Chapter 1 On the Island #6
The breeze ruffles his hair. The sharp angles of John’s face soften a little. John—such a plain name for a man who looks anything but. For a moment I think he’s going to kiss me. And then he looks away.
“It’s not enough, though.”
I can help. But I don’t tell him so, because I don’t know how much it will do.
I’m not vain enough to think one article and some Instagram posts will make his problems disappear.
But I can make a difference. Publish a new piece on the resort, call in some favors and get it shared on different social media sites, in magazines, on TV.
Not to mention gushing about it to my many followers.
He straightens, slaps his palms on the fence. “I should get back to work.” He gives me a half-smile and turns away.
“Have dinner with me,” I blurt.
He pauses. Doesn’t bother to conceal his surprise.
“I have questions…for my new piece. I was going to ask you now but, since you’re busy, I thought over dinner maybe, since it’s easier. I mean, I have to eat—you have to eat. Then we can eat and eat questions. I mean ask questions. And you can answer them. Maybe.”
And now I want to die of embarrassment.
He examines me for a moment, making me squirm.
“How’s eight?” he asks. “I’ll pick you up from your room.”
“Mmm-hmm,” is all I say, keeping my mouth clamped shut so I don’t say more dumb things.
I die under his scrutiny, only breathing again after he has walked away.
I’m digging into my room service lunch of a green salad and scallops when my phone starts ringing from the table next to me. There’s a ton of Instagram notifications but I ignore them and answer.
“Dad?”
“Hi, hon. How is it going there?”
The view from the patio outside my room is perfect. The air is warm, but I’m shaded from the sun. And I’ve got a plate of good food on my lap. “Fine. How’s mom?”
“She’s the same. She had a better day yesterday, but today she’s pretty sleepy.”
“Is that all?” I pick at the spiky green leaves on my plate. “It’s not worse than you’re saying, is it? Do I need to come home early?”
“No, it’s really not. Unless…”
I’ve put a scallop in my mouth, but I talk around it. “Unless what?”
“Do you want to come home early?”
I straighten. “No, why?” Dad is quiet on the other line. I finish chewing. “Dad, why?”
He hems and haws and doesn’t answer my question.
I set my fork down. My heart is racing. “What is going on? Are you sure mom is fine?”
“Yes. Trust me. There’s nothing new with your mother.”
“Then what?”
“One of my students heard from his friend who heard from their sister who read it online or something.”
“What are you even saying right now?”
He lets out a loud breath. “There’s some article out about you.”
I frown. “Me?” No one writes articles about me. I’m a travel blogger, for crying out loud—not a celebrity.
“It’s on a gossip site. There’s a picture of you with a man in Florence, I think? He’s an editor for some magazine. I don’t remember the name of it. Anyway, when did you go to Florence?”
I’m already moving, dashing into my room to the bed and opening my laptop. I hope I didn’t spill a scallop. “I haven’t been to Florence in years. Four maybe? Five?”
I put my name in the search engine. My own info pops up first, my website and social media, links to articles in different magazines both online and in print. I add Florence to the search engine and there it is. An article with my name in the headline.
“It seemed like a recent trip,” Dad says.
The link takes me to a gossip site. There’s a clear picture of a man and woman holding hands, walking down a cobblestoned street. The woman’s face is buried in the man’s shoulder so you can’t see it except for a bit of chin. I guess the hair and body type could be mine, but that’s not me.
“That’s not me,” I say to Dad.
“Huh. My student really thought it was about you.”
“No, it says my name, but it’s not me.” I scan through the article and my blood begins to boil. “Dad, I’ve gotta go. But that’s not me, just so you know. The whole article is completely false.”
I hang up. My eyes snag on the number of Instagram notifications I have.
I open up the app to hundreds of comments on my latest post, most of which have nothing to do with the actual picture—the view of the beach when I was with John this morning.
The comments range from congratulations on my supposed boyfriend to trolls questioning my honesty and integrity or just plain hating.
The photo from the article is posted and reposted, and I swear I’ve been tagged in every one.
I read through the article again slowly. It states that I was in Florence just last week. Laughable. I was at my childhood home, playing War with my dad and reading Tolstoy to my mom.
It goes on to talk about the man I’m supposedly with, an editor of a very prominent travel magazine.
The article accuses me of using our so-called relationship to further my career, insinuates this isn’t the first time I’ve done that kind of thing.
Bashes my writing style, my credibility, and even my fashion sense.
‘Meg Hale claims to be a journalist with the highest standards, never resorting to dirty methods or petty behaviors to get a story, but her piece on the Paradise Resort proves otherwise.’ The article then quotes me, but it’s not what I wrote at all.
I even go back to that piece to check. It’s my words, but they’re manipulated to sound different than I intended.
I scroll back up to the byline. Written by Mena Boucher.
Of course it was.
I almost laugh. She thinks I’m an easy target. That I’ll leave this alone and let her write this crap about me. Or that I’ll be stupid and comment on the post, trying to expose her lies while just making myself look worse.
But I’m not stupid. I know to go over her head and straight to the owner of the gossip site Mena writes for. But first, I have a call to make to a good friend of mine who happens to be a lawyer.
I’m exhausted by the time eight o’clock rolls around.
I finally had to turn my phone off to stop from hearing all the dings indicating Instagram notifications.
I’m mentally fatigued from battling it out all afternoon to get that piece taken down and for Mena to publish a retraction statement.
But it worked, thanks in no small part to my lawyer friend Henry who had my back.
I’ll repay him with an amazing steak dinner next time I see him.
I’m also tired from writing. My fingers are stiff. My eyelids ache. But I finished my new piece on the resort. Sent it to my editor. It should be ready to publish in a few days, if I can manage it.
I glance at the clock. Eight-fifteen. John hasn’t arrived yet.
Maybe I missed his knock. I check my reflection in the mirror, fuss with my hair before I realize what I’m doing and quit.
Then give up and apply another coat of lipstick.
I could pretend not to care how I look in front of him, but that ship has sailed.
Eight-thirty and still no John.
And it hits me. The article. Instagram. Maybe he saw it all. Maybe he believes what it said about me. Which—if he does—would make me look like the biggest hypocrite ever.
My stomach sinks. I’m angry all over again, then sad, disappointed.
Then surprised. Since when did John’s opinion about me matter so much?
Not only am I primping for him, but now I’m worried he thinks badly about me.
More than worried. It kills me to think he might believe what that trash article said.
I grab my purse and head out, determined to find him and explain.
I hurry down the corridor, my heels clacking on the hard floor. Past the concierge who says something I don’t register. Beeline to the building with John’s office, but he’s not there. Neither is his secretary; she’s probably gone home for the day.
John lives somewhere on the resort property, but I have no idea where. I wander the pathways, no clue where I’m going, hoping to run into him, slowed down by my stupidly high heels. Who brings heels to a tropical resort? I think as my ankle twists and I almost bail.
I sigh. It’s no use. I’ll never find him this way. I don’t even know how long I’ve been searching. I open my purse to check my phone, but it’s not there. I must have left it back in my room.
I slip off my shoes and head back. It’s not the end of the world. I can speak to John tomorrow.
When I make it back to my building, my feet thoroughly hurt and my ankle throbs. Down the corridor, a person sits on the floor, leaning back against the wall. He looks up.
I stop. “John?”
He gets to his feet. I close the distance between us. The number behind his head is my room number.
“I’ve been waiting,” he says. He’s wearing linen pants and a baby blue shirt that’s casually untucked.
“You didn’t come,” I say.
“I know. I’m sorry.” He looks down at my feet which, I’m sad to say, look a bit dirty. “Where were you?”
“Oh.” My face heats. I hide one foot behind my leg—not that it helps. “I went looking for you.”
“You did?”
He’s leaning over me. Too close. My breath hitches. I step back and wince.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I just… heels! Am I right?” I hold up my shoes as if he can relate. “Anyway, I’d really like to sit down.”
He moves away from the door. I swipe my card, and the door beeps. I push it open. “Do you want to come in?”
“Yes.”
He follows me inside, and then he takes my hand, leading me out to the patio, nudging me onto the lounger so I can stretch out my legs. He skootches the other chair closer and sits.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come,” he says. “I was stuck on a conference call and couldn’t get away.”
“Oh.” So it wasn’t about the article at all. I’m embarrassed at my earlier panic and that I assumed he saw the article or the comments and tags, as if he follows me on Instagram or something.
And then he says, “I was scrolling through Instagram earlier.”
Oof.
“You were in Florence last week?”
And there’s that panic, back again. “I wasn’t there. That wasn’t me.”