity of his childhood abandonment was a big step for him, and I’m humbled that he shared his secret with me. And now he might lose his beloved grandma, too.
He’ll be alone. But he doesn’t have to be.
I squeeze his fingers, walk a little slower, prolonging the moment when I have to drop his hand. Because deeper connection or not, it’s temporary.
He’s not mine to hold or fix or console. He’s an island. Rocky and invincible on the surface, but afraid of the attrition and erosion of the waves that pound his defences.
Could he ever overcome those fears and be open to more than a few nights of stolen passion? Could I wait on the slim chance he might, one day, change his mind? Or is delaying the inevitable just another form of settling for something I know in my soul isn’t right for me?
At sea, on the Blarney, it was easier to live in the moment and not think about the clock ticking. Easier to deny the depth of feelings building inside me, changing me, making me want impossible things. Easier to believe that Ryan and I could part in a few days, with a ‘thanks for the memories,’ the new and improved Grace swapping her bikini for scrubs without a backward glance. But I’d be lying to myself, and I’ve given up that pastime.
I’m not ready to face the end with him, but I know I want more than he’s capable of, some day. A partner for life. Marriage. My happy ever after.
With a heavy heart, I head for the wedding party, trailing a reluctant Ryan.
I must be gripping his hand too tightly, or perhaps he’s still protecting us from resort gossip, because he drops my hand and leans in, his voice low for my ears only, his message dimming my smile for Remy, the groom.
‘This will be the final wedding to take place on the island. Next week, the builders move in, refurbishments begin and a whole new website launches.’
His words aren’t spoken with malice, but they feel like a slap or an unwanted secret—a drunken uncle no one invited who sneaked into the ceremony to shout, ‘I object.’
I look up, my forehead scrunching as I try to gauge his meaning from his tense expression and shifting stare, but then I’m engulfed by Remy’s hug, laughing while he adorns my neck with a salusalu, a Fijian lei of delicately scented tropical flowers, followed by a very European kiss for each cheek.
‘Please, you must come. Both of you. Evie will be delighted.’ Remy turns, offering Ryan a garland from the scented stack draped over his arm. Dressed in cream linen shorts and a white shirt open at the neck, he’s as low-key as a groom can be, but also perfect.
‘I’d love to,’ I say, my eyes darting to a distracted Ryan, whose cryptic statement quashed all the lovely feel-good hormones Evie and Remy’s sunset wedding induced. But why shouldn’t I be gooey? It’s a wedding. Even the hardest cynic would find it impossible not to share a fraction of the joy and excitement on Remy’s face as he waits for his bride.
My heart plummets at the irony.
A hardened cynic like Ryan. A man who, with good reason, doesn’t believe in love and marriage and keeps the risk of pain at bay by avoiding relationships.
‘Excuse me.’ Ryan leaves, summoned by Taito, who loiters under the palms, while I offer sincere congratulations to Remy.
I watch Ryan’s retreat, trying to recall the look on his face as he kissed me awake this morning with the sun rising on the horizon, just as I’d wanted.
‘I feel like you’re in my blood,’ he whispered, his lips feathering mine, and I gasped past the stricture in my throat as he pushed inside me and we started another day in paradise as lovers.
Where has that Ryan gone? I haven’t asked anything more of him, knowing what a huge step admitting feelings is for someone so anti-commitment. And even though his sentiment, spoken at a moment of physical intimacy, can’t be trusted, his eyes shone with the vulnerability of opening up on an emotional level.
But now? He’s gone. Reverted to the man I first met. Secretive. Closed off. Scornful.
Doubts swirl, making me feel sick. I clutch my elbows, crossing my arms over my waist.
Two other couples arrive, greet Remy and take their seats. I look down at my cut-off shorts and strappy top, wishing I had time to change into a sundress. But my casual outfit seems somehow appropriate here among the natural beauty and simplicity of the location.
I take a seat as Remy and the celebrant take their positions at the altar, a gnawing discomfort in my chest. Not for my own happy ending, which was an illusion I created by mentally cutting and pasting Ryan’s head into my couple’s photo, but for the absolute certainty that I want this, what Evie and Remy have, in my future. And Ryan, the man to bring me back to life, and long-term relationships are mutually exclusive.
As Ryan slides into the seat beside me, I turn a bright smile on him to hide the reality-check downer I’ve been plunged into. I ache to touch him, to reconnect the way we did on the Blarney, but the look on his face—tense, maybe even angry—keeps my hands in my lap and my heart in my throat.
‘What’s wrong?’ I hiss, looking around at a retreating Taito, concern for Remy jolting my pulse. Has Evie changed her mind? Does she plan to stand him up?
‘Nothing’s wrong.’ He looks straight ahead, mouth a flat line, jaw muscles bunched. ‘I guess I just feel how you did yesterday when you discovered my true identity.’
When he does turn to face me, there’s hurt in the down-pulling of his mouth and glittering fury in his narrowed eyes.
For long seconds I’m mute as I try to make sense of what he means while I cling to memories of the Ryan of last night, this morning aboard the Blarney. Then the fog clears.
He knows.
About my booking here, which should have been with Greg, my new husband.
Shame lashes me, sealing my breath.
‘Ryan—’
At that moment the bride arrives, wearing a simple white sundress and radiating happiness. Flowers adorn her hair, her small smile for Remy only.
My ribs pinch as flood after flood of emotions leave me speechless.
I should have spoken up yesterday. But I knew he’d freak out.
‘I wanted to tell you,’ I whisper to Ryan once Evie has passed on her way to her groom. I touch his leg, his muscles steel under my palm.
I try again. ‘I didn’t want you to think...you know, that I was looking for a substitute or something...’
‘It’s no big deal,’ he says, his eyes trained on the French couple, his emotional withdrawal as complete as if he’d risen from the chair next to mine and departed. I touch his arm, uncertain of my reception if I were to hold his hand.
He turns towards me, a fake smile on his devastating mouth. A mouth I’ve kissed and watched laugh and murmur and confide...
Then he presses his index finger to his lips. ‘Shh,’ and he turns his focus back to the ceremony.
I bite my tongue and sink into my seat. I’ve had ample opportunity to tell him how I happened to come here alone. But I didn’t. Out of shame at being the kind of woman to go so far down the wrong path?
The remainder of the beautiful, intimate wedding passes in a blur. Hot anger simmers in my blood, followed by chills as I try to figure out if I’m the one in the wrong, and why Ryan would care that I was engaged. From day one he’s been clear this is temporary. And that suited me fine. In the beginning...
I sit up straighter, shake off the feeling I’m a naughty toddler. I refuse to slip back into old, people-pleasing patterns. So I was engaged. He’ll have to get over the idea. I’ve learned how to be honest and demand what I want without apology, and he helped teach me I could voice those desires, but now I want more than he’s willing to give.
I want a future. Commitment. A lifetime.
I just can’t have those things with him.
The weight dragging me down, the confusion stealing my attention from the ceremony, the anger at Ryan blowing hot and cold all provide clarity. I bite the inside of my cheek to stave off panic. Of course I want more of Ryan. How could I not when he makes me feel alive? When, with him, I feel like myself for the first time in my adult life?
But it’s all an illusion, a mirage in the sun, the very nature of a holiday fling, the fantasy of something too good to be true. There’s no point in falling for Ryan, no matter how much I want to believe in a possible happy ever after. Because despite our closeness on the Blarney, despite sharing our pasts, until he learns to trust and risk his heart, this fleeting, hedonistic whirlwind is his limit.
When the ceremony ends with a small round of applause, I wipe the sheen of happy tears from my eyes and stand. I won’t let Greg or Ryan spoil this for me, diminish what I want from life. I don’t need a fairy-tale ending—I’m perfectly fine alone—but I want to find that one person who fires enough passion in me and vice versa that we share the same goals, the ups and the downs and a million moments in between. Committed to putting each other first. Putting us first. So desperate to start that romantic adventure together, that we’re of the same mind, there’s no putting off the commitment or prioritising work.
Ryan takes my arm. ‘We need to talk.’
I nod, my heart heavy with all I want to say. ‘Yes. We do. But right now I’m going to change for the party.’
‘Later then.’ He presses a chaste kiss to my cheek, his face behind a rigid mask. ‘I’ll see you there.’
I swallow the lump in my throat and walk away to prepare.
We’re back to strangers, but is there any point in fighting for more?