Chapter 5
My eyes spring open to Wham’s ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go’ blasting from my cell phone. Matt set that song as my alarm months ago. It was cute in the beginning. Now… not so much. Unfortunately, technically challenged me can’t figure out how to change it.
If he was sticking with reality, his guilt-ridden shoes should have programmed ‘Careless Whisper.’
It’s a more appropriate choice.
With my eyes still half-closed, I drag myself out of bed, determined not to spend another day cooped up in my hotel room. I rake my fingers through my hair, grab a beach towel and my book, and make my way to the pool area, still dressed in the shorts and T-shirt I slept in.
Dressing to impress is low on my priorities list. Obviously.
As I step out of my air-conditioned room, the moist tropical air envelopes me, warming my skin. I squint to adjust to the intense sunshine. If it’s already this steamy at seven a.m., it’s going to be a hell of a scorcher by noon.
The outdoors is eerily quiet, except for the rhythmic “shh-shh-shh” hiss of the lawn sprinklers, diligently watering a group of vibrant hot pink hibiscus bushes. Inhaling deeply, I take in the earthy scent of wet soil and the sweet fragrance of blooming flowers, setting the tone for my morning mission.
“Cheat, cheat, cheat.”
I look up and spot a solitary blackbird perched on a feathery coconut tree, squawking loudly.
“Guess you met my ex,” I say to it.
“Cheat, cheat, cheat,” it squawks again.
“Yeah, that’s him,” I mutter, continuing my walk.
I navigate through the impeccably kept grounds. The lush greenery reminds me of strolling through the Conservatory at the New York Botanical Garden on an infinitely grander scale. Pathways are mostly empty, with only a few early morning joggers beating the sweltering afternoon heat and dedicated gardeners expertly tending to the flourishing, lush foliage. The gardeners have certainly earned their paychecks. I can’t even get an air fern to live.
“Buenos días,” a man in a crisp white uniform driving a golf cart loaded with folded white towels says as he passes me.
“Buenos días,” I reply. I don’t know a lot of Spanish but made it a point to learn the important phrases… Buenos días, gracias, and mas tequila, por favor.
I pause in front of a cluster of arrow-shaped signs, each pointing in a different direction. I choose the arrow directing me to the pool. As I come closer, the faint, inviting scent of chlorine fills the air. Stepping onto an open patio, I’m immediately captivated by the scene before me.
Wow.
It’s breathtaking.
At one end of the colossal free-form pool is a swim-up bar decorated with vibrant Talavera tiles. Matt was completely hands-off while planning our honeymoon except for two requests—a swim-up bar and a sports bar to watch baseball.
Who said romance is dead?
The opposite end of the pool boasts an impressive waterfall, cascading gracefully into small pockets of swirling pools within the main body. These must be the built-in hot tubs I read about. It’s infinitely more impressive in person, surpassing the countless images and reviews I meticulously poured over online before booking this place.
4.7 out of 5 stars. Couldn’t do much better than that.
One reviewer gave the resort one star because it rained for three days.
Like that’s the hotel’s fault.
People are stupid.
I spot a long row of loungers under a thatched roofed area that has my name written all over it. Figuratively, that is. The sun is beating down mercilessly. If I’m going to last more than ten minutes out here, I need to stake my claim in the shade.
With a determined stride, I power walk towards the coveted spot. I reach the sun-shielded haven, spread out my beach towel and lay my book in the center of the last available shaded lounger.
Geez, my fellow vacationers get up early to save their spots.
Mission accomplished.
This seat is my daytime throne—where I’ll lay my lazy ass down like a sloth queen and read for hours while sipping palomas until sundown.
This is a vacation, dammit. It’s time to relax and join the world again.
Besides, if I chicken out, I’ll probably lose my book to the lost and found or someone will lift it and I’ll never know if Lydia and Anthony get their freak on before her evil coworker gets her claws on Anthony’s six-pack abs.
That Cassandra is a sneaky little bitch.
There’s no way I’m missing out on that hot mess. If I leave Wicked Temptation here, it ensures I’ll come back.
But for now, I’m heading back to sleep. When I wake up, I’ll grab a quick bite at the breakfast buffet and come back here to relax.
Today’s a new day, and I’m leaving the past where it belongs. Even if I have to fake it. Last night, I stuffed my wedding veil back into my suitcase. And that’s where it’s staying.
My Crummymoon has officially begun.
Swallowing hard, I approach the hostess podium. A woman in a white dress uniform and a vibrant red neckerchief greets me with an infectious smile that instantly puts me at ease.
“Buenos días. Your room number?” she asks politely.
“Umm… three twenty-two. Last name is Harper.”
She swipes the screen of her iPad and reads something. “Just one today?”
“Yup, it’s only me.”
“Any food allergies?” she asks.
“No. My body would never reject food,” I joke.
She nods with a chuckle. “Do you prefer an inside or outside table?”
I glance at the room behind her. “Is it air-conditioned in there?” I ask, hoping for relief from the morning heat and humidity.
“Sí.”
“Then that’s where I’m eating.”
She chuckles again and motions for me to follow her. We navigate through the restaurant until I’m seated at a small table. The tablecloth is immaculately starched and a delicate red carnation adorns a small vase in the center. The hostess removes one set of perfectly rolled flatware, hinting at a table originally set for two.
“Gilberto is your server today. He’ll be right with you,” she informs me kindly.
“Gracias.”
Okay. That was easier than expected. I conjured up all sorts of scenarios of sad stares at the pathetic, groom-less bride, but none of them materialized. Even when I checked in yesterday, Jorge read something on my reservation, but he kept it to himself.
I exhale a breath, a sense of relief washing over me. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll enjoy this trip after all.
A burly man, dressed in a pristine all-white uniform with a red neckerchief, approaches my table, holding an insulated carafe.
“Buenos días. My name is Gilberto,” he introduces himself. His voice is deep and his Spanish accent rolls off his tongue like music. “Café, se?ora?”
“Se?orita,” I correct. “And sí, thank you.”
He flips my coffee cup over, pouring the aromatic liquid into my mug. The rich scent fills my senses and awakens me a little more. “The buffet is past the glass doors. Please help yourself.”
“Okay. Gracias,” I reply cooly. Truth is, I’m far from cool. My nerves are still a little shaky and my belly is beyond ready for all-I-can-eat gluttony. Starving, I’m currently running on feed-me fumes.
“If there’s anything you need, call me,” Gilberto says.
“I will.” I rise from my seat. “Um… Gilberto?”
“Sí?”
“Do they serve mimosas here?” I ask, hopeful for a little morning kick.
He breaks into an amused grin. “Sí, se?orita. It’ll be waiting for you when you return.”
Dining alone turned out better than expected. Once I realized there were no pitying glances or whispers of gossip from the staff, unaware of my failed-bride status, I relaxed and enjoyed my meal.
Patting my bloated stomach, I groan, feeling the weight of my overindulgence as I stroll down the pathway leading to the pool. I ate like I hadn’t tasted food in weeks. I was simultaneously disgusting and delighted.
From now on, I better go easy on the buffets. Thank God I packed Gas-X.
I should thank my mother for the reminder.
I arrive at my final destination for the rest of the day. The pool area, once empty in the early morning, is now bustling with people securing their loungers as the sun casts a warm glow.
The swim-up bar is bustling with late morning drinkers, their laughter and clinking of shot glasses filling the air.
“It’s five o’clock somewhere!” a boisterous man exclaims, raising his plastic cup, probably filled with beer, towards the sky.
Real original, dude.
There’s always that one guest at every resort, the self-proclaimed life of the party. And of course, I’ve found him on my first full day here.
The infectious rhythm of Latin music reverberates from the faux boulder-shaped speakers, blending with the sounds of clapping hands as the activities crew leads a water-aerobics session on the other end of the pool. I can’t help but chuckle when I spot Lily, my plane seatmate, struggling to keep up with the group, her head barely bobbing above the water.
The only water sport I plan on participating in is rehydrating myself if I go on a paloma bender.
Spotting the shaded thatched roof area, I weave my way among the sunbathers to my waiting lounge chair. The scent of sunscreen and chlorinated air lingers in the warm breeze.
I’m looking forward to closing my eyes and digesting my belly full of fresh fruit, huevos rancheros, and a generous helping of chilaquiles.
Okay, maybe two helpings.
It was three.
But dammit, it was so good.
Not watching my carbs to fit in a white dress I’ll only wear once in my life allows newly found food freedoms. Stretchy waistbands are perfectly acceptable and all bets are off.
I ate enough for me…and my non-existent husband not seated across from me. An empty chair doesn’t talk much… actually, at all. I’m never interrupted or one-upped on my work stories. It doesn’t ask for sex when I’m tired or blowjobs when I have my period.
It didn’t even give me a disapproving look when I washed down a mouthful of huevos rancheros with my mimosa this morning.
I swear—It was a half serving. The eggs, not the mimosas.
I had three of those too.
Even with the white brimmed sun hat on my head, sweat beads around my hairline and trickles down the sides of my cheeks as I approach my chair. It’s got to be ninety degrees already. I dig into the small beach bag slung over my shoulder that holds my cell phone, suntan lotion, and a bottle of water I grabbed from the mini-bar and pull out a hairband. As I’m gathering my hair into a ponytail, I reach my seat and scowl.
“Hey,” I snap at the man lounging in my chair, his face covered by his magazine.
He ignores me.
“Hey. You. Did you remove my towel and book from that chair and throw it on that table?”
“Yup,” he answers, never looking up from the Photography magazine he’s reading.
“Why would you do that?” I ask incredulously.
He lowers his magazine with a deliberate slowness, and a surprised gasp escapes my lips.
“Because I could,” Air Marshal guy says smugly.
I hate this guy.
“There are a ton of loungers. Why didn’t you plant yourself on one that’s not already occupied?”
“This chair wasn’t occupied.” A hint of an arrogant smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Besides, it’s in the perfect location. A little morning sun, afternoon shade. The mid-day sun gets intense in Mexico. Wouldn’t want me to burn, would you?”
“Oh, I’d like you to burn, alright,” I say through clenched teeth, my frustration palpable.
“I’m sure you’ll find another place to drop your stuff.”
“But I was saving this one,” I protest.
Shaking his head, he clicks his tongue with a disapproving “tsk, tsk.” and points to a sign in the grassy area behind the chairs with his thumb.
Reserving Loungers is Prohibited
Thank you for your Cooperation
Management
“I don’t play the towel game,” he says smugly. “You shouldn’t either.”
I didn’t drag my sleepy ass out of my comfy bed at seven a.m., just to have this idiot steal my chair.
“I was in the pool,” I lie.
Peeking over his sunglasses, he lifts a skeptical brow. “Did they forget to fill it with water?”
I glance down at my bone-dry bathing suit and cover-up. “I meant, I was about to jump in the pool, after I used the ladies’ room.”
“Lady, I’ve been sitting in this empty chair for the past two hours.” He gives me a know-it-all smirk. “You must have soooome stomach issues.”
Oh my God. He’s such an ass.
“The chair right next to mine is empty.” I point to the unshaded vacant lounger on the opposite side of the small resin table that separates the two chairs.
“You mean the chair next to mine is empty,” he corrects.
“You couldn’t take that?” I ask.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I have this one. Great talking to you.” He waves his hand dismissively. “Do you mind moving? You’re blocking my pool view.”
“I’m going to call one of the pool attendants and have you removed.”
“Go ahead. They’ll side with me.”
I take a brief glance at the sign.
He’s right. They will.
Gritting my teeth, I give him the middle finger.
“Tell me how you really feel,” he says sarcastically.
This bastard is challenging me.
“I don’t have enough middle fingers to accurately express how I feel about you.”
“Sucks for you.”
“Were you born a jerk, or is it something you grew into when you got your first chest hair?”
“First hair.” He looks down at his lap, back up at me, then raises a brow. “But not on my chest,” his voice is brimming with a hint of amusement.
Oh. My. God.
“Asshole.” Haphazardly, I gather my belongings off the resin table, then turn to leave.
“So I’ve been told.” Casually, he flips the page of his magazine, never looking up.
Sweat rolls down the side of my face as I search for an empty lounger. The pool area is packed with rows and rows of lounge chairs covered with towels, baseball caps, cheap straw hats, and books… but no people in sight. Seems everyone who checked-in plays the towel game… except for the guy who thinks he’s an Air Marshal.
I spot the redhead who nearly severed my head briskly walking past the activities crew with a clipboard in her hand.
Did all of Flight 230 come to this resort?
Or just the annoying ones?
Myself excluded.
She still wearing those oversized sunglasses and a straw hat with an enormous brim, big enough to shelter two people. Not that I blame her. Her skin is flawless, like she’s walking with an invisible filter around her. I’d do anything to protect it too.
“There’s nowhere to sit,” I grumble to myself. “I hope that idiot gets the nastiest case of Montezuma’s Revenge and forgot to pack his Pepto.”
I know there’s other options. There are probably plenty of chairs available at the beach. But I’m not ready to face the beach.
Yet.
After circling the entire pool area, scanning the sea of people, I come up empty-handed, except for one solitary vacant lounger. It’s directly in the scorching sun, with no hint of shade in sight. Determined, I quicken my pace and head straight for it, not willing to let it slip away.
With a sigh of relief, I reach the last unoccupied lounger and spread out my towel. I drop my book near the base of the chair and place my beach bag underneath it, making sure to avoid eye contact with the man sitting on the lounger next to me.
I plop into the chair and apply suntan lotion on my overheated arms, face, and chest. Using my index finger, I wipe away my sweat-stache, the Niagara Falls of sweat beads forming over my upper lip. Once I’m all slathered up, I put the lotion in my bag under the chair and grab my book to relax.
“Missed me?” my seat neighbor asks sarcastically.
“If I had another choice, I’d be far, far, far away from you,” I tell Air Marshal guy. “This is literally the last available lounger in Mexico.”
“You should have arrived earlier.”
“I was here earlier. Someone stole the seat I saved.”
“You can’t save what isn’t yours.”
“There are plenty of saved loungers.” I gesture towards the pool area. “No one else seems to have a problem with it.”
“Unfortunately for you,” he says dryly, “I do.”
This guy.
This freaking guy.
“Think of this table between us as an invisible dividing wall and I’m not here,” I tell him.
“Suit yourself.” He raises his magazine, dramatically flicks it in the air, and pretends to read. “You’re missing some riveting conversation.”
“I’ll take my chances.” I open my book and angle my hat to block him from my view.