Chapter 17 Monique
Monique woke to an empty bed.
Cocooned in the duvet, her body ached in places that told the story of last night, even if her mind was foggy with sleep and something that felt dangerously close to hope.
Waking up alone wasn’t unusual for her, but she wasn’t expecting to have the bed to herself after what happened last night.
Future Monique wouldn’t be hurt if Maurice ended things between them.
But present-day Monique was angrier about it than she should be after knowing him for three days.
The room was dark in the way hurt feelings preferred.
Not midnight-dark but the blackout-curtains-doing-their-job-too-well kind of dark.
That cave-like feeling hotels specialized in, where time disappeared, and you could be anywhere, anyone, in any version of your life.
She rolled over and pressed her face into the pillows. The bed smelled like him. Like forests and sweetness. The memory of how his hands shook when they touched her. His mouth on her breasts. The way he’d come, like he was surprised his body could do that, could feel that.
And then how he’d held her like she was the only solid thing in the world worth holding onto.
She reached for her phone in the darkness. The screen swam into focus. 8:47 a.m. “Shit.”
Forcing herself out of bed with her legs still shaky and her mouth still tasting like him was a challenge.
She wrapped her robe around her shoulders and walked to the bathroom. A piece of paper sat on the floor near the door. She picked it up. The paper was heavy. Expensive. The kind of paper that made whatever was written there feel official.
Monique,
I forgot about some things I need to do this morning for the wedding. I’m sorry. Rain check on breakfast?
Yours,
Mo
Bullshit. Monique didn’t want to think about how good it felt to be held, to drift into nothingness on a river of soft breaths and strong, steady heartbeats. The comfort of him disturbed her.
What was she supposed to do with all these feelings? The odd hollowness that arrived when she woke, and he wasn’t there. The blank spaces in his note broadcast the untruth in his message.
Coffee, a pastry, was a bridge too far for him. His fears overwhelmed her, and she was so goddamned pissed that it mattered to her.
They’d see each other at the wedding and reception. They had one more day and night. Twenty-four more hours in paradise to make a decision, to make a plan.
She liked him. A lot. It wasn’t about how her clit still thrummed, wanting more of these feelings he’d reminded her she could have. He reminded her without ever setting out to do anything. The unawareness, the clumsiness, and the care were the biggest turn-ons.
Her mind screamed that this wasn’t real. They were in paradise, floating on pheromones and atmosphere, on the fantasy of what their family was trying to pull, of the temporary reprieve from reality and all the hardness that awaited them.
The light there was different, bright, beautiful, but it wasn’t true.
Her phone buzzed.
DR. T
May I call you?
Monique frowned at her phone. The good doctor didn’t often call between sessions unless absolutely necessary.
So, what necessitated this morning’s call? She sent back a thumbs-up, bracing for the reality check that she didn’t want but needed.
She could get by on the memory of moonlit waters, surrounded by billions of points of light.
She had allowed herself to love Maurice and to receive what he could offer, and she had asked for more without a second thought.
It was glorious, it was fulfilling. It was brief.
Still, she would remember and hold them in a precious place where even she couldn’t mar them.
She answered the phone before the first ring finished.
“What’s up, Doc?” she said, voice still rough with sleep.
“Monique—good morning. I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Nah. Just getting ready for the day.”
“I don’t want to keep you, but I want you to know that Chickie was transferred to Northwestern Memorial late last night. She took a turn.”
“What kind of turn?”
“Mo, we all knew. Chickie knew. We were talking more in days than weeks.”
Monique didn’t just pause; she froze. Embers of hope that had grown from a spark of something Monique wished were there, but never could dare herself to hope for, had cooled.
“So, this is actually it, then,” she finally said after a long silence.
“Looks like it,” Tedrow said softly, so different from his usual optimism. “But she’s prepared. We all are.”
“Bullshit.” Her voice cracked. “She shouldn’t have had to prepare for this. She’s twenty-eight. None of us can ever really prepare to die. None of us has ever lived enough.”
Dr. Tedrow let her speak her piece, let her voice her anger at the injustice of this young woman whom she’d grown to love like a sister, whose life was now being measured in mere hours.
“So, what’s next?”
“Once she’s stable, she’s going home and will be kept comfortable until…”
Until.
He said more things that she didn’t hear. Anger had a way of hollowing her out, deafening and blinding her.
“Monique,” Dr. Tedrow called to her, sounding so far away. “Promise me you won’t be alone today, that you won’t isolate.”
She wanted to tell the good doctor to go fuck himself, but he was too well-intentioned and didn’t deserve her rage. “This sucks,” she said on a sniffle.
“Yeah, it does. But Chickie took control as best she could. She’s still giving her illness the middle finger.”
“All the way to the end.”
“That’s right.”
A knock at the door caught her attention. It was barely nine, and Maurice had dipped. She still held his note in her clenched fist.
“I gotta go, Doc. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Okay. But Monique, try to remember what Chickie asked.”
She didn’t ask. Chickie had demanded that Monique have an adventure, have fun, live.
“Yeah.” She blew out a long breath to disrupt the tears that threatened to flow. “Yeah, I’ll try.”
Tedrow ended the call, and Monique leaned forward to look through the peephole, where a hotel worker stood.
“Can I help you?” she called through the closed door.
“Senora Moore, your breakfast.”
She didn’t order any breakfast and said as much as she opened the door only as far as the chain would allow.
“From Senor Martin,” he added.
Monique closed the door a little too hard before opening it again, apologetic as she secured her robe and let the young man pass.
He moved with practiced efficiency, setting up the breakfast on the small table by the window. Then he crossed to the curtains and pulled them open in one smooth motion.
San Juan morning poured in like an accusation—all that Caribbean blue sky and aggressive sunshine, the kind of light that made everything too visible, too real. A world insisting on existing whether she was ready for it or not.
Monique squinted against it, raising a hand to shield her eyes.
The cocoon of darkness had been comfortable in its way.
Safe. She could hide in the dark. Pretend yesterday hadn’t happened.
Pretend last night hadn’t changed everything.
Pretend she wasn’t the kind of woman who fell asleep in a man’s arms and woke up alone.
The light made all that impossible.
A breakfast she didn’t ask for but needed. A gesture of care that made her feel slightly less hurt at him slipping out while she slept, but only slightly.
The young man moved quickly to the door, but Monique stopped him and offered a tip.
“No, thank you. Senor Martin has taken care of everything.”
He’d taken care of everything. Even though she didn’t have much to go on, it seemed like such a Maurice thing to do. He was a rare man who paid attention to detail. His life necessitated that kind of diligence.
The breakfast was set up on a tray beside the now open curtains.
The crisp, white porcelain service reflected the morning light with an intense specificity that stung her eyes.
Coffee, pastries, fruit, oatmeal. All things she would have chosen for herself.
His understanding of this about her made something twist in her chest.
She sat on the edge of the bed with her phone in one hand and Maurice’s note in the other.
Chickie was dying.
And Maurice was, what? Scared? Running? Trying to take care of her from behind a curtain? Why?
This whole wedding business had lost its novelty. Monique was ready to go home, but she was expected to play along and show up at the hotel’s spa as if nothing had happened.
Her phone buzzed.
LANIE
Cousin! Spa in 15!
Monique rolled her eyes and typed back.
MONIQUE
See you soon.
She ate because her body needed the fuel, not for any other reason. She showered and dressed because she made a promise. She’d show up because that’s what she did. She showed up—she stayed—when everybody else split.
The spa smelled like eucalyptus and money, overpowering the salt from the ocean, but not that particular scent of women too busy taking up space to notice who was missing.
Monique walked into the dressing room twenty minutes late. Everyone had already changed into robes that looked like they cost more than her winter coat.
Lanie, Cassie, Sunny, Aunt Don, and Auntie Deb. All of them sipped pink bubbles in tall, slender glasses, and laughed about something when she entered, still in street clothes: her usual getup of a soft, cotton jumper and short-sleeved T-shirt.
They quieted when they saw her.
“There she is!” Lanie said, quickly covering the tension. “We were about to send out a search party.”
“Phone died,” Monique lied.
“No worries,” Lanie continued, debutante smile still plastered on her face. “You’re here now. Get changed for your massage.” She placed her hand on a neatly folded stack of white fabric.
Monique stared at the robe and then at these women who, she realized, had never given her a choice. Her family dressed up demands as requests. She didn’t move.
“Monie?” Don hedged, stepping toward her. “You okay, baby?”
She hung her head. “My friend is dying.”
No one breathed.