TWO HOURS LATER, THERE’S A LIGHT KNOCK ON THE BEDROOM DOOR.
“Sloane, can we talk?” I close my laptop and take in the shadow of his feet under the door. It’s only the first full day of our trip, and I can’t avoid him all week. We’re sharing the same suite. And I’m not prepared to jump on a flight back home because of one impulsive kiss. Or two.
I open the door and try not to be amused that we’re wearing matching plush black robes, the Turquoise Point Resort sunshine logo positioned just above his right pec.
“Hi,” he says delicately, and I see the sober remorse all over his face. “Look, I want you to know how sorry I am. That was totally inappropriate of me and it won’t happen again.”
I think of the way his lips felt on my mouth, the way his thumb sent goosebumps down my neck. “Good.” And then, so I’m not a total hypocrite, I add, “Same here.”
He smiles at my admission, tucks his hands into the robe’s pockets. “We’ve both spent the entire day cooped up in this suite and I thought it would be good to get out. I don’t know about you, but the seventeen pounds of breakfast have worn off and I’m starving. Wanna go down to the restaurant and have dinner?”
“I don’t know . . .” I lean against the doorframe. “Will there be mimosas involved?”
He presses his lips together. “No more mimosas for me. Probably ever again.”
I cross my arms and evaluate him, pretending to contemplate. I like having this power over him.
“I’ll get dressed,” I say finally, and his face promptly softens.
Fifteen minutes later, I step out of the bedroom pushing the last bobby pin into my topknot. I notice his eyes rake over me, so subtly I could have easily missed it.
“You look great,” he says.
“You can stop sucking up now. I forgive you.”
“I’m not sucking up. It’s just a compliment.”
“Thank you,” I say, one eyebrow raised.
I don’t own many clothing items that fit a tropical theme. Luckily, Tess does. This dress, a blush-colored high-low impractical floral wrap, purchased from her favorite online boutique, The Flatterie, is something I would never buy for myself. Once I put it on, though, I could see the appeal of adding some color to my wardrobe. My tanned skin pops against it in a way that makes it look like I have doused myself in cocoa butter. And though Tess is tiny, the wrap silhouette allows it to fit me, though the high part of the high-low skirt does hit quite scandalously at my upper thigh.
Charlie heads into the bathroom and I step out onto the terrace. The evening temperature is not much different than the daytime hours, but I’m grateful for the light breeze that grazes my bare skin. It catches the thin fabric of my dress and waves it around playfully. On the beach below, a couple walks hand in hand along the shoreline, the right side of her body pressed into his left. Every few steps, they stop to point at something noteworthy or examine an item in the sand. On the terrace to the right, I hear a woman laugh, though I can’t see her because of the privacy wall.
It’s easy to feel windswept here. To be overtaken by the tropical vibes and indulgent meals and romance package. All it takes is a single breath of the viscid, sodden air to remind me how contentedly far I am from home.
The bathroom door opens and when I turn, I can’t help but regard him. Charlie is dressed in a white button-down shirt and loose tan pants, looking as though he belongs on the cover of a resort brochure. I’ve only ever seen him dressed casually: joggers, T-shirts, or no shirt at all. This island-chic look is a close second to shirtless.
I press my eyelids together so tightly they hurt. I am not here to play house with my heartbroken neighbor who’s using me to make his ex jealous.
“Are you planning on working through dinner?” he asks, pointing to the laptop poking out the top of my tote as we make our way out of the suite.
“Maybe.” I know I likely won’t work while we eat; nonetheless, bringing my laptop at least indicates the intent to work and thus makes me feel better about the small break.
We make our way along the winding path to the restaurant, dimly lit every few feet by the romantic glow of tiki torches, and as we encounter the other resort guests for the first time, I notice another thing I hadn’t considered when agreeing to this trip. Virtually all are couples. Couple after couple hold hands, smile longingly at each other, stop to kiss. Couples so wrapped together in a tangle of limbs I’m impressed they can walk. Charlie and I avoid eye contact the entire way, our discomfort growing with every touchy-feely pair that passes.
That is, until Charlie suddenly halts, his arm instantly stretched out in front of me in a protective stance.
“Stop!” His warning is so loud I close one eye and stick a finger in my ear retroactively. When I comply, he steps in front of me, using his body as a shield. For what, I’m still not sure.
He turns his head so his mouth is close to the side of my head, though his eyes don’t leave the path. “What the fuck is that,” he says, more statement than question, into the same damaged ear he just yelled into. My chest presses into his back as my heart thumps in reaction to the tumult.
I lean to look around him and follow the direction of his pointed finger. Several feet in front of us, half on, half off the walkway, I see it.
Scolopendra gigantea.
An Amazonian giant centipede.
I know from my research of all things Turks that they are local to the islands, but rarely seen by tourists, and even more rarely seen on the walkway of a five-star resort. It’s a truly extraordinary moment.
I get Charlie’s reaction. This isn’t any ol’ bug. It’s monstrous. Like, the length of my arm, thickness of a hot dog. I rush to pull my phone from my tote and snap some pictures.
“Don’t,” Charlie says, still shielding me.
“It’s fine, Charlie.” I brush past him, his hand grazing along the length of my arm as I do.
As I approach, its yellow toothpick-length legs scurry it quickly out of sight into the dark brush, but not before I get the satisfaction of a few photos.
A few feet behind me, Charlie stands in the middle of the walkway, moonlight serving as a spotlight. His chest rises and falls with resolve and I’m oddly taken by the intensity of his stance, his adrenaline.
I make my way back over to him.
“You took pictures of it,” he says, eyebrows pressed together in perplexity like I’m some kind of freak.
“Yeah, it’s not every day you get to see something like that. Could be good in a game. Imagine seeing one of those suckers crawling across the screen.” I scuttle my fingertips up his forearm and he retracts in a jerk. “Don’t worry. Venomous—yes. But it wouldn’t kill you.” I place my hand on his upper arm. “Are you gonna be okay? Or do you need my—”
“I do not need your hoodie,” he says emphatically.
“Or—”
“Or an adult coloring book.” He smiles, ever so slightly. “Get me out of here,” he says, scratching at his neck then his forearm. “I can feel that thing all over me.”
“Charlie, the chances of seeing one again—”
“Please don’t talk about it,” he says.
I take his arm and he leans into me the rest of the walk, his eyes shooting around the pavers and brush as we go. Now we too look like lovers wrapped together, and I find my body fits dangerously well beside his.
A host greets us when we arrive at the restaurant and ushers us to a table, which I deem as one of the best in the place because of its proximity to the water. The restaurant is open-air, waterfront, and lit by the velvety glow of bamboo torches. Every detail of it is . . . wait for it . . . romantic.
Despite being here with Charlie post-drunken kiss and despite the terms of our trip, I can’t help but relax a little as we take our seats. Seeing Charlie terrified of an arthropod makes all of it seem a bit silly. And silly is hardly threatening.
The evening air is the perfect temperature, perfumed with the desert rose and cordyline that line the restaurant entrance. In my right ear, low, slow dinner music emanates from the restaurant and in my left, the light ocean waves. A perfect combination. And there’s something about this torchlight—everything, including Charlie across from me, looks softer, more inviting. I kick off my sandals and dig my feet into the impossibly soft sand.
We order drinks and I bite at the inside of my cheek when Charlie informs the waiter he’ll stick with water.
“You’re allowed a cocktail,” I say.
He shakes his head. “I’ll pass. But I would like to order a cheese plate,” he says, shifting his focus to the waiter. After we’ve ordered, he leans in conspiratorially. “I might as well eat all the cheese I want while I can, right?” He smiles and it’s like too much sunshine on a delicate bud. While I can. Meaning, when his plan works and he’s back together with lactose intolerant Brooke, he won’t be able to eat cheese anymore. I’m annoyed with myself that this innocuous comment causes me to deflate. But it confirms to me that the drunken kiss earlier was a mistake he’d rather move on from.
Agreed.