Chapter 5
SOL
I’m smiling like a fool when I step into the lobby. It’s a smile that’s been sneaking up on me without asking every time I remember that dive. My hair’s half-dry, my skin smells like salt, and my body feels loose in a way it hasn’t in months. Maybe years.
I can’t even remember the last time I felt this calm—maybe before the divorce, or even farther back, before I started measuring my life in deliverables and deadlines, and the days were just lists of to-dos that took over my every waking thought.
And all it took was sinking twenty meters under the ocean and not thinking about anything for a couple of hours.
Well—almost anything. There had been a flash of a long-sleeved swim shirt at the surface, someone waving from the snorkel group, and the corner of a smile that stuck with me longer than it should have.
I drag my suitcase behind me into the packed lobby and hand my room key to the concierge once it’s my turn. “Hi, checking out. Sol Acosta.”
He smiles brightly. “Of course, Miss Acosta.” He clicks a couple of times on his computer, then types something without looking. “Did you enjoy your dive?”
“It was incredible,” I say honestly. And that smile creeps up on me again. “Best thing I’ve done this year.”
“That’s wonderful.” The concierge—Juan, as his name tag reads—starts typing again. “Are you switching hotels for the Christmas holiday?”
“Just flying home tonight, sadly.”
He freezes. Looks up. “?En avión?”
“Uh—yes?”
He stares at me like I just confessed a crime. “And you dove today?”
“Yes. Just got back about two hours ago.”
“Oh, no, no, no.” He flutters his hands in alarm. “You can’t fly today, senora! Didn’t your instructor tell you? It’s very dangerous. You need at least twelve hours—sometimes more—after diving to decompress properly.”
My smile falters. “Wait, what?”
Juan launches into a speech about nitrogen bubbles and cabin pressure, his hands moving faster than my brain.
“It could be very bad for your health, ma’am.
I’m very surprised they didn’t warn you about this, they usually do.
You could get decompression sickness—terrible thing, senora, very terrible. ”
I blink at him. Of course I knew this. It was part of the course I took years ago to get certified as a recreational scuba diver, but it’s been such a long time that it slipped my mind. “So… I can’t fly tonight?”
He shakes his head emphatically. “Absolutely not. No flying tonight.”
There’s a couple standing behind me in line pretending not to listen, and my ears are suddenly hot. “Okay. Um. I guess I’ll… reschedule?”
“Yes, yes. We’ll help you.” He calls another staff member over, and suddenly two people are on phones, whispering rapidly in Spanish and glancing back at me like I’m a high-risk patient. By the time they finish, I’m equal parts mortified and exhausted.
“Good news,” the concierge says cheerfully. “We were able to extend your stay one night, same room. But just for one night—we’re at full capacity for Christmas.”
“Perfect,” I say weakly. “I’ll be out of your hair by then.”
He claps his hands together. “Enjoy another day in paradise!”
I mutter, “Yeah, paradise with a side of humiliation,” and roll my suitcase back toward the elevators on the far side of the lobby.
Back in the room, I flop face-first onto the bed.
The A/C hums but still, in the cool room, my wet hair sticks to my neck.
For a second, I close my eyes and let out a groan.
The silence is louder now that the girls are gone—they’re headed back to Buenos Aires, probably halfway there by now, and my flight didn’t leave until later this evening.
I said my goodbyes before the dive, thinking I’d be gone soon too, and now it’s just me, the hum of the air conditioner, and the echo of their laughter still clinging to the walls.
Then I grab my phone and call Camila, my best friend in New York.
She answers on the second ring, video already on. “Sol! Tell me everything. Did you survive the bachelorette chaos?”
“Barely,” I say. “But that’s not even the problem right now.”
She grins. “You sound too dramatic for someone who just spent a whole week wearing the least amount of clothes possible and soaking up the sun.”
“Well, that’s not… I’m in a little bit of a crisis.”
That makes her laugh, loud and delighted. “Oh no, what now?”
“I’m stuck here.”
Her eyebrows lift. “You say that like it’s bad.”
“I can’t fly home today. I went diving, and apparently that means I’d explode midair or something.”
Camila cackles. One of my favorite things about her is how she’s a total badass but at the same time, she doesn’t take things too seriously. “You’re telling me the universe just gave you an extra night at a Caribbean resort and your first instinct is to be mad about it?”
“I’m not mad,” I protest weakly. “I’m just—the girls are gone, I have no plan, and I already checked out mentally. In my head, I should be halfway to New York by now.”
“Then check back in. Go to the bar. Order a drink. Maybe flirt with someone.”
“Camila.”
She widens her eyes innocently. “What? You’re divorced, not dead.”
I bury my face in a pillow. “I can’t flirt. I don’t even remember how.”
“Perfect. That’s when it’s fun again.”
I lift my head just enough to glare. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m right,” she says, smug. “Now go. Have a drink, eat something, and stop thinking for one damn night.”
The call ends with her blowing me a dramatic kiss, and I can’t help it—I laugh. A real, loud one.
The rest of the afternoon slips by slowly.
I shower again, rinse everything from my hair, and wander aimlessly around the resort—past the small and overpriced shopping plaza, the empty pool, the couples taking photos by the water.
It’s the first time all week I’ve been truly alone, and weirdly, it doesn’t feel awful.
I grab a late lunch in one of the indoor restaurants, answer a few work emails I probably should’ve ignored, and sit on the balcony until the light starts to fade.
By sunset, I’m walking barefoot down the path to the beach restaurant, dress swishing around my knees. The air smells like lime and grilled fish, and the string lights above flicker on just as the sun melts into the horizon.
The place is half-full, music low, the clink of glasses and hum of conversation filling the air.
I spot him instantly.
Sitting by himself near the railing that separates the open-air restaurant from the sand, phone in one hand, drink in the other. He’s wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt this time, his hair a little wind-tossed, a faint pink line across the bridge of his nose that looks suspiciously like a sunburn.
He looks… content. Quiet and calm in a way that takes me by surprise. I mean, I hardly know the man but the two interactions we’ve had, he’s been buzzing with energy and excitement, like a little puppy dog waiting for praise from its owner after sitting on command.
Ben looks up right as I start to turn away and our eyes meet, too late to pretend I didn’t see him.
He smiles—a huge, crooked grin, just like last night. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Didn’t you say it was your last night?”
I sigh and walk over, stopping beside his table. “It was.”
“And yet…” He gestures around, mock-dramatic. “You’re here. At dinner. Looking suspiciously not home-bound.”
“I got stuck,” I admit.
His brows lift and he gives me a curious look. “Stuck?”
“Apparently,” I say with a big sigh, “you can’t fly twelve hours after diving. Who knew?”
“Ah, of course,” he says calmly, although he makes a face that contradicts his words. I wonder if he’s mocking me slightly, or simply lightening a shitty situation. “The twelve-hour rule. How could I forget?”
“Yep.” I tap my fingers on the table, trying to calm myself down a little more. “The one time I do something spontaneous, it backfires.”
“I’d call it fate,” he adds, eyeing me from top to bottom. A shiver runs down my spine at his perusal of my body, and my stomach flutters a little. An unexpected reaction again, something I haven’t felt in years. “But that might sound like a line.”
“It definitely sounds like a line.”
He gestures to the empty chair next to him. “Sit anyway?”
I hover for half a second, then sit. Because why not. Because I’m tired of my own company, and because whatever they’re serving here tonight smells delicious.
He flags down the waiter and orders another round of drinks before I can even protest. “Are you hungry?”
“I could eat.”
“They have tacos with these sweet potato fries that might actually change your life. I had some last night, too. Coming back for more.”
“That’s a bold promise.”
“I take my food seriously.”
The drinks arrive—mojito for him, margarita for me—and so do the tacos. Warm tortillas, perfectly charred fish, salsa that burns just enough to make my mouth water.
We eat in silence for a while, ocean moving in a predictable cadence just a few feet away. The night has gotten darker suddenly, and the only thing I can see from my spot is the white where the waves break and foam, rolling into the wet sand, one after the other.
“You were right,” I admit eventually. “These might actually be life-changing.”
He grins. “Told you.”
“You’re so annoying.”
Ben laughs and it’s easy and unforced. I find myself laughing too, and my shoulders relax. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s the fact that this ended up not being such a bad thing, after all. One more day in paradise really does feel like fate.
“How long are you here for, anyway?” I say, leaning back on my chair. The drinks are condensing, the big drops are trickling down the side of our glasses, forming a water ring around the base.
“Until the twenty-sixth. As you know, I’m attending a wedding on the twenty-fourth—an old work friend.” He looks at me, tilting his head again. The move makes him look like a little puppy. “You?”
“Argentina,” I say automatically, because it’s easier than explaining anything more complicated. And I’m being intentionally cryptic because despite his attractiveness and charm, I’m trying to keep a distance.
He chuckles. “That’s not what I asked.”
“I know,” I reply, smiling at him. His eyes crinkle with the smile he give me in return. “But it’s all you’re getting.”
He laughs, low and easy, the sound rolling between us like the tide. “Mysterious. I respect it.”
There’s something about the way he looks at me—like he’s not teasing anymore, just taking me in. I feel it under my skin before I can name it. It’s been so long since anyone looked at me like that.
I take another sip of my drink, pretending I’m not suddenly aware of every inch of my body.
“So,” he says after a beat. “What’s the plan for your unexpected bonus day?”
“Sleep. Read. Avoid further humiliation.”
“Fun.”
“I’m a very fun person.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” he says lightly. “But since you’re officially grounded, I think you should make the most of it. Start with another drink.”
I roll my eyes but I’m smiling. The waiter approaches us with two more drinks, and we sit there, talking for a while longer.
About nothing, really. Movies neither of us have seen, terrible hotel playlists, how sunscreen always smells like summer even when it’s January and the worst of the winter is yet to come.
It’s easy, the kind of conversation that stretches without realizing it.
At some point, he pushes back from the table. “Walk with me?”
I hesitate for a second but then nod. The air is warm and soft, the tide low. We step off the deck and onto the sand, shoes in hand, the music fading behind us. The water glows faintly under the moonlight, thin strips of silver cast across the surface.
He kicks at the surf, getting his ankles wet. “You ever notice how people only walk on the beach when they’re on vacation?”
I glance at him. “You’re very philosophical for someone who wears a rash guard to get in the water.”
“It’s a gift.”
We keep walking. The silence follows us as we walk, his arm brushes mine once, then again, and neither of us pulls away. I don’t know what it is, but it makes me wonder if there’s some sort of magnetic force anchoring me to him.
When I glance up, he’s already looking at me. There’s that crooked smile again, but softer this time, like he’s asking for permission instead of attention.
“I should get back,” I say, though my feet don’t move.
He nods slowly. “I’ll walk you.”
We climb the path toward the main building, the sound of the ocean fading behind us. The lights from the lobby cast everything in gold, and I realize I’m holding my breath. Anticipating something I’ve been so reticent about.
At my door, we stop. For a second, neither of us says anything and the world feels strangely quiet.
“Thanks for dinner,” I manage.
“Thanks for letting me crash your last night. Again.”
“That’s becoming a pattern.”
He smiles, small and deliberate. “Could be worse patterns.”
I laugh under my breath, and that’s all it takes. He steps a little closer, slow enough that I could move away if I wanted to, but I don’t. Every single one of the words my friends uttered about letting go and having fun plays on repeat in my brain, and maybe I should listen.
“Sol,” he says quietly. My name in his voice feels different, low and careful, like he’s testing it.
I look up at him, and something shifts.
All day, I’ve been running on calm—steady and controlled. But right now, every nerve feels alive, and that streak of spontaneity that tugged at me in the early morning hours comes back again, full force.
I shouldn’t.
But I want to.
And maybe, for once, wanting is reason enough.
When he leans in, I meet him halfway. The kiss starts tentative, a question; then it’s heat and salt and months of quiet spilling over all at once.
He pulls back just enough to breathe. “You sure?”
“Yes,” I say, before I can talk myself out of it.