Chapter 37
37
Someone grabs me hard by the shoulders, fingers digging into muscle.
I blink awake with a moan. The light makes my head hurt, a migraine drilling into my temple.
Bella Marie’s hair spikes my spit-crusted cheek. “Wake up, darling, we’re here.” Her breath is a plume of sour and rosé. I am nauseous. When did I fall asleep? Must have been somewhere after ten drinks and our twentieth Taylor Swift song. I was singing too, though I didn’t know the words… Yet somehow, I did? It was almost like I fell into a Taylor Swift hive mind. I remember wondering how the Belladonnas had so much energy, their bodies wiggling like smoke, limbs impossibly long and twisty, as I faded in and out of consciousness.
“Wow,” Iz gasps as she looks out a window. “What a view.”
“We’re lucky to have such clear weather this week,” Bella Marie says. “We’ve been having bursts of summer storms lately.”
I wipe the sleep from my eyes and straighten.
Then I see it.
Blue. A wide stretch of ocean. No land in sight. I’ve only seen views like this through a screen.
Maya peels a fake eyelash off the wall of the plane. The other girls are frenetic, bodies buzzing as they collect bits of clothes from the floor. Seriously, how do they have so much vigor? It’s like they all have balls of lightning inside them, ready to burst out.
The emergency exit opens. Rays of light and salt air suffuse the metal tube. A warm, humid breeze brushes against my skin. The change in temperature gives me goose bumps.
A line of tall white men and women come into the plane. They’re all barefoot, dressed in pale linens, crisp smiles painted on their lips, carrying trays of what looks like orange juice.
“Welcome home!” they say.
The Belladonnas clap and yip like hungry dogs as they reach for the drinks on the trays. Bella Marie grabs two glasses. “Fresh orange juice, coconut water, and a bit of caffeine. Great for a hangover.” She winks as she shoves the glasses into our hands.
Iz and I down the drink. It is surprisingly refreshing, leaving a sweetness on my tongue that compels me to want more.
After our welcome drinks, we file out of the plane and into the glorious sun.
The island is picturesque. Blue waters, white beaches, tall palms. A cobblestone path leads off the tarmac. In the distance: verdant forest, bushes rife with blooming flowers, buildings with red roofs. Some umbrellas are set out on the beach, shading loungers. A hammock between two swaying coconut palms.
I already feel a tan searing into my skin as Bella Marie hands our bags back to us. I’m relieved as my fingers wrap around my phone—a missing limb reinserted. To my surprise, not a single notification pings through.
No signal.
Iz must have noticed this too. “Is there Wi-Fi on this island?” she asks Bella Marie.
Bella Marie smiles. “We’re here to disconnect. There’s no signal on premises.”
I blanch. No signal? I get that Bella Marie wants to keep this trip low-key, but what am I going to do if I can’t refresh my Instagram every three minutes?
“What if my kids need me?” Iz asks.
“Did you give the babysitter the emergency contact information?”
Iz nods.
“If they need help, our staff will relay the message at the utmost expediency. There’s an ethernet cable in the main residence if you must plug back in, as well as a landline. But I’d really recommend you resist. Disconnect. That’s the whole point of this trip.”
Iz is silent as she cups her neck, her lips pressed into a hard line.
It’s one thing not to post while we’re here, but it’s a whole other slap in the face to know we’re disconnected from the outside world.
I chew on my cheek, unease creeping into me.
But then I look around. The beaches, warm sun.
I shove my phone into my bag. This is ridiculous. I’m a grown woman. I should be able to live without my phone for a week. I can spend all day lounging on white sands, sipping pretty cocktails, instead of throwing myself down the rabbit hole of social media and living in constant fear of my parasitic aunt messaging me with demands. This will be relaxing. Great! Fun, even!
At least that’s what I try to tell myself.
A young man who looks like a cross between a Ralph Lauren model and a Ken doll introduces himself as Viktor. He has a vaguely European or perhaps Scandinavian accent, a fine mop of golden hair, and deep-set narrow blue eyes. His short sleeves reveal his thick biceps, ropy veins crawling up his wrists and hands.
“Viktor will show you around the island and help you get settled in,” Bella Marie says. She’s beaming under the sun, bright and angelic. “I have to go check on something, but I will see you all during our welcome dinner.” She waves goodbye as Viktor leads us into the island.
Behind us, the plane engine roars.
“Is the plane leaving?” Iz asks Viktor.
“Yes.”
“What if we have an emergency or need to get home? Is there, like, a boat or something?”
Thank the heavens again for Iz being a new recruit. The other Belladonnas glance at each other and giggle.
“In cases of emergency,” Viktor says, “we will make sure to send for help. As of now, there’s no way off the island. Unless you’re Michael Phelps and plan on swimming the Caribbean Sea. Get it? Because he’s an Olympic swimmer?” He laughs, a show of white teeth.
The Belladonnas erupt in giggles.
Iz and I glance at each other. I think we missed the joke. Or is Viktor so hot he gets laughs for saying something utterly dumb?
“But rest assured,” he continues, “we have medical professionals who are very helpful in a pinch. In all my years on the island, there has never been a single incident we couldn’t handle ourselves.”
“It’s very safe on the island,” Emmeline says.
“Extremely safe,” says Ana.
“Literally zero percent crime,” adds Kelly.
“America wishes!” chimes Maya.
We follow a path leading into a copse of trees and just before I turn the corner, I glance over my shoulder. Bella Marie is standing there, poised like a doll. Her blue eyes meet mine, yet it doesn’t look like she’s looking at me. Rather, her gaze is set beyond, staring through me, almost vacant.