by Suzan Colon
When he saw that we were heading toward the same studio, he introduced himself, though he spoke so softly he had to say again, “I’m Daniel.” He held my hand for that telling extra second when we shook.
“Thought you were going out to lunch,” the record producer said to Daniel as he led me into the studio.
“Change of plans,” Daniel said. I caught him looking at me and smiling shyly.
The interview with the band was great, but I was even more excited when Daniel offered to walk me out, and when we exchanged phone numbers. Five minutes after I left, he called and asked me out.
On our third date, when I couldn’t wait any longer to sleep with him (and he wholeheartedly approved of that decision), we went over all the coincidences that led to our “chance” meeting. The reporter who was supposed to do the story got sick, so I got it instead. Daniel had been scheduled to work the evening shift at the studio, but just that morning, he got called to come in early. And if I’d come in a few minutes later, or if he’d gone out to lunch a moment earlier, we never would have met. “It’s all so random,” Daniel said as he kissed my neck.
“It’s not random at all,” I insisted, thinking I’d just met my future husband. “It’s fate.”
Then again, considering how the story has ended, maybe it wasn’t fate after all.
Looking up at billboards for Broadway plays, I realize I’ve wandered from office-filled midtown to tourist-filled Times Square. As I walk past shops selling electronics, souvenirs, and trendy clothes, I feel like maybe fate is making a big, splashy, Vegas-style comeback. Sure, I’m a little freaked out about leaving for Costa Rica tomorrow, and about where I’m going—a surf camp? Me? But I did say I needed to get away, and all of a sudden, I’m taking a trip that will not only get me out of the house—out of the country, even—but I’m getting paid for it. How can this be anything but the strange and wonderful forces of fate at play? The only weird thing is where I’m going. Maybe fate misheard me. California, Costa Rica . . . they kind of sound the same. And broken-hearted, broke-in-wallet beggars can’t be choosers.
I know I should head toward the train to get home and start packing. Instead, my black ballerina flats are striding purposefully toward one of the biggest stores in Times Square, a shop that sells surf-themed beach gear. This is my chance to do some retail therapy and be properly prepared for my trip. Given my financial situation, or lack thereof, I shouldn’t be buying new clothes. But the only bikini I have is so sexy-skimpy that the first decent wave will render me topless, and it’s the one I wore on my last vacation with Daniel. Too little fabric, too many memories.
Besides, I have an idea.
WHEN I GET home, I shrug off my sensible gray, please-hire-me business dress and lay my new surf gear out on my bed. I got a cute white halter bikini top and red board shorts, which, together, are a great combination of sexy-sporty. There was a sweet teal sundress I know I’ll live in, an ivory hoodie for cool nights, and a pair of gold strappy sandals in case I need something dressier than flip flops.
I do my little fashion show, and everything fits perfectly. And it looks right on me, even though it’s not my usual uniform of yoga clothes or fashion magazine castoffs. I put the bikini top and shorts back on, and then I let my hair out of its ponytail. It looks a little messy but good. Like a woman who’s up for anything.
My friend and now editor Dina said I’m supposed to create a different persona for the trip, to be someone else. Okay, now I look different. I wonder if I can feel different, too.
The woman who’s looking back at me in the mirror doesn’t seem like the type who would be sad. She’s not a girl whose boyfriend would walk away instead of proposing. She’s not the person who knew she wanted to be a writer but never said anything about it while she worked at a job she didn’t love. No, she’d be having adventures and writing about them. She’d live her life, not wait for things to happen to her.
She looks confident. She’s adventurous and spontaneous, which I’m not, even on a good day, but dammit, I can learn. She’s ready to try new things, like surfing. Looking at my new persona in the mirror, I see something in this woman’s eyes. She’s not the type to wait for someone else to decide her future. She’d go for what she wants.
Wow. I like her. I want to be her.
I go to my shopping bags and get out the pretty, new beaded journal I got for the trip. I’m bringing my computer, but I have no idea how jungle-esque this surfing and yoga place is going to be or if I’ll even be able to charge my computer. Good ol’ paper and pen never need to be plugged in.
I want to be a writer, telling people’s stories. Maybe I can write a new story for myself. I jump on the bed and turn to the blank, creamy first page, the page I’m going to use to create the person I’ll be at the surf and yoga camp. I write down all the things I was thinking when I looked at that woman in the mirror. Confident. Spontaneous. Adventurous and carefree.
But when I look at the words, they feel as foreign to me as the idea of going to another country and learning how to surf. I’m so not any of those attributes right now, on the tail end of a breakup and with this important trip looming. This assignment could be the start of something great for me as a writer, so I really can’t screw it up.
Well, I can act like I’m this new version of Katy. Or try to. Really hard. Sure, I can do this. If I can’t be her, I can be like her.
HOURS LATER, though, I’m still me.
I had every intention of packing and going to bed early so I could be fresh for my trip. Instead, it’s almost midnight, and my clothes are all over the place because I’m freaking out about the trip, the assignment, my life, everything. Did I pack an extra pair of contact lenses? Can I actually write a travel feature about surfing? And a good one? Not helping matters is my iPod’s insistence on playing only sad love ballads that are making me cry.
I wouldn’t be so nervous if Daniel were here. He knows exactly how to calm me down. All he does is wrap his arms around me and give me one of his endless hugs. He’s warm, he rocks me slightly back and forth, and he’s never the first to let go.
Cue fresh tears. Sadness and nervousness are a bad cocktail that make me hit the wine, and it only takes me half a glass to break down and call Daniel.
He picks up with a quick, “Hi.” Not his standard Hey pretty Katy, but the kind of Hi that says things have changed.
“Hi,” I answer, just as awkwardly. “Are you busy at work or something?”
“Yeah. Well, not at the moment. I’m on dinner break,” he says. “Not really hungry, though.”
I wait for him to say something, but eventually I have to break the silence. “Aren’t we supposed to be having a painful discussion about our relationship right about now?” I say, trying to make a joke.
“Katy, you told me we were through,” Daniel says, the hurt in his voice clear. “That unless we were going to get married, move in, and get pregnant, all right this minute, that we were over. Has any of that changed?”
Pacing the short distance of my apartment, I feel my face go hot. What I want, when Daniel says it, sounds like so much, even to me. Yet when I come to a stop in front of the mirror, what comes out is, “No.”
There’s a sigh on the other end. “But all of that would turn our lives upside down! Does everything have to change, and overnight? Do we even have enough money between the two of us to raise a child properly?”
“Other people get by,” I say feebly.
“So we’ll figure it out as we go along at the kid’s expense,” Daniel snaps. “And where would we live?”
“Your place is big enough.”
“I have a roommate who’s on the lease for another year,” he answers. “He’s on tour now. What do I do, send him a text that says, ‘Dude, your stuff’s in storage, and you’re homeless because my girlfriend put a gun to my head’?” When I don’t answer, Daniel says, “Look, Katy, we can take this in stages. You could move in for the time Chris is on tour. Then we can figure out where to l
ive, all the other things. I just feel like doing everything so suddenly is going to make us implode!”
“Daniel, everything you’ve said sounds logical and practical, and like another way of saying you’re not ready. I know you’re freaked out about marriage and children, but I don’t know when you’re going to feel safe enough to take the next step. I can’t spend the rest of my life waiting for you to start yours!”
The truth leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I wish I hadn’t said this. I’m glad I did. I feel horrible. I feel liberated.
After a long moment, Daniel says, “You’re right.”
A spark of hope flares. “Then . . . you’ll do this with me?”
“Katy,” he says, and the way he says my name, the spark dies. “I’m not ready. If you’d just . . .” He sighs again. “It’s too much all at once. My parents rushed into things, and I saw what it did to them and to me. I feel like I’m going to lose you if I do this, and you’re telling me I’ll lose you if I don’t do it. Maybe it’s better to lose you now, when you’ll hate me less.”
My face twists with a fresh sob. “This isn’t the way we were supposed to happen.”
“I have to go back to work,” he murmurs. “I’ll—” He stops short of signing off with our usual Talk to you later. Instead, his strangled final words are, “Katy, I love you. Always.”
I don’t know how to respond, and he hangs up before I can.
6.
“KATY! KATY, WE’RE over here!” Not far from my departure gate at the airport, I hear someone calling me in a charming Swedish accent. I look around and see Brigitte Kirke, the photographer, waving at me enthusiastically.
“Ooh, it’s so good to see you!” she squeals, giving me a hug and a European-style kiss on both cheeks. When she pulls away, she’s just as I remember her, a gorgeous blonde could-be model. She introduces the hot, bearded hipster with her as her husband, William, and to their super-cute two-year-old, Nicholas. I shake his little hand and tell him that in about fifteen years, I’ll introduce him to a California babe named Celia.
When we all board, Brigitte and her family get one row in the plane, and I take the window seat in the adjacent row. The seat next to mine stays empty, so after our dinner of piping-hot something, Brigitte comes over to sit with me and talk about our cover stories—who we’ll pretend to be to hide our travel-magazine identities. “What are you going to pose as?” I ask her.
“That’s easy,” she says, looking over her shoulder at William and Nicholas. “Family vacation.”
“What about the photos?” I ask. “How will you take pictures while you’re surfing?”
“I’m good, but not that good,” Brigitte laughs. “Will is going to do the surfing. I’ll say photography is my hobby, and that’ll explain all the pictures I’m taking. Besides, I already know how to surf.”
Of course, she does. Brigitte’s one of those cool moms who wears chic leather jackets and skinny jeans. Her husband is a total hottie, and their kid is a complete angel. I wish I were going on a working vacation with my honey and our child. Is that too much to ask? I’d trade the ability to wear skinny jeans if I could have the rest of it.
“How about you?” Brigitte asks. “Who are you going to pretend to be?”
I’ve been feeling so sad-sacky lately, I’d love a strong persona. “How about a secret agent for the FBI?”
Brigitte, who’s worked for Bon Voyage before, laughs. “Not that you wouldn’t make a good spy, but it’s best to stick to something close to the truth. I mean, people don’t generally ask too many questions, but you have less chance of slipping up if it’s simple, something you’re already familiar with.”
“Then I guess I could say I’m a yoga teacher. I’ve been doing yoga so long I could sound pretty convincing.”
Brigitte nods. “Good choice. Plus guys always think yoga teachers are sexy, and surfer boys are known to be hot.” She winks at me.
“I don’t know if I’m in the mood for sexy or hot.” My throat gets tight.
“That’s right, you’re with that cute rock n’ roll boy.” Brigitte smiles at me. “How’s that going?”
I bite my lips. “Actually, we just broke up.”
Brigitte’s face falls in sympathy. “Oh, Katy, I’m sorry.” She touches my arm. “Are you okay?”
All I can do is shrug as I try to keep the fresh tears from falling. “Classic unhappy ending. He wouldn’t marry me, and I want what you have.” I gesture toward the next aisle, where Nicholas is asleep in his father’s arms.
“Is it just about marriage?” Brigitte asks. “I mean, the ring isn’t important.”
I look at the gold band on her finger, confused. “But you got married.”
“Yes, but only because I was getting more work here than in Sweden, and I needed a green card. But Will and I had been together very happily for eight years without being married. Is the ring very important to you?”
There’s that nervous tic again, where I start rubbing the fourth finger on my left hand. “It is. I know it shouldn’t be, especially since my parents got divorced. Or maybe that’s why it is important. I still want to declare my love for him and hear him declare it to me in front of our families and friends. I want to be with someone who’s not afraid to take that risk with me.”
Brigitte smiles. “Maybe he’ll change his mind.”
I smile back, but I know how unlikely that is.
FIVE HOURS INTO our five-hour flight, the pilot announces that there’s fog at the airport, and we have to enter a holding pattern. Story of my life.
But that doesn’t have to be the story of my new alter ego’s life.
Reaching into my oversized, faux leopard travel bag, I pull out my new journal. I turn to the page where I’d written all of the attributes I wanted: the confidence, the adventurous nature, the love of spontaneity. If I’m supposed to be a different person on this trip, let me be a really cool one.
I try to think up a new, exotic name, but I can totally see myself forgetting and not answering to it. So I write in pretty script, Kate. It’s still me, but a more mature-sounding version. Then I add a few more qualities I’d like to have. Not afraid to speak her truth. That’s even hard to write, let alone practice in real life, but I write it out a few more times. It becomes easier to look at, if not to feel. Then I add, When things don’t go as planned, Kate is the kind of woman who accepts that and moves on, eagerly looking forward to new opportunities. And when they present themselves, she doesn’t over-think or hesitate, she takes them on. She embraces them. Kate practically makes out with new opportunities.
Damn. I don’t know if I can actually become this Kate person, but she sounds like someone I should at least try to hang out with. Like, for this whole week.
7.
I’M IN THE SAFEST place in the world, the backseat of my parents’ car.
The even, steady motion of the car has almost lulled me to sleep. I’m about seven years old, and my little sister, still a toddler who looks exactly like the daughter she’ll have some day, is napping next to me. I don’t know where we’re going, and that’s okay. My capable dad is at the wheel, and Mom is reading a map that, I can see from the backseat, is a creamy, blank page. But she’s smiling. So is Dad. My parents talk to each other in soft voices. That’s funny . . . I don’t remember Mom being able to speak Spanish, but I distinctly hear her ask, ¿Estamos aqui?
It’s not my mother but Brigitte who gently rouses me from my nap. “Katy, we’re here,” she says.
Groggy and disoriented, I open my eyes. It’s nighttime, but through the window by my seat in the resort’s airport shuttle van, I can make out palm trees with actual coconuts in them, framing a large gate opening to let the van through. We pull up to a doorway festooned with dark green vines dotted with pink orchids. Brigitte’s husband and the driver get out and start unpacking our bags. My legs feel a lot stiffer than a yoga teacher’s ought to be as I climb out of the backseat.
A big man with black hair and a wide smi
le walks down the path to greet us. “Hola, everyone! Welcome to Emerald Cove. I’m Juan, the manager,” he says, shaking our hands warmly. “I heard your flight would be delayed, so I saved you some dinner. Or, I can take you right to your rooms, whichever you prefer.” Tired as we are, we vote for food because the lame meal on the plane was too long ago.
Juan takes us down a path lined with exotic plants bursting with blooms. The air here is warm and fresh, scented with ocean and flowers, and it’s soft on my skin. A moment later we’re at the main house, where we’re seated on a beautiful white outdoor veranda surrounded by lush green trees. Moonlight peeks at us through the palm fronds as we eat yummy grilled fish with saffron rice and drink chilled coconut water. Okay, I’m liking this trip so far.
After dinner, we go to the front desk to collect our room keys. Juan’s big smile has been replaced by a sheepish grin. “I hope this won’t be too much of an inconvenience,” he begins. “But I see there has been an error. Señorita McNamara—”
“Please, call me Katy—er, Kate.”
Juan nods. “Kate, the person who booked your room mistakenly thought you were arriving tomorrow, and all our regular bungalows are booked tonight. However, we do have one special accommodation that is,” he shrugs, looking for the right words, “more for an adventurous spirit.”
“What is it?” I ask.
“A tentalow,” Juan says.
I stare at him blankly. “A what?”
Juan leads me and Brigitte, who’s kind enough to come with me in case I’m too tired to make a sane decision, to a field not far from the bungalows where everyone else in our group is staying. In the middle of the field is a bunch of what look like tiny A-frame houses. As we get closer, I see that a tentalow is what would happen if a tent and a bungalow had a baby.
