How to Honeymoon Alone

His smile widens. “You can put me in a time-out then. But think about it. I have more things planned during these weeks.”

I nod, my teeth digging into my lower lip. It’s not a bad idea. But it’s definitely outside of my comfort zone. Everything about him is… and everything about this trip is… Challenge after challenge. Socializing with strangers, snorkeling in the deep-blue ocean, and exploring a place so different from the one where I grew up.

But maybe that’s the point. I’ve been complacent and sad for too long. Perhaps the thing I need is excitement and just a tinge of fear to spike the adrenaline.

I lift my rum punch in the air. It takes him, this stranger in front of me, a moment to follow suit. All I know of him is his name, his job, and that he saves lizards if they’re trapped. But it’s a good start.

“To honeymooning alone,” I say.

He shakes his head like he can’t believe I just said that, but touches his glass to mine. “To honeymooning alone.”

The beach is glorious. There’s no other word for it. I’m lying on one of the Winter Resort’s lounge chairs, part of my body beneath the shade of an umbrella, watching the turquoise waves lap against the sand. Even I hate myself a little for how good of a time I’m having.

Thanks to the tech gods, the Wi-Fi from the hotel stretches all the way over here, and I’m halfway through the newest episode of my favorite true crime podcast. Beside me is an ice-cold glass of lemonade, courtesy of the gentleman who just walked across the beach selling drinks.

Perfection.

My phone buzzes with a text. It’s Becky.

Omg. I’m at the grocery store and just saw Cindy.

My stomach tightens reading the words, but the familiar feeling of nausea doesn’t come. It’s been three months, after all, and the time has helped dull the initial pain.

What did you do? Did you duck behind the produce?

No. I’m too pregnant to hide behind anything but an elephant, probably. I gave her the evil eye.

I smile at the screen. Becky had taken my side right off the bat, even though I hadn’t asked her to. The three of us had been a team since high school. Through different colleges and cities, we’d stuck together-regular phone calls and girls’ trips. You have your own relationship, I’d said carefully to Becky. I don’t want you to feel like you have to-

Becky had cut me off right then and there. Someone who’ll sleep with their best friend’s fiancé is not a friend I want.

And that had been that.

Maybe Becky will change her mind someday, but she’s the most “law and order” person I know, and for now, she seems to be more outraged than me. Hard to believe, that.

What did Cindy do?

Her and I haven’t had a proper conversation since that explosive day back in November.

She was the one to duck behind the produce! I just realized I shouldn’t have texted you about this. SORRY! Enjoy beautiful Barbados and forget about everyone here in Pinecrest. Send me a picture of the beach and I’ll cry over my swollen ankles.

I snap a picture of my legs in the lounge chair, along with the beautiful waves in the background. Two sailing boats bob peacefully out in the distance. My phone quickly pings with her response.

You deserve it.

I lean back in my lounge chair and try not to think of Cindy. Not of Caleb, either. And definitely not of the two of them together. No, I don’t want that image here.

Happy place. This is my goddamn happy place and my dream vacation.

I succeed somewhat. It helps to have the soothing voice of my favorite podcaster narrating a gruesome double homicide in my ears. It never made any sense to Caleb, my fascination with true crime. But he’s gone, and the podcast is still going, so who really serves me best?

Let it go, I tell myself. You’re on vacation.

I people-watch instead. Look at the other tourists on the beach. A couple of retirees a few chairs down are both sleeping in their loungers. Further away, a young man is industriously rubbing sun lotion on the back of a young woman.

Probably newlyweds.

A sharp voice cuts through my peaceful podcast. Someone’s on the phone. Because I’m nosy, I lower my volume to better eavesdrop and crane my neck.

It’s Phillip’s voice. He’s walking along the shoreline again, wearing a pair of swim trunks, no shirt, and Bluetooth headphones in his ears. The sharp features of his face are drawn. He’s arguing with someone.

He walks the length of the beach once. Then twice. And then, one final time, turning so his back is to the ocean. His arms are crossed over his chest.

I lift my hand and give a little wave.This content © Nôv/elDr(a)m/a.Org.

His eyes land on me. For a moment, I don’t know if he’ll even acknowledge me. But then, he nods-a sharp jerk of his chin, so different from the looseness I’d observed in him on the catamaran deck.

I raise the volume on my podcast and lie back. My bikini is navy with little white dots today. Perfectly decent. And I have a bit more of a tan than the other day, courtesy of the cruise.

A shadow falls over me, and I look up.

“Hey,” Phillip says, his headphones gone.

I straighten on the lounge chair. “Hello,” I say. “Um, want to have a seat?”

He looks down at the free lounger next to mine like it offends him. But then, he sighs and sits down. “Yeah.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” he says and puts his phone face down on the chair with more force than necessary.

I decide to tempt fate and use a tried-and-tested method. It’s calmed down many people. They were mainly kindergarteners and not grown men with more money than sense, but I’ll try it anyway.

“I get the sense that you’re not feeling like your best self,” I say. “If you want to talk about it, I’m a good listener. But it’s perfectly all right if you don’t want to.”

Phillip stares at me for so long that I get uncomfortable. There’s only sternness on his face, like I’m an opponent across the negotiating table. Do attorneys even negotiate? I admit, I get most of my ideas about their work from television shows.

Then, his lip curls. “You’re using your teacher’s voice on me, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Did it work?”

“No. But it was impressive.”

“Darn,” I say. “If only you were five years old.”

He snorts and runs a hand over the back of his neck. “You could have given me a pair of scissors and I’d be happy again.”

“I do usually carry a pair on me,” I say, and it’s the absolute truth. “Sometimes, I also have a glue gun or glitter. I’m pretty sure you won’t believe me, but there are very few problems a bit of glitter can’t solve.”