NEARLY TWENTY MINUTES LATER, I’M STILL STATIONED IN THE CHAISE on the terrace looking out at the stars. I see one move and think of our conversation just a few hours earlier. I tell myself that this time it’s just an airplane.
Charlie emerges from the bathroom and pops his head around the corner of the open terrace door. “I’m gonna take a walk,” he says. His cheeks and the tip of his nose are red. On the surface, he looks like any vacationer after a week’s worth of sun exposure and all-inclusive cocktails. But in his eyes, I see the weight. Before I can say anything, he ducks back into the suite and I hear the front door close behind him.
I want to go and find him. Being alone in this suite we’ve shared all week suddenly feels wrong. A few minutes after he’s left, I grab a hoodie and head downstairs. I go straight to the beach, knowing there are only so many private places around here. He sits in a yellow beach chair facing the water, the row of identical loungers beside him empty at this late hour.
The wind gusts around me and I zip my sweatshirt closed. I cautiously take the seat beside him.
“Hi,” he says, and I’m immediately relieved that he’s said something.
I feel the time slipping away. Tomorrow, we will be back in LA. “Look, I’m sorry . . .” I say, struggling to find the right words. But I have to try. “That must have been hard for you.”
He turns to face me. “Not for the reasons you think. These past few days . . .” He runs his hand down his face. “They’ve been some of the best I’ve ever had. Being here, with you, made me realize not only that I don’t want or need Brooke back, but that also . . . perhaps there’s a better match out there for me.” He holds my gaze. “Someone who aligns with me in every way.”
The first thing I think is, He is so brave. Braver than me. His heartbreak just happened, but it clearly didn’t fracture him the way mine did me. He is capable of and willing to be vulnerable and honest, no matter the outcome.
Brave.
I want to tell him that I’m falling for him. I want to salvage this night, hold out hope that it still somehow ends with us disrobed together in that palatial resort bed. But I can’t. There are so many reasons I just can’t go there with him. He was ready to propose to someone else just a little over a week ago. More than just the job at Catapult, this truth keeps me from giving in.
“It’s a bit unrealistic, isn’t it? To think someone can be the perfect fit. A week ago, you thought that perfect fit was Brooke.”
“Maybe . . . maybe you’re right,” he says, and it feels as though he’s calling my bluff. He lets out a heavy sigh and puts his head in his hands.
“Do you want my emotional support hoodie?” I ask.
He lifts his head and faces me, the right corner of his mouth twitching upward in a half smile, though it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“C’mon.” I stand and offer a hand to help pull him up, still debating whether to give in to my feelings. Even though there’s only a matter of hours left on this trip, I’m unsure if I can last mere minutes without laying it all on the line—without being brave like him.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, a reprieve from whatever this thing is that’s happening between Charlie and me. “Get it,” he says, voicing his permission to break our tension as though it’s a welcome opportunity to regroup.
I don’t want to focus on anything other than him, but I pull my phone out because I don’t know how to solve for all the complications of us. Checking my phone is a much easier task.
“It’s an email from Jack Palmer at Catapult,” I say, frantically clicking at the screen.
I fall back into the chair and Charlie leans in close so he can see the screen. “What’s it say?”
“Miss Cooper, thank you for your game concept submission. I’ve reviewed it briefly, and I must say, it was unexpected. A final decision will be made next week. Also, the attached photo was sent to me in an anonymous email this afternoon. Is this you?”
I open the attachment and there, filling the screen of my phone, is the picture of Charlie and me at dinner the first night of the trip. Holding hands across the table, smiling like a couple on a romantic getaway. The picture Charlie posted to win back his ex. I cannot believe I didn’t adequately consider that Charlie’s posts would get back to the team at Catapult. I let myself trust that being three thousand miles away would somehow keep my secret. That Charlie not tagging me and turning his account private was enough.
I knew this trip was a bad idea. And all my fears have been confirmed in this one-paragraph email from Jack Palmer. The one person I wanted to impress more than anyone, ever.
Charlie furrows his brow. “What does he mean that your game was unexpected?”
I have to reread the email. So consumed by the photo, my brain skipped over registering that part completely. I toggle over to my sent emails and pull up the message I sent a few hours earlier. “Oh my god.”
“What?” Charlie’s scanning the screen, but doesn’t get it until I click on the link I sent Catapult. “Oh. Shit.”
Now he gets it.
I did not send the team at the top gaming company in the world the link to the well-developed prototype of Arsonist Betty, which would have fit perfectly into their existing portfolio, and possesses undeniable commercial potential. No. Instead, in my drunken haze, I sent Jack Palmer the revenge cheese-throwing game I built for Charlie in a day to make him feel better about Brooke.
A tide of shame and embarrassment rushes over me, rendering me unable to move.
“Don’t worry, Sloane, you can fix this. Respond now with the link to the real game and an explanation about the picture.”
“And say what exactly? Sorry, king of the gaming industry Jack Palmer, but I decided to take a romantic trip out of the country while I was supposed to be preparing for my final interview, even though I told you I was solemnly single, and after seventy-five rum punches, I accidentally sent you a game where you throw cheese at someone’s face!”
“You don’t have to say all that. Just say it was a mistake. People make mistakes.”
“It’s too late. They’ll forever think of me as the cheese girl who lied about being single.”
“It’s not too late, Sloane.”
“I knew I should have waited to send the email. I never should have come on this trip in the first place.” The rage and disappointment in me bubbles over, Charlie the only available target in my path.
“Do you really believe that?” When I don’t respond, he continues, “Funny. Here I thought . . .”
I push a wisp of hair from my face as the wind gusts around us. “You thought what? I know your type, Charlie.”
“My type.” He crosses his arms and raises his chin, daring me to go on.
“Yes, your type. LA actor with a dimple.” I’m grasping, but I’ve lived in LA my whole adult life. I can’t imagine that who he has presented himself to be could actually be true. It’s just too . . . good.
He leans forward, his volume rising a bit. “You’re judging me because of my dimple?”
“Oh yeah, I most definitely am. That dimple is unfair. It should be considered a weapon. A panty penetrator.”
“A what? What is that, a character from one of your games? The Panty Penetrator? Be serious, Sloane.”
“Oh, I am. This is the most serious thing ever.” I point to the phone in my hand. “And it’s all ruined now.”
“It’s ridiculous they care if you’re on a romantic getaway! They shouldn’t care about your personal life at all. It’s not fair.” His face has hardened with a quality of impenetrability.
My emotions are a runaway train and the final collision is in sight. “You don’t get it!” I say, looking in his general direction but unable to make eye contact. “There’s nothing fair about what I have to do to get a job like this. Not only do I have to prove my game development skills, but I also have to prove that it wouldn’t be a mistake to hire a girl.” Charlie stands there slack-jawed as I throw it all onto him. “Everything is stacked against me and I have to work that much harder. I can’t make mistakes. It’s not easy for me the way it is for Zane. Or for you.”
“Easy for me?” he says, pressing his fingers into his chest. “What part of my life makes you presume it’s easy? I spent money I didn’t have on a trip to propose to the girl I now know I had no business proposing to, and I’ve been pursuing a dream that nobody believes in for years, just to be a joke in a spray-on abs commercial. And I’ve been trying and failing to fight my feelings for you all week, because I don’t want to stand in the way of your dreams.”
I shake my head, wondering if I’ve imagined his words. I put my phone back in my pocket and look back at Charlie. I can’t address the last part of what he’s just said, not yet, so instead I say, pathetically, “You’re not a joke, Charlie.”
“Sloane,” he says pleadingly, though he can’t seem to find words beyond the one.
When it’s evident neither of us have the words to resolve anything in this moment, I say, “Let’s just get packed and back to reality. I can’t play house anymore. I’m sorry, Charlie. I really am.”