Chapter 3
The flight from Chicago to Denarau is uneventful, and by uneventful, I mean fully spent gripping the arm rails of my very uncomfortable seat and praying to every deity I can remember from mythology class.
Heights and I have never been friends, but it’s been so long since I’ve been airborne I forgot how much I hate it.
Because Will’s a pilot, he and Marianne got seated in business, but at least she runs back every couple of hours to bring me snacks and make sure I haven’t dug a hole through my armrest. Unfortunately, the limited airline points I’ve managed to save up over the years don’t cover luxuries like ‘legroom’.
And despite my fierce determination to tell Marianne “I told you so,” I adore everything about it.
A few minutes (and several near-accidents) later, we turn past a loose donkey whose chewed lead rope dangles proudly from his neck towards a delapidated crescent-shaped building dwarfed by the modern condo complex behind it.
“Here you go!” our smiling driver says after he unloads our bags onto the curb. “Paradise Cove!”
“Are you… sure?” Marianne asks, walking up to one of the chipped plantation shutters.
“Quite sure,” he says.
I dig into my pocket for the small stack of Fijian cash I took out at the airport.
“Termite’s Paradise, maybe,” Will says. “This building looks condemned.”
“I’m sure it’s nicer on the inside,” I tell him cheerfully as the cab pulls away. “TripAdvisor praised the accommodations as ‘adequate!’”
“I hope you have higher standards for your dates than your hotels,” he shudders, clutching his bag to his chest like it might contract rabies.
If I didn’t love him so much, I might not be able to get over the fact that wild-hearted Marianne fell in love with such a city boy.
She and I share an amused look as he grabs Marianne’s bag for her and leads the way inside.
Fortunately for Will, the lobby is a slight upgrade from the exterior, even if it is full of half-functioning standing fans and linoleum tiles.
Unfortunately for Will, the man waiting for us at the counter is an absolute Fijian god.
Marianne, who’s never had a talent for hiding anything, ogles at him openly as he takes our bags behind the counter, his very prominent arm muscles flexing as he lifts them like they’re no heavier than a box of pasta.
“You should talk to him,” Mer elbows me in the ribs. “From the way he’s handling that suitcase, I can tell he knows his way around a—“
“I’m good,” I stop her before she goes all Fifty Shades on me. “At this point I think I’m closer to joining a nunnery than going home with someone who looks like that.”
Marianne rolls her eyes. And by eyes, I mean her whole head.
“Stella, it’s been like, four months.”
I grimace.
“Umm…”
“More?!”
“Things weren’t exactly hot and heavy with Dr. Voldemort before we split,” I tell her. She responds with a dramatic sigh.
“It’s worse than I thought. You’ve gotta get back in the saddle, stat! What better way to start off the vacation than a little Fijian romance?”
“You’re relentless,” I tell her. In the thirty minutes we’ve been here, her hair has completely succumbed to the humidity, and it puffs out from beneath her sunhat like a copper-colored seagull’s nest.
“And you,” she says, adjusting her hat to accommodate it, “are boring! When are you going to let yourself have some fun?”
Since we can’t check in til three, we decide to leave our bags at the front desk and head out to the pool. We’re the only guests outside, and it’s not hard to see why- the water has a layer of green foam on top that makes it look more suited for a crocodile than actual human bathers.
“Anyone interested in a dip?” I joke, sliding my flip flops off and plopping onto one of the rattan lounge chairs. Some of the weave snaps as I settle in, smacking my elbow into the armrest with a loud bump.
“Hard pass,” Marianne says. “I think I’m behind on my tetanus shots.”
“Is there a reason we couldn’t book the Hyatt tonight?” Will asks as he tries to cover every inch of his lounge chair with the ratty blue towels he borrowed from the front desk.
“Spare me the hotel conglomerate worshipping, Will,” I sigh. “Every one of those places is the same—no soul, no character. Just a concrete block of manufactured relaxation.”
“I’ll remember that when I’m sipping my soulless margarita from the charmless swim-up bar tomorrow,” he says, turning to Marianne. “Why did we let Stella choose the place again?”
“Because it’s the only way I could get her to come. Just be counting your blessings we’re not sleeping on some Craigslister’s couch, honey.”
“That was a fun trip!” I protest, a sudden memory of Marianne ripping on a stranger’s harmonica in a grungy Nashville bar flooding my mind. “And Jarred still sends me email invites to every one of his puppet death metal shows.”
Marianne and I used to travel all the time in college.
There was nowhere too far for her just-shy-of-vintage station wagon to take us: no town too obscure.
Neither of us are from the Midwest, so we made it our mission after two weeks as roommates to explore as much of the surrounding area as possible: Nashville, St. Louis, and every one of the Great Lakes.
We never had more than a hundred bucks between us, but we still made things work.
That was before I got sucked into the spontaneity graveyard that is fully-funded academia.
Now, the furthest I travel is Evanston to hit the DMV with the shortest lines.
“Anyone want to scope the beach?” I ask, looking towards the sandy path that weaves between the condo buildings behind us.
“You go ahead,” Marianne tells me, pulling a magazine out from her bag and leaning back into her questionable lounger. “My airplane sandwich had some iffy lettuce and I don’t trust myself more than five minutes away from a bathroom.”
“Roger. And gross. I’ll return with a full report,” I promise.
I leave my sunglasses and ratty towel behind before trotting down the sandy path in search of the ocean.
Before I sold my soul to the gods of academia and moved to Chicago, I would spend nearly every evening sketching by the sea.
The little Seattle bungalow we grew up in was ancient and most likely harboring lethal amounts of black mold, but it was only a short bus ride away from the Puget Sound.
Even though it was far too cold to swim in, there was nothing I loved more than spending an hour watching the waves spray against the craggy coastline.
But what waits at the end of the path is a far cry from the Washington coast. Sprawling before me is a perfect white sand beach that flanks a sea so clear, I have to shield my eyes to look directly at it.
I try to remember the last time I’ve seen a beach this beautiful—hell, the last time I’ve seen one at all. Five years? Seven?
These are not the cold pacific waters of my childhood in the Pacific Northwest—ferocious and barnacled and stinging with salt.
This is a scene from a screensaver: something Apple might plaster on your computer background to make you forget, just for a second, that you’re trapped in a library in Illinois zoning out over textbooks.
A library, I’m reminded with a stab of pain, I might never see again.
I look back to see if anyone’s around to witness my ancient black granny panties before I strip down to my bra and underwear and charge down the expansive beach, white sand erupting around my feet like powder with every footfall.
My swimsuit may be buried in the bottom of my bag somewhere, but I didn’t come all this way to sit on a lounger.
The water is even more turquoise up close, and I step in to feel how warm it is against my feet.
Walls of crystal clear ocean taller than I am break in the distance and roll out across the shimmering reef.
But there’s not a wave in the world that can stop me from getting in this water.
I wade out into the break and throw myself into the whitewash like a kid, letting the waves drag me under and pull me out.
Even without goggles, I can see the colorful oranges and blues of the reef and tropical fish darting underfoot.
I swim farther out, ducking beneath wave after wave until the sea is calm and glistening beneath the Fijian sun.
Suddenly, the water tilts beneath me, and I open my eyes just in time to see the barrel of a massive wave folding over my body.
I flail to get free, but it’s too late—the force of it throws me down into the reef.
I feel my right foot scrape against the surface of the coral, hard, before I’m spat back out to the surface.
My foot throbs like I’ve sliced it open.
Every warning I’ve ever heard about not bleeding in open water flashes through my head as I swim to shore, coughing and spluttering through the tangled hair that’s plastered over my face like seaweed.
As soon as I’m close enough to stand, I stop to check the damage.
But there’s no blood in the water. It’s not until I step out onto the sand that the real pain begins—a shock of pain that rips through my toe like a knife wound.
Of course I would hurt myself my first hour of vacation.
Maybe this is karma for likening Jules’s future mother-in-law to a freeze-dried toad.
I scan the horizon, wondering if Will and Marianne are close enough to yell to. But the only figure on the sand is a man jogging half way down the beach. Guess I’m heading back solo. This is going to be a long walk.
I take a step forward and wince. Was I stung by a jellyfish? I grab my foot, trying again to check for blood, but only succeed in tipping over onto my butt. Burning hot sand fills my underwear and sticks to my wet shoulder and legs as I tumble down.