Twenty-One Miranda
Twenty-One
Miranda
2028
Well, that went well. They haven’t spent time together in over a year, and already Sicily is upset, Germaine has gone from hero to zero, and the ghosts of Baby Daddies Past are haunting the festivities.
Miranda sighs as she walks back across the veranda to her villa, by herself. Germaine seemed to need a moment alone after Sicily ran off.
She admires the natural wood and wide windows of her lodgings that look out over the ocean; at least these suites are gorgeous. Every villa has a king-size bed and fresh gardenias on the tables. Germaine has even sent a bottle of complimentary champagne to each room.
Miranda looks around, taking note of the red fire-exit sign, the English, the prices on the room-service menu in American dollars. It feels strange to be back in the US and around people who Knew Her Then: she’s reinvented herself in Europe. And even though Germaine has revealed an ugly side of herself, Miranda owes all this success to her. Five years ago, Germaine used her music-industry connections to get Miranda a job at a beachside club in Mykonos, and Miranda decided that she would absorb everything she could. She worked her ass off to learn how to manage employees, how to plan events, how to deal with customers and rentals and contracts. Finally, she invested everything she had—everything she had left , to be accurate—into a fixer-upper property in Cyprus that she turned into her own beach club.
She’s extremely proud of it. Miranda always used to roll her eyes when people would say something was their “baby,” but it really does feel that way; she put a lot of labor in, and now she gets to nurture it and watch it grow. She named it, simply, Miranda’s, going for Old Hollywood Casablanca vibes mixed with contemporary Euro-Greco flair. It’s hip but not too crazy busy, TikTok chic and understated, and it’s become a destination for in-the-know travelers around the world. It’s the cosmopolitan, hard-won success that she never knew she needed.
There’s only one problem: Miranda is lonely.
She has great friends at the club, top-notch employees, fantastic patrons—but no one she can truly call a partner. She’s happy that Germaine has at last let her guard down enough to get married. Miranda didn’t know—but probably should have, she reflects guiltily—how burned Germaine had been by a shitty relationship in her teens that went all revenge porn on her. And aside from this afternoon’s unfortunate revelation, Sicily seems happy and has hinted at being in a grown-up relationship with someone who’s more than a fling. Miranda will believe it when she sees it, but she’s trying to be less judgmental these days.
She won’t be alone when she goes back to Cyprus. But now that she’s over forty, is it too late for love?
She eyes the champagne but goes for the mineral water in the mini fridge instead, deciding to pace her celebrating. Like she told Germaine, running the club has been a surprising step toward sobering up. She doesn’t want to do anything that could jeopardize it.
Maybe she’s too used to her independence now. In the past, relationships with men just made her life more complicated, leaving her feeling used and discarded; Miranda is in no rush to experience that again. She’s much pickier these days, more cautious. She’s got a good handle on her dignity and worth now, and refuses to be hurt again.
She sits near the window, idly watching other guests arrive and make their way along the veranda to their villas. She recognizes Giles and his wife in tow and ducks away from the glass—she definitely wants to steer clear of Germaine’s snooty family. Maybe it would be a good idea to check in on Sicily and make sure she’s okay.
The villas have a back door, and Miranda slips out of it, wandering through the lush hotel gardens that act as a courtyard behind all the suites, and enjoying the break in the heat as evening comes on. The foliage reminds her of Cyprus, and she suddenly feels an odd homesickness, split equally between her new life and the life she once built here.
She finds Sicily’s villa and knocks on the wooden door.
Sicily opens it carefully, peeking around and looking relieved to find Miranda standing there.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey. You doing okay?”
Sicily nods. She looks red eyed, like she’s been crying, but better in general. “Yeah. It’s stupid anyway—ancient history.”
“Tell someone in Cyprus that ancient history isn’t important and they’ll slap you,” Miranda says. “Our whole tourism industry is built on it.”
Sicily laughs. “Yeah, I guess. I’m working through it. It’s not as though it really changes anything now, and ... I guess I am glad she told me. But”—tears swim in her eyes again—“I still don’t understand why she would do that to me.”
“It was wrong of her,” Miranda agrees. “It wasn’t the 3AM era, but we were all still pretty stupid back then.”
Sicily smiles sadly. “Yeah. Miranda, I’m sorry I brushed past the thing you said. That was not stupid of you. That’s horrible—coerced into sleeping with your director? What the hell was that all about?”
Miranda shrugs, shifts her weight. “Show business, I guess.”
“Can I do anything? Get him fired? I’ve got money to throw around now,” Sicily says, and Miranda smiles at the fierceness in her expression.
“Nah,” Miranda says. “I’ve made my peace with it, and he’s probably retired. Just a sad old man with a milquetoast career and no legacy to speak of. The best revenge is living well.”
Sicily nods, sets her jaw, and then rushes forward to give Miranda a hug.
“Hey.” Miranda laughs, muffled against her shoulder. “I’m okay. It’s all right.”
When Sicily steps back, she has a small smile on her face. “Um ...” She casts a glance behind her. “Kent is here, actually. Would you want to meet him?”
Miranda hesitates, but she is trying to be less judgmental. “Of course I would, Sis.”
She can tell she’s made Sicily happy. Sicily opens the door wider and welcomes Miranda in, seeming even a little giddy. “Come on in, then! Kent,” she calls. “Come meet Miranda!”
An older man in shorts and a linen button-up emerges from the kitchenette, a pair of aviators stuck in his shirt pocket. He’s been around the block but is nice-looking enough.
Except something in Miranda’s gut twists when she sees him. He looks familiar, in a bad way—but Miranda can’t for the life of her understand why.
“Hi, Kent,” she says, pushing the feeling aside. It’s her knee-jerk instinct flaring up again, suspicious of any man Sicily gets involved with. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Hi there, Miranda,” Kent says, shaking her hand.
Miranda reaches forward, watching her hand move as if underwater. At the sound of his voice, she instantly remembers him.
The only ship that’s sailing for her now are those Arab yachts where she’s a whore for hire ... honestly, she should just jump to porn now and stop wasting everyone’s time. Including her own.
Miranda could never forget that voice. It’s him, the man in Sam’s office from all those years ago who degraded her minutes before she got her DUI.
As she grasps his hand, she’s flooded with a wave of nausea.
Kent smiles, but the warmth does not meet his eyes. He knows her, too. “Miranda,” he says carefully. “It’s good to see you.”
“Kent,” is all she says. Sicily hasn’t noticed the recognition that’s passed between them, but Miranda’s mind is racing. Is he going to ruin the weekend by muttering snide things about her to the other guests? Will he drive a wedge between her and Sicily?
Sicily chatters on about the weekend, and Miranda responds as she’s able, but her stomach is churning. She should have never come back to California—the waters here are way too muddy for her. And she feels herself starting to sink.