Chapter 5
ABBY
Except for my ex-boyfriend’s presence, resort life is exactly what I’d hoped it would be.
I woke up this morning to a text from my butler, Samuel, telling me all the resort activities.
Yoga on the beach, a ping-pong tournament in the game center, a scavenger hunt around the resort, a cocktail-making class, stand-up paddle board rentals, a water workout at one of the pools, and tonight’s entertainment—a fiesta with traditional dances, costumes, and music.
I opted for a morning at the beach after breakfast. I read through half a book to the soundtrack of the ocean waves, nestled under the shade of an umbrella.
I felt bad for the staff on the beach whom I asked to bring me a new water bottle every hour.
I’m desperate to stay hydrated in this humidity and avoid a migraine on the trip.
So far, so good, but I’ve only been here one night.
I finally left my beach chair when my stomach insisted on lunch.
The lunch buffet was as impressive as the breakfast buffet.
In the middle of the room was an island overflowing with fruits that would put my local farmers’ market to shame, cut and ready to pile on my plate.
On the edges of the room, there was a section for breads, another for cheeses and meats, and a carving station serving up roast beef for sandwiches.
A made-to-order sushi station and pre-made sandwiches were also available, but I couldn’t pass up a French dip sandwich.
I opted to get out of the heat and sun for the afternoon, taking advantage of my gift from Winnie and Hazel and spending the afternoon at the spa. Nearly a two-hour massage, facial, and one mani-pedi later, I’m finally feeling relaxed for the first time in a long time. Months. Maybe longer.
I’m planning for an early dinner, but I have some time to kill in my room before then. I want to avoid the humidity, so I head back to my room to lie down for a bit.
I anticipated that housekeeping would come by while I was out to make my bed, tidy the room, and clean the bathroom, but I did not anticipate a trail of rose petals from the door to the bed and a bed covered in them as well.
“Oh…my god…”
This must have been some honeymoon add-on that Todd had arranged but never told me about. I wouldn’t have even known to cancel it.
I open my email, checking the reservation, and sure enough, right there, it says “honeymoon add-on.”
How was I supposed to know that would include rose petals on the bed? As I step further into the room, attempting to avoid stepping on too many rose petals, a tray on my dresser catches my eye. Champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries.
Oh wow.
My stomach sinks to my knees, too heavy to stay in place. I lean against the dresser for support, a sudden weakness making me doubt my ability to hold myself up.
I am supposed to be on my honeymoon.
Oh god, this is sad. I think I’ve hit a new low.
I should be married and starting a new life with my husband, and instead I’m a single, burned-out elementary school arts teacher in Cabo by myself. Actually, it’s worse; I’m not entirely by myself. I’m being haunted by the ghost of boyfriends past.
I reach for a chocolate-covered strawberry and eat the whole thing in one too-big-for-my-mouth bite.
Damn it, these are delicious.
I take in the flower explosion in my room. I did not need this reminder of my reality the day after running into Miles. I have to get this cleaned up and pretend it never happened.
Still chewing on the sweet, fruity confection, I start with the bed, gathering all the petals into a small pile and sliding them right into the bedroom trash can.
Todd was not really the romantic gesture type. He bought me flowers on my birthday every year, and we went out to dinner on our anniversary. He would buy me really practical gifts at Christmas—socks or a kitchen appliance. The toaster I have is from our Christmas together.
Did he click the box that said “honeymoon add-on” when he booked this because he genuinely thought it would be romantic, or because he believed it was his duty as a husband to do something romantic?
On my hands and knees, picking up silk rose petals by the handful, I have to wonder how romantic this kind of gesture is. It’s a bit generic. I don’t even like roses all that much. I prefer daisies and snapdragons to roses, but I don’t know if Todd even knew that.
Now that I’m thinking about it, all the flowers he ever brought me were red roses.
I destroy another strawberry after clearing the rose petals from the room.
Some fiancé.
Once the room is spotless, I can practically feel my blood pressure dropping. The trash can full of discarded flowers is tucked away against a wall.
Better.
But I have time to kill before dinner and I want to stay in the air conditioning for a bit to avoid a migraine. My mind goes to the one place that has always helped me relax or escape.
My sketchbook.
I didn’t have time to buy a new one before the trip, so I dusted off an old one that had plenty of pages left and promised myself I’d spend at least fifteen minutes every day sketching or doodling.
I can’t remember a time in my life before teaching that I didn’t have a crayon, pencil, marker, or pen in hand. Even pictures of me as a kid show me coloring, drawing, or painting. And even though art class was my favorite, it wasn’t teaching I wanted to do; it was art.
It wasn’t until college that I pivoted and decided to teach.
I prop up my pillows for a comfortable spot to draw.
During the school year, time is at a premium, so I was always squeezing in late-night sketching sessions and falling asleep seconds after my pencil connected to paper, but I’m awake now and I have time, and instead of falling asleep, as my pencil drags across the fresh sheet of paper, the world falls away.
I draw for so long that I lose track of time, and by the time I’ve got a half-sketched ocean—the view from my chair this morning—it’s been almost two hours and my mouth feels like sandpaper.
I check the time—nearly 6:00. I meant to get an earlier dinner so I could get to sleep early, but I’m an hour past when I wanted to leave.
I jump off my bed and rush around to get ready, but stop myself halfway through a frantic dive through the drawers. I’m on vacation. There’s no hurry and the whole point of this trip is to calm my nervous system, not to continue as I have been for months.
A half-hour later, I’ve got on my white and navy striped sundress, my hair is brushed back into a neat ponytail, and my e-reader is in hand, ready for my solo dinner.
I can’t stop thinking about how good a margarita sounds, so I beeline for the Mexican restaurant.
The reviews said this was the best restaurant at the resort. Might as well start with a bang.
It’s a beautiful, if humid, night out. The sun has started its descent and golden hour is near. The heat of the day is bleeding out of the resort, and I imagine the shaded areas might feel nice if the thick air didn’t make my skin so sticky.
The restaurant is easy enough to find, its terrace scattered with tables for outdoor seating, tea lights on the tables and string lights overhead setting a romantic mood.
The view is generous as the restaurant overlooks the ocean.
Behind the softly playing, themed music, it’s easy enough to hear the ocean waves kissing the sand.
Once the sun starts to properly set, it will be an ideal spot to watch the sky change color.
Lovely as it is, I think I will opt for the air conditioning tonight.
“Abby?”
A familiar voice stops me in my tracks before I make it to the restaurant door. Seated on the half-filled terrace, a dark-haired, dark-eyed man I used to love is waving me down.
I guess this resort isn’t as big as I’d hoped it would be.
His table is right by the aisle, so I have no real excuse but to stop. There’s a waiter with him, so I figure I can just say hi real quick and then go.
“Hi, Miles.”
“Are you here for dinner?”
“I am, I’m just…” I point to the door and start moving again, but he stops me with a gentle touch.
It’s just his hand on my arm. It’s just the bare skin of his hand on the bare skin of my arm.
It’s just his skin branding mine, heat generating where we’re connected, like a small fire is going to start up and burn us both to ash.
My own breath and the beat of my heart drown out the conversations happening nearby, the clank of silverware on dishware, the distant sound of the waves. All of it is so far away now.
I direct my gaze to where his hand is touching me and only half hear him say to the waiter, “…a frozen margarita for her.”
The waiter walks away, but it’s not until Miles takes his hand off me that the world comes back into focus, the volume of my body turning back down so I can hear and see everything around me again.
“Did you just order me a drink?” I ask.
“I did. I hoped you’d have it with me.”
I don’t want to have a drink with Miles, because a drink with Miles won’t just be a drink with Miles.
It will be two drinks. Or drinks and dinner.
And conversation. And knowing Miles, he will try to charm his way back into my life, and the only thing dumber than me letting him back into my life would be having a drink with him in the first place.
“I, um…”
The words are right there, at the tip of my tongue.
“I’m asking for ten, fifteen minutes of your time. However long it takes you to finish a margarita. And then you can go, and we can go back to being strangers.”
Strangers.
A funny word to describe someone to whom you once bared your soul.
This man loved me; he kissed me good night; he held me through countless migraines.
I know the feel of his hair drenched in sweat, I know the way his eyes shine after winning a game, and I know how he gets so angry after a loss that his eyes well up but doesn’t actually let the tears fall.