by May Archer
Right or wrong, though, making a change was necessary, because as much as I’d learned to love the lifestyle Victoria and I shared—the fun Instagram poses, the little luxuries and privileges, the shoes—when Vic left I’d realized just how much of that life hadn’t really been mine—not the Water Mill friends, not the exposed brick loft Vic had adored, not the ho-hum position at the well-established suburban family practice that paid for it all.
Four months post-breakup, I realized life without Vic felt empty because I hadn’t chosen any of it. I’d slotted myself into a life she wanted, and I’d been perfectly okay with it at the time. But there was no structural integrity in a life that could come crashing down when a single pillar was knocked out from under it. There was no structural integrity in “perfectly okay.”
Perfectly okay was the kind of life you slid into. Perfectly okay was when you didn’t have a plan for the future, or when you settled for living someone else’s dream because it was safer that way. Perfectly okay was a trap, and I’d escaped it.
Not everyone was so lucky.
I scanned the crowded area for my remaining suitcase, and my gaze snagged on a man leaning against a pillar across the room.
Whoa.
I blinked double time, because it was like some higher being had been listening to my thoughts and conjured up a real-life cautionary example, just to tell me I was on the right track. There, in the flesh, was the kind of bitter-looking human who’d probably just let life happen to him. He reminded me of my idiot teenaged self. The ghost of the Mason Bloom who might have been.
My eyes traveled up and down the guy’s form from his overlong, sun-streaked hair, to his thin, stained T-shirt, to his plastic flip-flops, and I felt my lip curl just a little in distaste. He had handsome features from what part of him I could see—the dude was wearing sunglasses indoors, which wasn’t weird at all. The cut of his jaw was sharp, the line of his nose was straight, his muscles that popped beneath his sleeves when he folded his arms over his chest were thick and well-defined. But the man scowled at the floor with malevolent intensity, like the linoleum had personally offended him and he was ready to make it pay. He sneered at anyone who walked too close. He held himself rigidly distant from every other person in the baggage claim like a feral animal who’d bite with the slightest provocation. All in all, I felt like I was watching an episode of Criminal Minds, because this was the kind of guy whose mug shot would flash on the screen while the actors said, “Our unsub is a drifter with anger issues. He’s killed before and will kill again.”
And okay, yeah, that wasn’t the kindest thought I’d ever had, but whatever. I disliked him because I’d almost been him. And because I never wanted to be like him again.
Serial Killer Guy’s gaze drifted in my direction and he caught me staring. He thrust his chin in my direction like he was two seconds away from throwing down with me, right here in front of carousel six.
Charming.
I ran a hand over the front of the button-down shirt I’d ironed that morning, and straightened to my full five feet ten inches. There was zero chance I’d actually get involved in fisticuffs—for one thing, I hadn’t thrown a punch since high school, and for another I’d rather let him kill me than show up to my new job all mussed and wrinkled—but I wouldn’t show weakness to Serial Killer Guy either. I made sure he looked away first.
“I’m excited that you’re excited. Really.” Micah injected his doubt into my moment of badassery. “Just maybe don’t do anything too rash. No drunken revelry, okay? No weird tattoos? No swan dives?”
Micah’s words coming on the heels of seeing this alterna-Mason-Serial-Killer-Guy made me clench my teeth in annoyance… which probably made me a shit person. I mean, if there were anyone on the planet who’d earned the right to give me shit, it was the brother who’d spent most of his adult life living like a monk so he could take care of our sisters and me, right? The guy who’d bailed me out of trouble so many times as a teenager, I couldn’t count them? The man who’d give me a kidney if I needed it, without a second of hesitation?
Thing was, I had no use for a kidney. I just really wanted to be treated like a competent adult.
“Micah, I haven’t been drunk in half a lifetime, okay?”
“Half of your lifetime, maybe.”
I blew out a breath. “Are you doing that thing where you wind me up on purpose?”
“Not my fault you’re stubborn as a mule and easy to rile. It’ll be worth it if I get you out of the house and, more importantly, out of your own head.”
I sighed but found myself smiling ruefully, too, because Micah’s shit-talk was laced with so much love and humor and comforting familiarity that I wondered for a second if I’d made the wrong choice, moving thirteen hundred miles from it.
But then the automatic doors to the parking lot whooshed open as someone left with their bag, and a wave of tropical air flooded in, so sticky-wet I could smell the humidity and feel my hair start to curl despite the Kevlar-esque pomade I’d put in it this morning. And then I remembered why this was exactly the right choice.
Florida was paradise. Coconut-scented, beach-in-my-backyard, fruity-drinks-with-umbrellas, should-we-take-your-yacht-or-mine? paradise.
And I might not be a passionate man, but I knew how to work hard. I knew how to make a plan, and how to bring it to fruition.
When my old friends and colleagues checked my Instagram stories or caught up with me on Facebook, they would not remember the scrawny little kid in hand-me-downs who’d done anything for a dare, or tsk in pity at the poor fool who’d had the beautiful fiancée and lost her—they’d see a man living the dream on an island with an exclusive, five-star resort.
And in three short years, I’d leave this place for whatever bigger and better opportunity presented itself, and not tied down by what anyone else wanted for me.
“Mason?” Micah prompted. “Are you even listening?”
“Yes, of course,” I lied. “You confessed that you’re a shit-stirrer who annoys people for fun. I don’t know how Constantine tolerates you.”
Micah snorted. “I got him young and trained him up!” he said, in a loud voice that meant he wanted his boyfriend to overhear. “Now he hardly notices that I’m old and annoying. Right, Connie?”
Predictably, I heard a muffled scuffle that I knew from months in their company was Constantine jokingly knocking his arm or shoulder or hip into some part of Micah, setting them both off-balance so they fell into a wall or piece of furniture, followed by laughter, and, sure as day follows night, the sound of kissing. And more laughing. And moaning. And more kissing.
Adorable, right?
Wrong.
“Jesus Christ, can you two control yourselves until we hang up, please?”
I wasn’t jealous of Micah and Con, I’d just never really understood public displays of affection. They were so very… public. And also… affectionate. They made me uncomfortable. If you wanted to be intimate, how hard was it to wait until you were alone?
There was a staticky noise, and then Micah was back.
“Sorry, sorry! Con just got home. You’re on speaker now.”
“Hey, Mase!” Constantine said cheerfully.
“Peachy,” I muttered. “The speaker will make it better. Gay porn in stereo.”
“No, no! No porn. This is an affection-free zone, starting now,” Constantine said solemnly. “I swear, I don’t even like this guy.”
“Same,” Micah agreed.
Constantine was sitting on his lap, I just knew it.
“Look, Con and I were talking, and we want you to come over and hang out with us tomorrow,” Micah began. “You can tell us your exciting news.”
“I can’t.”
“Aw, come on, Mase!” Constantine wheedled. “Don’t be like that. You don’t even know what we were planning!”
“No? On a springtime Saturday? Might there be a farmer’s market?”
They said nothing, but their silence was guilty.
&
nbsp; “One where we’ll stroll around, like I’ve never seen your little town before, and talk to your crackpot neighbors, like we can’t already predict every damn thing they’re going to say, and you two will ply me with baked goods like I’m a hog heading to slaughter, hoping I’m too high on carbohydrates to object when you sit me down for a Come to Jesus?”
“That’s not…” Micah began.
“Yeah, fine, that was the plan,” Constantine admitted. “But that doesn’t mean it won’t be fun! Besides, your whole family’s coming. You’ve always enjoyed it in the past, right? Didn’t you always wanna live in a small town? Maybe now that Victoria’s no longer in your picture, you could move here full-time.”
“Con,” I said gently, “People change. Dreams change. Some folks are perfectly happy in a small town, but some of us want more.”
Con sniffed. “In my opinion, the only people who don’t want to live in O’Leary are people who haven’t been here yet. It’s a great place. Plenty of hot guys…” Con seemed to remember he was talking to a straight man and added, “And plenty of nice women, too. I even dated a couple, once upon a time. O’Leary’s basically a bisexual paradise!”
“Someone needs to lock you down to write the tourism slogans, Connie. Massive oversight there.” I rolled my eyes. “Seriously, guys, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but…”
I looked around the area again and frowned. Still no sign of my bag, though the crowd was beginning to thin out, and I swore I’d seen the same two bags going around the belt twice now, neither of which was mine.
Shit.
“But, what?” Micah prompted.
“Huh? Oh. But I can’t come.” I ran a hand through my hair without thinking, disturbing the pomade, and felt my wavy hair spring free like a convict presented with an open cell door.
Double shit.
Now I’d need to fix myself up before I got to the resort.
“If you can’t even concentrate on a simple conversation, Mase, you’re worse off than I thought. I’m coming to your apartment—”
“No, Micah!” I said, more forcefully than necessary. “You can’t. That’s, um… my exciting news. You remember the job opportunity I mentioned a few weeks back? The one I found on MedLister?”
“No.”
“Sure you do. On an island—”
Micah made a rude noise. “You mean that scam you mentioned at the party after Olivia’s recital?”
“It’s not a scam.”
“Well, it’s not a real job opportunity.” The amusement in Micah’s voice was thick. “Come work on an island no one’s ever heard of, where international law probably doesn’t apply! We’ll pay you a billion dollars once you sign your life away! It’s like ‘Come to my van by the river and I’ll give you some candy,’ but for grown-ups.”
I set my jaw. “No. It’s not. It’s a position as a doctor on an island in Florida, where regular old domestic and state laws apply.”
I was pretty sure.
“But—”
“A job where I’d be running a practice on my own, with almost total autonomy, which is a huge step up from being the newest, youngest doctor in a suburban practice in case you didn’t know.”
“Sure, but—”
“And, though the initial base salary is… not exactly impressive, you can’t put a price tag on the networking I could do while living and working on an island with an exclusive resort. Who knows what sorts of people I might meet and treat? The potential for the future is unlimited.”
“Yeah, but—”
“And, yes, there’s a three-year contract, but that’s only if the chosen applicant wants to take advantage of the private grant that will pay off their med school loans, because this island is just far enough from the mainland to qualify as a rural, underserved community. And it comes with a three-month probationary period, anyway, just to make sure it’s a good fit for both parties, so it’s hardly signing my life away.” I paused in my tirade. “So… yeah. Not a scam. A great opportunity. The opportunity of a lifetime, really.”
In the silence that followed, I could practically feel the twin rivers of shock flowing through the phone line.
Con spoke first. “I mean. That all sounds great for someone, Mase, but you live here. Near your family.” He forced out a chuckle. “You have a whole wardrobe of cashmere sweaters, and you’d never use them in Florida. You can’t fuck with the sweaters, Mason. I wouldn’t recognize you anymore.”
I swallowed. Every one of those sweaters had been chosen by Victoria. I’d donated all but one before I left.
“Well, I still think it sounds like bullshit,” Micah insisted. “If it really worked like that, everyone would apply for it and it would be incredibly competitive. There’s gotta be a catch.”
I squeezed my eyes shut against a flare of hurt. “Does there have to be? Really? Once again, your expert knowledge of everything in the universe astounds me, Micah. Maybe it is incredibly competitive. Maybe I’m qualified anyway! I’m not just Micah Bloom’s kid brother, you know. I’m an autonomous human being with actual skills. How do you know I wasn’t put on the short list because I’m not only a good doctor with great references, I also aced my phone interview with the resort manager?”
“On the short list,” Con repeated softly. “You applied for the job?”
“I…” I took a deep breath and let it out. “Yeah. And I got it.”
“But you never said—” Con sounded upset.
“Mason, for fuck’s sake, you can’t seriously be thinking of taking it!” Micah exploded. “That’s… that’s just… it’s not reasonable! You, a man who has literally stood in the toothpaste aisle for fifteen minutes debating the relative merits of Minty Fresh versus Fresh Mint, cannot tell me that this is in any way a logical choice! Victoria moved off to Belize, so now you’ve decided you need adventure, too?”
“No.” I ground my molars together. It stung more than it should have to hear him reduce my motive to something that childish, when it was actually the exact opposite. “I want something that’s mine, Micah. A life I choose for myself. Success I earn for myself.”
Micah was silent for a minute. “Fine, then. Fly down there. Take a vacation. Clear the cobwebs. Bring Toby along. Make sure the place isn’t, you know…”
“A front for the mob,” Constantine said in a hushed voice. “Or some kind of sex-trafficking operation like on Dateline. Or run by serial killers who like to hunt humans for sport.”
“Jesus,” I groaned.
“Not quite where I was going, Con, but… yeah,” Micah said. “Let’s go with that.”
“Let’s not.” I pushed down the niggle of anxiety his words conjured. “Let’s assume that your very competent younger brother has taken care of everything and the serial killer population on Whispering Key is a nonissue.”
I mean… it was slightly possible that I’d been too excited by my new plan—and too busy closing out my life in New York—to research things as diligently as I might have, but I was trying to look at that as part of the adventure. The resort’s website had showed fruity drinks, miles of white-sand beaches, and a list of amenities that would make anyone’s head spin, so how bad could it really be?
Besides, I had three months to back out if it didn’t work for me.
No. Fear.
I took a deep breath and forced myself to calm down.
“Whispering Key,” Micah grumbled. “Sounds fake.”
“Sounds like an episode of Scooby Doo.” Constantine still sounded unhappy. “You’re basically asking for mysteries and hijinks.”
“Or crashing waves and fruity drinks in coconuts,” I countered. “I’ve thought hard about this. I need a fresh start.”
“But why? Mase, our family’s gotten through tough times by sticking together. By supporting each other.”
I dragged my loafer against the linoleum floor. “I know it, Micah. But you have Con now. Lauren and Leandra have their families. I love you, you know I do, but I want something I pick,
not something I fall into. Something I can point to and say, ‘See that thing? I did that. Myself.’ So if you want to support me, support me now. In this.”
Micah made a noise that managed to express surprise and hurt and capitulation all at once. “I… I always support you, Mase.”
“We both do.” Con sighed. “And we’re going to throw you the going-away party of the century. No carbohydrates spared.”
“About that.” I sucked my top lip between my teeth and hesitated. “I, ah, actually already… left. I gave notice a couple weeks ago and flew out this morning. I called to tell you that, before you went all Dr. Phil on me.”
Silence reigned, and I winced.
“I know, I know!” I rushed on. “It’s a little bit crazy. But my choices were acting immediately or overthinking myself into a coma. I wanted to do this my own way. Low-key, with zero goodbyes. I’ll be back so often, you’ll hardly even miss me. Okay?”
“I guess it has to be,” Micah said slowly. “But you’ll call if you need help, right?”
“I won’t need help! Everything’s going to be great,” I assured him… seconds before the conveyor belt stopped with a muffled thunk, and I realized I was the only passenger still waiting for luggage.
Fuck. Not off to a good start.
“But if you do—”
“But I won’t,” I insisted, turning in place and looking around for someone to ask luggage questions. “Hey, I’ve gotta go. The resort is sending a car to pick me up, and I don’t want to keep the driver waiting.”
Not that I was expecting a limo or anything, but I imagined one of those suited livery drivers was waiting outside, standing by his town car in the heat, holding a little sign with my name. It was so much more than anything little Mason Bloom, sleeping on the pull-out in his grandmother’s living room, would ever have thought to expect for himself, and I was gonna enjoy every minute.
“But if you do—”
“Yeah, Micah. Fine,” I agreed impatiently. “If I join the mafia or end up on the news, I’ll definitely call you.”
