Chapter 13
“You should join us for dinner,” my mom announced, handing each of us a towel. She wore a knowing smile, and I shook my head ever so slightly, silently begging her not to embarrass me.
Beckett and I had just gotten back in from our swim, and we gratefully accepted the folded, fluffy squares of terry cloth, shaking them loose and drying ourselves off.
“I wouldn’t want to impose,” he replied.
“No imposition whatsoever,” she declared. “It’s the least I can do to thank you for switching seats with me on the plane.”
He looked at me, and I shrugged. “It’s easier to just do what she says,” I advised him. I couldn’t keep the grin off my face, though. My intestines were shooting around like a live wire, sparks flying everywhere.
“Plus, then you’ll feel less weird about asking my daughter out on a date afterward,” she continued, fully nonchalant as if this was a normal thing to say in conversation after said daughter just experienced the first kiss that meant anything to her in years.
“Mom!” I seethed.
Beckett laughed. “I’d love to join you for dinner. Thank you for the gracious offer.”
“Such a gentleman,” Mom commented. “I have to eat early because this old body requires a good bit of sleep. Shall we say five o’clock, then?”
“Sure,” he agreed. “Would you like to meet in the hotel lobby?”
“Perfect. And after?” he asked, turning to me. He tucked his towel around his waist and reached out for my hand in full proposition mode. “Would you like to join me for a date?”
I giggled, waving my free hand between him and my mom. “You two are perfect for each other,” I said.
“Where am I taking her on this date?” Beckett asked her, still holding my hand.
“Well, there’s a movie theater, a casino, and a H?agen-Dazs, all in this square. Lots of choices,” she replied.
My eyebrows rose at the mention of ice cream.
“This one’s got quite the sweet tooth,” Mom added in a singsong voice reminiscent of her music teacher days.
“Too bad I’m lactose intolerant,” Beckett said, shaking his head.
“Are you? That is sad,” Mom went on. “But, just another thing we have in common. I can give you some Lactaid pills, if you want.”
“I’m kidding. I love ice cream,” he laughed.
“Thank God,” I interjected.
“So, ice cream, then. And maybe a movie. We can play it by ear.” Our fingers were still entwined, and Beckett beamed at me as he gave my hand a squeeze. “Sound good?” he asked.
I nodded. Fireworks exploded inside my chest. “Sounds great,” I replied.
Hours later, our unlikely trio was finishing up dinner at the Cuban restaurant across the way from our hotel.
The ropa vieja was delectable, the plantains were a perfect combination of crispy on the outside and sweet mush on the inside, and the camarones were melt-in-your-mouth scrumptious, slathered in a buttery wine sauce.
Even the rice was the best I’d had in a long time.
“Beats that Cuban joint on Austin Street,” Mom commented.
“And that’s saying a lot.” The orange-and-purple-painted stucco walls were decorated with an eclectic assortment of art under strands of white twinkle lights, and in the middle of dinner, a pair of salsa dancers performed a choreographed routine to a lively song I’d never heard before.
We tapped our sandal-clad feet to the rhythm, drunk on food, coconut rum punch, and the island itself, opening up to us like an oyster shell hiding a precious pearl.
After the meal, we walked Mom back to the hotel lobby. “This is where I leave you,” she said.
I leaned in to give her a hug. “You sure, Mom? I can stay,” I whispered.
“Pretty Girl, if the roles were reversed, I would have ditched you back at the restaurant,” she laughed in my ear.
“You go enjoy.” She pulled back and held me by the shoulders.
“This is the good stuff in life, baby. Drink it all in.” Her smile came from somewhere deep inside, and it hit me right in my chest. It was one of those moments when I felt viscerally connected to her on a level that transcended friendship or even family.
In many ways, my mom was my soulmate. “I hope you know you’ve got a treasure here,” she said to Beckett.
“She deserves hot fudge and whipped cream, got it, kid?”
Beckett leaned in and hugged my mom. “And a cherry on top,” he added.
“Nope.” She planted a kiss on his stubbled cheek. “Melody hates fruit.”
“Seriously?” He pulled back in disbelief.
“Afraid so,” Mom replied. “She’s a picky little pain in the ass. Also, stubborn as all get-out.”
“Noted,” Beckett said.
“You kids have fun,” she said, turning to summon the elevator.
“Love you,” I called out. She turned back and blew me a kiss.
“So?” Beckett asked, as we walked past a koi pond in front of the hotel entrance, back toward the square. “What’s your flavor of choice?”
“From H?agen-Dazs? Dulce de leche. You?”
“Not sure. Something chocolate, maybe? I need to see what they’ve got.”
I nodded. “I’ve got a favorite flavor for every big ice cream retailer.”
“Seriously?”
“Yup. Go ahead. Test me.”
“Okay,” he said. “Baskin-Robbins?”
“Pralines ’n Cream.”
“Carvel?”
“Nope. Hate soft serve,” I declared.
“What? Why?”
“Not my jam. Keep going.”
“Ben he just told my mom he was done and then took off. But when he moved away—to California, he said—he didn’t give me an address or anything.
I only had his cell phone number. I kind of guessed he was going out that way to live out some midlife crisis or something.
And, just a few months later, he stopped returning my calls.
He’d leave my texts unread. He even forgot my birthday, which I know sounds juvenile to complain about, but—”
“That’s a big deal. Don’t pretend it’s not,” I told him. “My dad’s not a big part of my life anymore, but he always at least sends me a card for my birthday. Sometimes late, but still. I’m sure I’d be upset if he missed it.”
He nodded. “My mom took it hard at first, but then she heard he was involved with someone new, and I think we both went through the stages of grief. What are they? Like, denial, anger, all that?”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “And eventually you get to acceptance.”
“I think I’m getting there,” he said.
“Maybe you will. By writing this story, you know?”
Beckett shrugged. “I guess.”
“I understand that.” My words hung in the air.
“I also just really enjoy it,” he said, biting into the sugar cone.
“The writing?”
“Yeah. It’s like this thing that I used to do when I was a little kid.
I’d have nightmares about monsters, and my mom said, ‘Why don’t you draw them?
’ So, I used to draw the monsters that were in my bad dreams, and somehow by doing that they became way less scary.
” He smiled. “This was when I was, like, five, by the way.”
“No judgment,” I replied. “Anyway, I completely agree. It’s helpful to write about the things that hurt us the most. It’s like therapy.”
“Exactly.”
“Do you miss him?”
He let out a half snort. “No.”
“Any siblings?”
“Also no. Just me and my mom.”
“Sounds familiar,” I said, smiling down at the water. “How’s your mom doing now?”
“She’s good. It took her awhile to process all of it. She never went after him for child support or anything. She just said if he wanted to be gone, no sense in keeping him tethered to us. But she has a guy who she’s dating now. Bruce. He’s nice to her. That’s all I care about.”
“So, why Aruba?”
“Hm?”
“Why’d you choose to come here to write?”
“Oh. My dad left the day after Christmas. I’ve been struggling with this next part of the book, and Christmas is kind of a shitty time of year for me since it brings up all these memories of him leaving.
So, I figured I’d book a trip to a place that was the total opposite of New York in winter.
Clear my head, you know? Just open myself up to the universe and see what it brings me. ”
“And how’s that working out so far?”
His mouth curved up into a smile. “Surprisingly well, actually,” Beckett said.
He popped the last bit of ice cream cone into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed.
I followed the food, watching his neck intently as it moved down his throat.
He pulled me in close, and I held my empty ice cream cup out to the side so he wouldn’t crush it in the space between us.
“Never in a million years did I think I’d meet someone on this trip.
And an author, at that? Like, seriously? ”
“It is pretty cool,” I agreed.
“I don’t usually believe in all that meant-to-be stuff, but this feels…”
“Different?”
“Yeah. Definitely different. I mean, this morning we were strangers, and now we’re, well,” his voice trailed off.
“Here,” I suggested. “Together.”
“Exactly.”
I looked up at him, craning my neck thanks to our height difference. “I want you to know that I’ve never done anything like this before.”
“Like what?”
“Kissing a stranger on a tropical island.”
“Are we kissing?” he asked.
“No, but we’re about to.”
“Is that right?” He raised his eyebrows, as if to challenge me.
“I mean, I’d like to,” I admitted.
“In that case, I guess I’ll have to. I mean, how else am I going to get to taste the dulce de leche ice cream?” he asked, nodding at my empty bowl. Then he lowered his head and our lips met tentatively.
“It’s the only way,” I agreed. I closed my eyes and fell into a dreamlike state, as Beckett’s mouth melted into mine.