Chapter 11
SOL
Morning fades in slowly, like the light is deciding whether to commit coming in at full force or not.
Ben’s arm is heavy across my waist, his palm warm and slightly sweaty where it rests under my ribs.
He’s awake; I can tell by the way his breathing keeps catching, like he’s trying not to move and wake me.
“I can hear you thinking,” I say into the pillow.
“That’s impossible, Sunshine,” he mumbles. I feel his lips on the crown of my hair and my body reacts to his proximity in a way that has me all confused. “There’s nothing in here before I have my coffee.”
I turn, shifting until my nose is at his collarbone. He smells like salt and sweat and the citrus body wash the hotel stocks in tiny bottles in the showers. His stubble is darker today, and it makes him look like a man on vacation—carefree and joyful and young. So fucking young.
When I look up, his eyes are open, blue and clear in the pale light.
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Thirty-three,” he says. “You?”
I arch a brow and he grins in response. His voice is gravelly still, and I’m picturing everything we did last night all over again—his groans, the sounds he made when he came.
“Right. We did this last night. Thirty-eight. So fucking hot.”
I roll my eyes, but my mouth betrays me. “You’re such a flatterer.”
“I’m consistent,” he says, then nudges my knee with his. “You hungry?”
“Not yet.” I hook my ankle over his calf and settle again. The ceiling fan ticks and somewhere, the birds caw like a cat asking for food. “Can we stay like this for a bit?”
He doesn’t answer, just tightens his arm and presses his chin into my hair. The weight of him is oddly calming. My phone vibrates somewhere in the room and neither of us moves to find it.
“Tell me something about yourself,” he says after a while.
I’ve had more sex with this man than actual conversations, and he barely knows my name. If I’m staying a few extra days, maybe I should give him something—anything—to hold on to.
I watch the stripe of light on the wall creep across a framed print of palm leaves. My throat feels stubborn for a second.
“You’re going to laugh.”
Ben is quiet. He rubs his thumb once under my ribs like he’s drawing a line there. “I won’t.”
“Have you ever just… It’s so stupid,” I say.
I let my fingers trace one of the lines of ink along his forearm—thin leaves running towards his wrist.
“This thing, this big, bold, beautiful love everyone talks about,” I say, exploring more of his body.
I’m purposely avoiding his gaze, but I feel his eyes on me, watching me closely.
I feel like my chest is about to crack open and I’m giving him all my secrets, and it’s strange, after years of keeping so many things to myself, even when I was married and supposed to share that with someone. “It’s exhausting, looking for it.”
He exhales. It lands at my temple, warm. “You still want that?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I reply. I can hear the vulnerability in my voice.
The way it comes out almost like I’m resigned.
I shouldn’t be hoarding it. I had it once, or so I thought, and I shouldn’t be selfish and continue to look for it.
Especially not at my age, when my life is fulfilled and everything else feels like it’s extra, just adding sparkle to an already good thing I have going.
“And it sounds weird because I already had it once.”
He hums, the sound low and thoughtful, his fingers tracing lazy circles on my bare skin. The touch is soft, almost absentminded. It feels like he’s agreeing without needing to say the words.
“Being single is peaceful until you realize all you want is someone who is constantly looking for you in a crowd.”
The room settles. The light makes it to the floorboards and warms the space between us. It would be very easy to believe this is our life. Coffee on the balcony. Lazy evenings. Early-morning confessions.
“I think I’m built for that,” he says, a little embarrassed. His eyes are closed now, almost like this is the only way he can get the words out. “I’m so good at showing up. I’m less good at pretending not to care. I guess I’m needy?”
Something in my chest twists at the way he says it. As if he’s simply repeating the words he’s heard over and over again. Who knows how many people have told him that.
“Room service?” he says after a while of us laying in silence side by side.
“Yes,” I say. “And fruit. And those little pastries no one ever finishes. They’re like my emotional support vacation breakfast.”
He shifts to reach the phone on the nightstand.
His arm slides off my waist and the bed cools immediately.
I stare at the ceiling while he orders, his voice soft and unhurried.
When he hangs up, he finds me again, his palm returning to where it was like it memorized the way from just the hours we’ve spent together.
“You okay?”
”Mhmm,” I say, automatically.
“Liar.”
I tilt my face up and kiss the spot where his jaw meets his ear. “Stop being so perceptive.”
“No promises.”
A cart rattles down the hall fifteen minutes later.
He throws on a T-shirt and opens the door while I find something to put on from the pile of clothes on the floor.
We take everything outside—coffee, bowls of papaya and mango and pineapple, the pastries that look better than they taste, a plate of eggs he claims he needs “for balance.”
The balcony overlooks one of the pools and then the beach beyond that. The water is such a crisp blue that I have to squint to be able to see it properly. It truly is paradise here.
We eat without talking at first. Coffee, then fruit, then coffee again. The wind keeps trying to lift the corner of the napkin but Ben is quick and steadies it with a heavy spoon on the corner. He catches me watching and tips his head like a magician closing out on his latest trick.
“Impressive,” I say. “You’re a problem-solver.”
“Consultant,” he mutters, sheepishly. “We love a good fix.”
“I’m actually a little embarrassed to admit this but… I have no idea what a consultant is.”
“Well,” he says, popping a piece of papaya into his mouth and chewing slowly. “I’m basically a very expensive person who is hired to confirm that companies are doing things the wrong way. Sometimes I make PowerPoint presentations to make the whole investment worth it.”
He winks at me and that earns him a smile. His mouth tilts. He reaches across the table and skims his fingers over mine before grabbing his mug. It’s small. It’s also the loudest thing in the room.
Ben leans back in his chair, coffee cup balance between his palms. “And you? What do you do when you’re not accidentally extending vacations in paradise?”
“I’m an architect,” I say, a little too casually, like I didn’t go to school for years to get a couple of degrees to do the things I love the most.
He perks up. “Like, buildings?”
I snort. “Yes, like buildings.”
“Sorry, I didn’t know if it was, like, design-y architecture or like structural, engineer-y architecture. Or like… computer architect. You seem like you’d make beautiful things.”
“I work for a full-service boutique firm and so I’m involved in much more than the structure.
I do a lot of the decorating, too,” I add.
It’s a huge part of my identity—how much attention I pay to details and spaces, and making sure that the areas where we spend a lot of time reflect who we are but also support our state of mind.
I like calming spaces. “I’m working on a small hotel in Tribeca right now. ”
His eyebrows lift. “Fancy?”
“It’s twelve rooms,” I say, rolling my eyes. “The only thing fancy about it is the upholstered chairs for the lobby. Everything else is pretty much standard and screams hotel.”
He laughs. “I think it’s pretty impressive, nonetheless.”
We people watch from our chairs a while longer.
A cloud drifts over the sun and everything softens a shade.
On the beach, someone strings up more paper lanterns, testing the bulbs even though it’s morning.
A staff member wrestles a stack of clean towels taller than he is.
The world keeps building toward evening, and I feel strangely content to watch it.
Ben stands and comes around to my side of the table.
“Come here,” he says, like it’s a joke, like he’s about to show me some magic trick just for the sake of making me laugh.
He slides my chair back and ducks to kiss me—not showy, present.
His thumb grazes my jaw and the back of my neck prickles in the breeze.
“Hi,” he murmurs.
“Hi,” I echo, trying not to smile and failing.
We pull apart when someone from the pool staff below starts clapping at the end of an impromptu pool game. The applause breaks into a chant for a girl named Bekah. Someone starts a conga line. Ben rests his forehead against mine for a second, then straightens.
“You want the last croissant?” he asks.
“Take it,” I say. “I’m full.”
He tears it in half anyway and puts the bigger piece on my plate.
“I’m going to check my phone to see what everyone is up to, but I’ll be right back.
” He places another kiss on my mouth; this time it’s chaste and casual, like we’ve been doing this for months but at the same time he can’t help himself.
I gather our plates and stack them on the tray so housekeeping doesn’t have to do it. He watches me from the bed and doesn’t comment on the habit—to tidy the scene, make it easier for the next person.
I go back inside when the sun punches through the cloud again and the balcony heats up in a rush.
He collapses onto the bed, phone in one hand, and pats the spot next to him.
I lie on my side and face him, the hotel sheet rumpled between us.
Without looking, he finds that same place under my ribs and rests his hand there like it’s his duty.
“So what’s the plan for today?” I say, pretending to be casual. The word pretending is doing a lot of heavy lifting.
I don’t know what’s happening to me. It’s been years since I’ve cared this much about what someone might say next. Years since I’ve caught myself waiting for an answer like it might change the course of my day. Or week. Or—god forbid—something bigger.
My marriage ended quietly, with no screaming or betrayal to pin it on.
Just the slow realization that the person I’d built a life with didn’t see me anymore.
We both stopped reaching across the bed, stopped asking questions, stopped trying.
It was easy, in a way—because it hurt less to stop caring first.
Now, sitting across from Ben, that same fear tugs at the back of my ribs. The idea that if I let myself want more, even just for a second, I’ll end up standing in the ruins again, wondering what I did wrong this time.
“How do you feel about crashing a wedding with me?”
He leans forward a little and grins, that lopsided, impossible smile that feels almost like a challenge.
I blink. “What?”
“You heard me. It’s way more fun if you come with me.”
I stare at him, half laughing. “You’re serious?”
“Come on. It’s Christmas Eve. You can’t just hide up here while the rest of the world is dancing.”
I press my lips together, trying not to smile. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you,” he says, leaning in closer, his voice dropping. “C’mon, Sunshine. Stop overthinking.”
He’s not wrong. Because maybe I am. And maybe, for once—maybe twice or thrice at this rate—I don’t want to be safe.