Chapter 21
“So, what are you thinking for dinner tonight?” he asked.
“Can I plan something?”
I rolled my head to face him and squinted to open my eyes. “What have you got in mind?”
“Something low key? Would you be willing to let me surprise you both?”
I grinned and closed my eyes, rolling my head back to face the sun. “She’s going to be tired, Beckett.”
“I’m sure. Especially after all the sun and then a nice massage. That’s why I’m thinking low key.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what I was thinking, so you can gauge based on that.”
“Go for it.”
“One word: Domino’s,” I laughed.
“Seriously?” he asked. “Do they even have Domino’s here?”
“Indeed they do, delivery and everything. I was going to get pizza delivered to the room so that she wouldn’t have to worry about getting all cleaned up and re-dressed to go out to dinner.”
“Do you even eat Domino’s pizza? Isn’t that, like, sacrilege given that you live in New York City?”
“It’s a shameful secret, but yes, we do. Only occasionally. Want to hear an overshare?”
He smiled. “You know I do.”
I looked around to make sure no one was within earshot.
“When I was twelve, I got my first period. I was devastated; I knew what was happening but, like, you can’t prepare for how you’re going to feel.
Hormones are a crazy thing. So, I tell my mom, and it was like a Tuesday or something, first thing in the morning.
She goes, ‘Call off work! My baby’s a woman.
’ And she called in sick and let me stay home from school.
We wore bathrobes and warm socks and ate ice cream for breakfast and watched romantic comedies all day long.
Then, around 2:00 p.m., she ordered Domino’s pizza.
It was my first time ever having it. We got a mushroom pie and a pepperoni pie and also these garlic breadstick things.
It was greasy and ridiculous, but we finished all of it over the course of the rest of the day. ”
“You two are adorable,” Beckett said, giving my hand a squeeze.
“I’ll never forget that day. I always said that if I ever have a daughter, I’ll do the same thing for her when she gets her first period.”
“I’d imagine it must be traumatic.”
“It is, but it’s not that terrible when you get to watch Serendipity and Miss Congeniality with your mom on a shitty, snowy day instead of having to face everyone at school.”
“What was the flavor?”
“Huh?”
“The ice cream flavor?”
“Oh, right. Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food. It was all the rage back then. Not my personal favorite from a taste standpoint, but it holds sentimental value.”
“What’s in it?”
“Chocolate ice cream, caramel, marshmallow, and these little chocolate fish. It’s good enough.” He nodded to himself. “Hey, Beckett?” I asked.
“Mm?”
“What about your family? Did you have anything like that?”
“Long time ago,” he said. “With my dad.”
“Yeah?” I didn’t want to be pushy, but I yearned for more information about him. I wanted to know everything: his likes, his dislikes, the whole nine.
“Sure.”
I stayed quiet, hoping he’d share. Finally, he did.
“My grandparents lived four blocks away from me when I was growing up.”
“Really?”
“Uh huh. Really close by. So I’d see them a lot. These were my dad’s parents. They were great people. Ran a family business together. My grandpa was a scientist. He created products for science classrooms and sold them in bulk to school districts and stuff.”
“That’s cool. I guess science runs in your blood.”
“Mm hmm. So anyway, my dad used to help his parents on the weekends. He worked in a cancer clinic in the research department, mining data on clinical trials for doctors. That was his real job. But then on Saturday and Sunday mornings, he’d work with his parents at the warehouse boxing up orders.
That’s all it was: counting items and boxing them.
So from when I was small enough to count to ten, he’d take me with him.
In order to get me to go, he’d bribe me with a targag. ”
“What’s a targag?”
“It stands for ‘take a ride, get a gift.’”
“Oh my gosh. That’s really cute.”
“Yeah, he’d buy me a donut or a chocolate bar.
Something simple. Then we’d go to the warehouse and just count items out in tens, over and over again.
He’d play music on an old stereo—bands he liked, like Fleetwood Mac or Air Supply—and we would work together.
My grandma would come around noon and bring us each a pizza slice or a sandwich. Then we’d all eat and go home.”
“I love that.”
“It was only when I was little. When I was around eight years old, I started playing more sports, and then my grandparents finally sold the business and moved to Florida.”
I nodded.
“It was a nice memory, though. It’s funny. I haven’t been able to think much about the good times I had with him. My dad, you know? Like, ever since he left, I’ve been more angry than anything else.”
“I get it. There are two sides to every story, though, right? There’s a little bit of good and bad in everyone.”
“Yeah, I suppose. Hard to think of it that way when you’re the one that gets left behind, though.”
“Definitely. But I’d be willing to bet those targags meant something to him too.”
Beckett shrugged. “Guess I’ll never know.”
“Maybe someday you’ll get to work things out with him,” I suggested. “Anyway, I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t mean to bring you down.”
He hopped off his float and stood beside me. “You could never bring me down,” he said, leaning in to kiss me. “I don’t mind talking about it with you. It’s in my head a lot, anyway, with the manuscript and all.”
“Your dad really messed you up, huh?” I asked, propping up on my elbows atop my float.
“Yeah,” he replied. “I mean, enough for me to kill him off in my book. But isn’t that what parents do?” he asked. “I think the whole reason therapists exist is so we all have somewhere to go with our mommy and daddy issues.”
I chuckled and scanned the sand, looking for my mom. “Yeah, I’d agree with that.”
“So then. Domino’s for dinner? Ordered to your room?”
“I think that’s the plan,” I replied. “You want to join us?”
“Nah. Enjoy your time together. But can I take you out afterward?”
“I would love that. What did you have in mind?”
“There’s a comedy club in Eagle Beach. Maybe we could go to a show? I can buy tickets at the door.”
“That sounds great. What time?”
“I don’t know. Maybe we grab a cab around eight? Does that give you enough time?”
“For pizza? Definitely,” I smiled. “Tell me, how did I get so lucky?”
“Nope. I’m the lucky one, remember?”
I hopped off my float, wrapped my arms around him, and laid my head on his chest, somehow knowing that my life would split itself in two after this trip. There would be before Beckett and after Beckett. I just couldn’t shake the hope that the after Beckett period would last, well, forever.
***
Mom and I boarded the water taxi at 3:30.
Hugo was driving. I wondered if there was ever a time when Hugo wasn’t driving his boat back and forth from the hotel to the island.
Mom took to bringing him treats, only her idea of treats might have been someone else’s idea of whole meals.
She brought him a steak sandwich (“porque tu eres fuerte,” she explained), and the next day, she brought him a box of donuts from the Dunkin’ in the square (“porque tu eres dulce.”) It was so obvious that he didn’t know what to do with her gifts, so he just smiled shyly and said, “Gracias.”
For this ride, Mom brought Hugo a Gatorade and a fruit cup (“porque tienes sed y es muy caliente”), and I laughed because I’m pretty sure he didn’t understand what she meant.
Still, he accepted the snack and offered a gracious smile.
On the island, she let him help her out of the boat and while holding his hand in hers, she lifted it up in the air and did a little spin underneath.
“Baila!” she cheered. Alas, Hugo was not in the mood to bailar con mi madre.
Still, we laughed all the way to the Island Cove spa hut.
“You’re going to give him a heart condition if you’re not careful,” I warned her.
“He’s very nice,” she explained. “He’s just a little shy.”
“Okay, Mom,” I replied.
The Island Cove spa hut was located on the farther side of the island, by Papagayo’s Grill.
We walked all the way through the family-friendly beach, past the restaurant, to a wooden walkway with a red velvet rope blocking its path.
Guests of the spa only beyond this point, it read.
Smiling, Mom said, “That’s us!” and stepped around the barrier.
Gentle, Zen spa music played in the background as we approached the hut.
It was open to the sea, with a hammock strung up near the edge and potted plants placed thoughtfully in spaces around the perimeter, to create both a sense of privacy and a lush, tropical backdrop.
There were two parallel massage beds arranged on a diagonal in the center of the space, and the massage therapists, both dressed in salmon and white, were busily readying the space for our arrival.
“Ahh, welcome,” said one, whose name tag read June. “You must be Mrs. Paulson, yes?” She reached out to shake Mom’s hand.
“I am indeed,” she replied, “but you can call me Birdie. This is my daughter, Melody. And we are ready for all of this.” She waved in the general direction of the entire hut, and June and the other lady smiled in response.