AS WE BEGIN OUR DESCENT, THE SUN IS SETTING AND MUCH OF THE SKY is the color of peach sorbet. Charlie slept for most of the flight while I worked, but as the plane bumps along on its way back down, he awakens with a slight jerk.
“We made it,” I say when Charlie turns to me.
“We almost have,” he says with a sleepy grin.
There’s something intimate about seeing him just as he has awoken, eyes soft and the skin of his neck and cheeks tinged pink. I look away.
We both lean toward the window for the final descent, Charlie’s arm pressed against mine. The sky is now a mischievous orange and the water a brilliant turquoise blue. There’s an endless number of cays and inlets as far as we can see, most appearing uninhabited. Each its own truly unspoiled tropical paradise. The sight causes a twinge of excitement to ripple through me. I’m almost convinced we are about to have a water landing for how close we are to the still sea until, at the last moment, a runway emerges.
When we land, the plane halts and we both go straight to our phones. There are three missed calls in a row from a number I don’t recognize, so I ignore them. Next, I navigate to my texts.
Mom: Enjoy your trip. I hope you and Tess have a lovely time. Text when you land.
Me: Landed!
Tess: Our code word is J.D. Text it if there’s trouble this week. And remember, daily check-ins!
I get her reference, of course. J.D., as in Brad Pitt’s character in Thelma and Louise, our favorite old movie. Her implication is clear: falling for J.D. did not end well for Thelma.
Me: Landed. So far, still alive. No J.D. in sight.
Tess: We miss you already!
She immediately replies, followed by a selfie of her and Finn, their faces pressed together, Finn’s mouth open, tongue hanging out to one side. I already miss that adorable grin (Finn’s, that is).
I glance over at Charlie, who’s staring at his screen, eyebrows knitted together and eyes narrowed. He senses me observing him and turns his phone toward me without a word. There on his screen is Brooke, and her new beau—Spencer, I think his name is—sitting at a high-top table in a restaurant, an exquisite living wall of greenery behind them.
“Olive House,” he says. “Our favorite spot. She’s with him at Olive House.”
I think of my run-in with Zane at Marv’s and I empathize with Charlie deeply at this moment. I can’t help but feel the ache of it all again through him. The tug from his core that threatens to swallow him into himself. The feeling of longing and deep desire for someone who hurt him more than he thought possible. The nagging I-wasn’t-good-enough mantra likely stampeding through his mind. The frustration that he should be better than someone who could be overtaken by them.
“You know, the part of your brain that lights up when going through emotional pain is the same part that lights up from physical pain. That’s why heartbreak feels like an actual punch to the stomach,” I tell him.
His eyes remain stationed on his phone, but he acknowledges my words with a long blink.
“Why don’t you just block her?” I ask. “Or unfollow her altogether? Why torture yourself like this?”
He shakes his head. “I told you. I’m not gonna slink away. She cared about me once. I know she still does.”
I deflate, as absurd as it is. I know my role here. Still, hearing him talk about her, seeing him hurt, sends a pang through me. One I wish wasn’t there.
He stares at the picture a few seconds longer before the plane arrives at the gate and people rise and begin crowding the narrow aisle. Charlie is still immersed in his phone, having switched screens. I don’t intentionally read his text, though my brain registers the words nonetheless.
Jacob: Hope you make it through this fake romantic week. Who’s the girl you roped into going, anyway?
Charlie: She’s nobody.
Ouch. Perhaps Charlie is just like Zane—careless, treating women as disposable. I don’t know him, I remind myself. Charlie could very well be just like Zane, though something in me immediately wrestles the idea. Regardless, seeing his text is a solid reminder that I’ve got a bad picker. I send a silent thank-you to the heavens for reminding me to keep my distance from Charlie. Staying away from him this week will be a breeze.
We deplane, make it through customs, and collect our bags from one of the two carousels at the humble airport. When the doors open, we are met with a blast of warm, wet air.
“Wow,” he says, wearing a teasing smile as we wait for the resort shuttle on the curb.
“What?”
“Nothing, it’s just . . . your hair. You look like Monica from Friends. The one with Monica’s island hair.”
“Yeah, I know the one.” My hair is a moisture meter, and, by the look on his face, we are at a solid ten out of ten. I grab a hair tie from my tote and pull my hair into a high bun, noticing how his eyes linger for a beat on my neck as I do.
We hop on a shuttle and catch our initial glimpses of the island by night, heading to our resort in Grace Bay on the northeast coast of the island of Providenciales—Provo for short. As we make our way, there are small strip malls at equal intervals, intersected by spreads of trees and foliage. It reminds me of an LA suburb, but with more turnabouts and open space. Though it’s dark, there’s a distinct island-ness to it all: happy, unhurried. The air is thick and sauna-like even within the confines of the shuttle.
“Are you feeling better now that we’re on land?” I ask as we make our way along a now dark road. We are tourists on an unlit trek on a foreign island in a stranger-driven shuttle. For a brief moment, I wonder if this excursion ends with a robbery. What would I do? Am I prepared? I clasp my phone in my hand, ready to go live on social media should things go awry and signs begin pointing to Charlie and me being left on the side of this winding island street in our underwear.
I try not to picture Charlie in his underwear.
Unsuccessfully.
Our driver has far too kind eyes to do such a thing, I decide. And Provo has one of the lowest crime rates of any island in the Caribbean, or so I read.
“Much better, thanks,” Charlie says. “So are you really gonna spend this whole trip working?” He flicks his chin at the laptop poking out of my carry-on bag on the floor between us.
“I need to. This interview—this job—could be my big break.”
He shifts his body to face me. “Oh yeah?”
I nod. “That’s why when they said in the interview they expect me to be single in order to work there, I didn’t flinch.”
I make brief eye contact with our driver in the rearview mirror. His eyes flicker wide at me then promptly move back to the road. Even he knows how absurd my situation is.
“What? They really asked that of you? You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, I’m serious. And it wasn’t so much of an ask as a prerequisite. Though they didn’t say those exact words, it was heavily implied.” I shake my head in an attempt to downplay. “It’s not a big deal. I have no relationship plans in my future anyway.”
“Aren’t there other options? Companies that aren’t so . . . horrendous?”
“No,” I say flatly. “They’re the number one game design company in the world, and right in our backyard. And, truthfully, the only one open to considering applicants without a certain kind of résumé and pedigree. If I close this door, there’s no other door. They’re it.”
He looks contemplative. “Why game design?” he eventually asks. “How’d you figure out it’s your dream?”
I stare out my window at the darkened sky. “When life gets hard, I’ve always turned to gaming. It’s sort of my safe space, I suppose.” I picture our home after the flood, then the hours I spent immersed in Tomb Raider right after Zane. Then, I picture the girl gang that made my early adolescence miserable, particularly during my unibrow stage, aka grades four through eight. The three of them all carbon copies of L.O.L. dolls, with Disney princess eyes and hair to their butts. Olivia, the one with the unreasonable confidence and crafty charm, once smeared a jar of tikka masala along the underside of my desk, ensuring I’d carry the scent all day. She was creative in her maltreatment, that one. Two years ago, Olivia went viral for a Serena Williams Halloween costume that included blackface.
“I want to create that escape for someone else.” I pause for a moment. “I used to play Super Mario Bros. so much I’d walk through the halls at school picturing Yoshi sticking his tongue out and swallowing up all the people who tormented me.”
Charlie huffs amiably.
I go on, unable to contain my enthusiasm. “You get to create an entire world of your own making. One you can escape into whenever you need to flee real life. The release of knowing there’s another world—one that people I don’t even know might come together in, all momentarily unified . . . it’s the deepest form of connection I can imagine.”
I think of my mom, who has always held a scarcity mentality from having grown up with so little. I imagine there’s a bit of her in there too. In my need to be prepared for anything, even pre-flood. That by building my own worlds in games, I have that preparation and control; it’s an easy thing to accomplish in a world in which you know the ending.
Charlie and I catch each other’s gaze in the darkened car interior and the sternness of his jaw draws my full attention. He looks at me so intently I feel myself blush.
“I get that,” he says, though he doesn’t elaborate. I can’t particularly imagine him having been teased in school, but perhaps there have been other challenges that have made him feel alone. I appreciate the camaraderie nonetheless. “Being an actor isn’t exactly cool and respected until or unless you get that big breakout role. We moved around a lot when I was a kid. I played Gomez in three different productions of The Addams Family at three different schools. So that escape you’re talking about? I guess I found it onstage. I never really thought about it that way though. Until now.”
He stares out the window as I envision sitting in a high school auditorium, watching him perform in a pin-striped suit and center-parted hair.
“I’ve seen you before, you know,” he says after a bit, eyes still stationed out the window.
I stretch the shoulder strap of my seat belt so I can turn to face him.
“I’ve seen you collecting gaming magazines from your mailbox. And hunkered down at Marv’s. I saw those sketches on your table. I wish I had a passion like that. One I couldn’t ignore.” He leans in as if the next part is a secret. “I hope you get the job.”
There’s a hum of something up my spine.
“Even if those guys are royal assholes,” he adds.
Sitting next to him in the dark of the shuttle, as our legs lightly connect with each bounce of the road, I can’t help but think of our kiss at the bar. My belly tics and I send it a silent warning to stop misbehaving. But we are on vacation, away from real life, suggests Satan Sloane. I envision punching Satan Sloane between the eyes, refocusing on Charlie when she goes down.
As the drive continues, we begin to pass more buildings in what looks like a modest suburb, and I notice that many are cement, which I assume helps them withstand the hurricane-force winds Caribbean islands regularly face. I have a vision of an actual hurricane hitting while we are here, but quickly shake it out of my head.
When the breeze from the driver’s open window has grown even damper and dense to the point of raindrop-like dew, we pull through the gates of the Turquoise Point Resort and along a stretch of narrow road, lit only by roadside lanterns, serving both an eerie and romantic feel. That is, until we turn the corner and the full resort comes into view. One, two, three . . . six stories of softly lit archways. The glowing light illuminates the gentle yellow of the building framed by bright blue shutters outlining every window. If the resort looks like this, I can only imagine the view just behind it.
We step out of the shuttle and I breathe in the balmy sea air. For the first time, albeit briefly, I feel like this trip is inarguably a good idea.
Even before we walk inside, it’s evident to me that this resort is pricey. Not just thoughtful-romantic-getaway pricey, but beachfront-Caribbean-island pricey. Charlie can’t make much between his part-time acting and waiting tables at The Wexley, and my heart pinches a bit thinking he could have lost his girlfriend and all the money he spent on this trip. Much of his savings, he told me just three days ago when he first invited me, back in my apartment thousands of miles away. I’m glad he still got to come, even if the circumstances are far different than planned.
We make our way through the grand lobby, complete with white marble floors and two-story ceilings.
“Wow,” I say aloud, mostly to hear the echo.
A bellman escorts us up a mirrored elevator with elaborately etched wood railings and crown molding to the sixth floor. At the end of the tiled hall, he opens the double doors of our suite to a grand living room. I’m taken first with the suite’s size. The ample space opens to a massive terrace that spans the length of the suite. Beside us, there’s a kitchenette with a full-size fridge, and to the left, a bedroom door. This place is irrefutably larger and better maintained than my apartment. The room is adorned with ornate mahogany tables (dining, coffee, end) with sexy, curved legs that bring to mind someone sitting back with their feet kicked up. Even the furniture here is on vacation.
Charlie tips the bellman before he leaves and we are, for the first time, officially alone on this trip.
My attention is drawn to the kitchenette’s counter, where an enormous bouquet of red roses is placed. For Brooke, I think. The girl I replaced on this trip. The residue of her hangs in the air like a thick cloud of smoke. Charlie steps beside me and we observe the flowers in loaded silence as if they are placed above a cemetery plot.
“I prefer black,” I eventually say.
He turns to me in question.
“Black roses. Red is so traditional.”
“You’re dark,” he says with no eye contact, but his expression softens a bit.
I decide to explore, stepping first into the bedroom, but as soon as I open the door, I regret it. There’s a trail of red rose petals leading to the bed, where they flow into the shape of a heart.
They really love roses around here.
And, it’s one bed. The king-size, turned-down bed is covered in rose petals placed inside the flower heart with a tray holding a chilled champagne bottle, two glasses, and a platter of chocolate-covered strawberries with white drizzle.
In my haste to distance myself from Zane and Jenna, I never confirmed with Charlie that he’d changed the reservation to ensure we had two separate, adequately spaced beds.
I feel Charlie’s presence close behind me and goosebumps rise across the back of my neck.
“I paid extra for the romance package,” he says flatly, looking over my shoulder. He squeezes past me to grab the champagne and then swivels to head for the terrace.
I’m not quite sure what to do. Arriving here and seeing this spread must be soul-crushing. I don’t know Charlie well enough to know whether he prefers company or to be left alone when he’s upset. I don’t know him well enough to know if he is angry or sad. Or both. And I certainly don’t know him well enough to be on a trip with him halfway across the world in a suite with a rose-petal-covered bed. Yet here we are. I sigh, grab my computer and the two champagne flutes he’s left behind, and head to the terrace.
He’s standing against the rail, looking out at what I imagine to be a beautiful view. Though I know there is nothing but sand and shoreline ahead of us, the moon is positioned behind a cloud and we stare at a vast canvas of deep gray. Still, I can practically see the calmness of the waves, the sound more of a hum than the crash of the Pacific back home. I take a deep breath. The air here feels different, constantly replaced with each sea breeze and gentle push of water toward the shore. I may just be convinced that I can, in fact, be more creative here than at my nicked-up kitchen table. The goldendoodle from 6F feels every inch of those three thousand miles away.
“It’s beautiful,” I say.
“It’s practically pitch-black,” he responds.
“The sound, I mean.” I too stare in the direction of the water. Of the lulling whir.
He’s still holding the champagne bottle by the neck, though he hasn’t opened it. I hand him a glass.
“You can have the bedroom,” he says, taking the glass. “I’ll sleep on the couch tonight. I tried to trade the suite for two separate rooms before we left, but with everything going on, I forgot to follow up to confirm. I’ll call down in the morning if that’s okay with you.”
“It’s fine. But you paid for this trip. I insist you take the bedroom tonight.”
“I really don’t want it.” He eases the cork from the bottle with precision. No spray. No pomp. He fills my glass and hands it over. “Not after seeing that red rose murder scene in there.”
“I can get rid of all that stuff.”
“Really, it’s fine.” He fills his glass and plops down, a slight swish of champagne escaping, landing on his sweatpants at his thigh. He doesn’t seem to notice. I want to clink his glass, but am at a loss for an appropriate toast. Cheers to us and this misfit trip? Cheers to Brooke Brady, may she grow jealous and remorseful as a result of this week’s worth of photos you post online? Neither seems right, so I say nothing.
I quietly sip my champagne. It’s good. And though this trip is already riddled with potential pitfalls and will likely consist of Charlie moping and me working, for the moment I am content staring into the gray. The sound of the ocean before me releases the pressure from my neck, my shoulders with every swaying motion.
There is, however, one thing that continues to nag at me. I am, at least for tonight, staying in a rose-petal-covered, beachfront suite with Charlie, having wholly underestimated the romantic nature of it all.