2. Chapter 2
Chapter 2
BECKY
F ive missed calls. Great. I quickly stashed my phone in my oversized carry-on bag as if hiding it would hide me. I shielded my eyes from the hot sunbeams pouring through the giant glass panes of the airport terminal and surveyed the bustling sea of people. An eerie feeling of being watched settled over me.
My eyes darted around the chaotic terminal. The wailing children, quarreling families, happy couples, and echoing airport announcements formed a dissonant symphony, and yet, not a single soul focused on me. I rolled my eyes at my unneeded hypervigilance. They wouldn’t follow me around. Would they?
As I contemplated my next step, I lurched forward unexpectedly. It wasn’t a misstep on my part, but a forceful shove from behind that tripped me up. My heart still racing, I spun around to find the person responsible. A flurry of pink feathers brushed against my face, leaving a trace of sweet, cloying perfume hanging in the air.
“I’m so sorry,” came a voice, light and tinkling with laughter.
I hurried to smooth things over, the discomfort of confrontation already twisting in my stomach. “No, no, please, it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have been in your way,” I said. The last thing I wanted was a conflict, even if I was the one wronged.
A group of women swarmed around their clumsy leader. They, too, were draped in feather boas and adorned with kitschy tiaras, bubbling with that peculiar excitement. I didn’t need to hear their chatter to know what they were: a bachelorette party. Not so dissimilar from the one my sister and I should’ve been having right now.
I straightened my white linen pantsuit and chanted an affirmation in my head . You are beautiful, bold, and blessed. With that tiny boost of confidence, I clutched the handle of my suitcase and stepped back into the throng to find my way to the check-in counter. The jangle of the loose wheel on my luggage felt like a perpetual jab in the side. But replacing it just wasn’t an option right now.
“What’s the matter, honey?” the flight check-in lady inquired, as I stepped up to the counter.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” I replied, my voice brighter than I felt. I mustered the sunniest smile I could, letting it light up my face despite the turmoil inside. People always seemed to appreciate a cheerful disposition, and I hated to be a burden.
The check-in lady leaned toward me. “I’m sure a bit of time at the beach will cheer you up. Hilton Head is a beautiful island,” she assured me.
I obviously wasn’t fooling her with my charade. Maybe she’d believe my words. “Yes, I’m really looking forward to it. I’ve visited several times since my sister started dating a local.” My smile stayed plastered on my face, even though it was starting to feel as heavy as my heart. If only the beach could solve all my problems, emotional and financial.
My sister Elle, the person who knew me best, recently got married. Now, she was off on a year-long adventure, leaving me feeling a bit like a book left on the shelf—unwanted, and somehow less important.
It felt selfish to think this way. Elle deserved every bit of happiness, and here I was, feeling sorry for myself. I should have been better than this, stronger. Yet the sadness lingered. I missed her terribly. And in that missing, I felt lost, wondering where I fit into a story that no longer seemed to have a role for me.
Four months ago, Elle and Gray were chosen by Kayak Kingdom as brand ambassadors. A dream opportunity for them with an all-expenses paid kayaking trip around the world. Because of this, their wedding was rushed, plans were upended, not the least of which was our much-anticipated Sister Trip.
So here I was, midday on a Monday, en route to stay in a garden cottage on Gray’s home property. He rented out multiple properties through Airbnb. When he offered me a free holiday during my summer break as a consolation prize, I took it, despite having to go solo. Because, the way things were looking, I wasn’t likely to be able to afford a vacation anytime soon.
Cue anxious thoughts. Okay, I’m not proud of this. But I was sort of in trouble with debt collectors. After the rollercoaster ride Elle and I called childhood, she eventually sought refuge in therapy. Yes, the traditional sofa-and-tissues kind. Me? My therapy? The glistening aisles of shopping malls.
While Elle was busy unpacking childhood trauma with a professional, I was unpacking the latest fashion finds. Each purchase a subtle hit of validation, a fleeting moment where I felt worthy of something beautiful. Call it retail therapy or a masterclass in credit card aerobics—either way, it worked for me. Until it didn’t. The debts piled up quicker than I expected. Now I was drowning in a sea of bills and late notices, each one a reminder that I wasn’t really coping. Two years ago, I’d officially maxed out every store card I owned. Since then, I’d tried to get on top of my debt. Really, I had. But between my mom’s unhelpful involvement in my finances, student loans, and one too many endearing sales representatives that I couldn’t refuse, it just seemed impossible.
Over the last few months, Brian from Debtsure, a debt collection agency, had called me relentlessly, preaching about financial responsibility. He couldn’t fathom how a twenty-two-year-old could rack up so much debt. While I couldn’t fault the logic of his lectures, he didn’t understand my position. My clothes weren’t just clothes; they were my armor. They helped me impress people. I could see it in their eyes, see it in their social media likes and comments. Aside from that, as a student dietitian and assistant to the head dietitian at Georgia State University’s Sports Department, appearances were everything. I had to look the part: healthy and flawless, even if it meant ignoring Brian’s stern warnings.
But then two days ago, I found a notice on my apartment door. It explained that Debtsure needed to personally deliver some documentation to me. Just seeing the word ‘documentation’ sent chills down my spine. So, I did what I do best—I allowed myself to indulge in denial. For the next two weeks, Debtsure could wait. Their courier would surely attempt to deliver the dreaded documentation, but I wouldn’t be there to receive it.
This holiday was my well-timed chance to breathe, to regroup, and perhaps find a way to face my fears and debts head-on when I returned. So for now, I would escape the daily grind and seek solace at the beach, snap some glorious beach pictures for my social media accounts, and forget my troubles. As much as I hated being alone, I figured I could also use this time to connect with God more. Honestly, my adult life allowed little time for God. If I read my Bible more, maybe He could fix me. Fix this financial mess.
I finished checking in and made a quick detour to the restroom. Grateful for a moment to regroup, I neatened my shoulder length chocolate hair. It was holding its shape and bouncing just the way it should. At least my appearance was better than my emotional state. The announcer called for my flight to board, and I speed-walked to Gate C.
The cabin was abuzz with chittering families, squeaky shoes on the floor, and the overhead bins clattering shut. I slipped into the fabric seat of 18E. As I buckled my seat belt, the tremble in my hands betrayed my anxiety. To soothe my nerves, I popped open my purse and withdrew my mini mirror, its worn edges a familiar comfort. I reapplied my lipstick and contemplated my vacation ahead.
I’d visited Hilton Head Island several times since Elle started dating Gray, so I was acquainted with some of her new friends. However, the last time I was there, I didn’t exactly leave on good terms with Gray’s best friend, Weston.
It was after Elle and Gray’s wedding, and coincidentally, Weston’s birthday was a few days later. He’d always been a bit of a mystery to me—quiet, reserved, and, honestly, a bit sad. Sometimes he would look at me with eyes that begged for something. A hug? Help? I could never quite put my finger on it. Subsequently, despite his rebuffs of my previous attempts to befriend him, I felt an urge to brighten his day, maybe even make him smile for once. I also felt somewhat out of place with Elle marrying into a whole new family and friend group. I figured, why not make an effort to build some friendships?
So, I’d planned a huge surprise birthday party for him. I’d thought, ‘What better way to make him smile than with a grand celebration with everyone he knows?’ I wanted it to be perfect, a day he’d never forget.
However, when Weston walked in, the look on his face was not one of joy, but of obvious discomfort and, oddly, sorrow. The room erupted in a chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’, but he just managed a weak ‘Thank you’ before slipping out early. There I’d stood, alone in a sea of strangers, feeling the sting of embarrassment color my cheeks. Reflecting on it as I’d entertained his guests, I acknowledged that perhaps I’d overstepped some boundaries by contacting his friends. And I probably should have asked Gray if Weston enjoyed parties before forging ahead with my plan.
It pained me how much I’d fumbled in my interactions with Weston. Normally, I could read people well, and I prided myself on getting along with everyone. So before leaving the island, I’d tried to call a truce, to apologize for the birthday disaster. However, my attempt at an apology only added fuel to the fire.
Weston intrigued, confused, and frustrated me. Understanding him seemed like an unsolvable puzzle .
Apparently, he’d be staying in Gray’s house, only a few steps from the cottage I’d be occupying. But I’d learned my lesson with him. No matter what those amber eyes of his told me, I’d… Leave. Him. Alone.
Interrupting my thoughts, a gentleman squeezed past me, claimed the window seat, and gave me a mock salute. “Good luck,” he said.
“Thanks,” I replied with a polite smile.
He obviously knew I needed the luck, sitting next to him, because he drank—I’m not kidding—four mini bottles of vodka. Our flight was only an hour. On his fifth, he misjudged his grasp and knocked the bottle over. It poured all over my much-loved suit. The stench of alcohol reached my nostrils in record time. Ew! I detested alcohol. Now I smelled like I’d been soaking in it for days. Awesome!
Once we landed, I attempted to clean off the alcohol in the public restroom, but it was no use. I tried to ignore the pestering memories that the smell triggered.
I collected my baggage and proceeded to the waiting area for the shuttle service. My pre-booked chariot of convenience was due to arrive any minute. A silver minibus pulled up, and I moved toward the attendant to ask if it was my ride .
“Sorry, ma’am, we have a no alcohol policy. You cannot board this shuttle. We require intoxicated customers to use private transport,” the male attendant said in a nasal voice.
“But I’m not drunk. Someone just spilled their drink on me,” I said, pointing to the stains on my trousers.
“Yeah, I’ve heard that one before. Sorry, lady, I could smell you from way over there. I cannot subject my other passengers to the unpredictable behavior of someone under the influence. Rules are rules,” he said, squaring his shoulders, making his rounded belly stick out further than before.
I straightened to my full height (not tall) and used my best business voice. “Please listen to me. I’m being serious. I’m stone cold sober.”
“Sorry, ma’am, we have a no alcohol policy. You cannot board this shuttle.” He brushed past me and greeted other waiting passengers with exaggerated politeness.
“Thanks for nothing,” I muttered under my breath, already plotting to report his rude behavior. Was that even a rule a shuttle service would have? Surely, drunk people would need to use their service more than anyone? Argh. Whatever. Everyone was obviously against me today.
In the slow-paced coastal town of Hilton Head Island, it took me almost thirty minutes to book and wait for my Uber to arrive. When I settled in the car, the driver gave me a sideways look and I immediately defended myself, explaining the situation with Mr. Vodka. Thankfully, sweet old Hank was more understanding than the shuttle attendant. As soon as there was a lull in the conversation, I messaged Elle to ask her to tell Gray’s people I would be late.
Becky: Hey Elle, I’m running late! Sorry! Please tell Gray’s rental agent (sweating face).
Elle: No problem. Gray says to use the access code he gave you for the gate. Then knock on the front door of the main house. He’ll ask Weston to be there with the keys for your cottage and to help you get settled.
Becky: Oh no… I don’t want to bother Weston. I could pick the keys up from your rental agent. Would that work?
Elle: Gray says the agent has another issue to deal with before the day is out. Weston won’t mind.
Becky: Okay (smiley face).
Elle: Can I ask you a favor?
Becky: Sure (3 x smiley faces).
I frowned as I watched the typing dots flash for what seemed like two minutes. What was Elle going to ask of me?
Elle: I know this is awkward, but Gray and Weston’s family have been worried about Weston. He’s in a bad place at the moment, and Gray hates that he’s not there to support him. Since you’ll be on the same property, can you please keep an eye on Weston? Just let us know if you think he’s alright?
My heart dropped as I read her message. Part of me was delighted that Elle needed my help. I loved helping others. Why did it have to be Weston, though?
Becky: I’d love to help, but I think you’ve got the wrong girl. Weston does NOT like me.
Elle: Weston doesn’t like anyone.
Becky: True, but can’t his family check on him?
Elle: He doesn’t like them to hover. I just figured since you’ll be there, it’ll be easy for you to keep an eye on him. Please?
Becky: Okay fine, I’ll try to get a read on how he is doing and let you know. But I don’t want to get on his nerves.
Elle: Thank you. You’re a lifesaver.
Becky: My pleasure. Hope you’re enjoying the adventure. Tell Gray I say hi. (waving hand)
I put my phone away and let out a breath.
By the time we pulled into Gray’s driveway, I’d learned all about Hank’s spunky wife, Gloria, their grandchildren, and his dream of becoming a published author.
“Thanks so much for the ride, Hank. I hope your side hustle works out for you.”
Hank tipped his newsboy hat, revealing his shiny bald head beneath. “Thanks, Becky. Enjoy your holiday. You’re a real sweetheart. And don’t let anyone else give you trouble about being drunk.”
“Thanks, Hank,” I said, buoyed by his unexpected kindness. At least Hank was on my side. I dragged my limping luggage to the main house and rapped on the door. As I waited, I squared my shoulders, steeling myself for what I anticipated would be a less-than-welcoming reception.