by Gage Grayson
The response seems positive, though. Madeline finds both my hands in the water and takes them in hers. Her smile—that deep, poignant smile that I’m just discovering now—resurfaces as we draw closer to each other.
“You dope,” Maddie whispers, her smile widening.
We fall into a kiss as the tide begins to wane. Instead of yielding to the moment entirely like I usually do, I start trying to think of a good reason that this really needs to end.
Ethan
Madeline’s still here, enjoying the resort and enjoying Hawaii in ways that only she can, but apparently the last couple days of her vacation are days that she agreed to spend with her friends.
I’m back here where I started―at the honeymoon suite, sitting at the sad, undersized excuse for a dining table and looking at my vending machine-purchased feast of a microwave “barbecue” sandwich and a small can of pineapple chunks I could have gotten at a fucking Gristedes in Manhattan.
I know this seems like some serious sad-sack, feeling sorry for myself type schtick, but none of it is as bad as it sounds. I knew that a vending machine meal was probably inevitability before the honeymoon was over. Maddie and I finished all the cakes and cheeses from Uloji days ago, and I just don’t fucking feel like shelling out for room service or any of that shit today.
And honestly, after two minutes in the microwave, the sandwich smells vaguely edible.
As for Maddie, well, it’s going to be tough saying goodbye no matter what, so I’d be lying if I said there isn’t some relief to getting that over with and getting on with whatever my life is going to be now.
She probably feels the same way. She’ll take something different from this, and she’ll continue on her own journey, and that’s weirdly reassuring.
Fuck, I can’t even bite into this sandwich, it’s so goddamn hard. I might as well have bought one of those fucking petrified lava plates from the gift shop and tried to cook that in the microwave.
And the stupid, pathetic reality is that I am sitting here in self-pity. There’s no reason I can’t leave the honeymoon suite and get a decent meal for myself. Hawaii’s not over yet.
Part of the reason I’m reluctant to leave right now is the dry-cleaning bag hanging on a hook right next to the front door. Maddie finally returned that outfit she confiscated, and even had it dry-cleaned, which is completely unnecessary for those items, but I understand why she did it.
What I don’t understand is her having the resort staff bring it back to my room instead of returning it to me herself.
Well, unfortunately, I think I do understand. Now that the week is winding down, it’s time to wind down anything that could be remotely construed as fun or flirtations or playful in any goddamn way about the fling. Sending my shit back in a dry-cleaning bag through a third party actually makes perfect sense―but I don’t enjoy looking at it right now.
But I suck it up. It’s just a dry-cleaning bag, and as I pass it on my way out, it occurs to me that I need to get a new phone.
This chapter’s ending, most likely, and I’m going to need a goddamn phone for the rest of the story―beginning the moment my plane touches down at JFK, when I’ll suddenly have a flood of harried voicemails, emails and texts about every single fucking thing that’s occurred south of Chambers Street during my honeymoon, no matter how fucking minute―and how it’s all a giant crisis that I need to fix this instant or the world will fucking fall apart.
In other words, I’ll need to go back to work, and I’ll need a stupid smartphone as always.
I ride the elevator down to the lobby, which is more crowded than I’ve seen it yet. If nothing else, it looks like I’m leaving the resort at the right time, before the tourist rush starts.
I have another little bit of luck when I see that no tourists are monopolizing the concierge desk, which means I can stop there quickly on my way out.
The lanky, mustachioed concierge’s face lights up when I approach, like he recognizes me.
“Ah, Mister Barrett! We haven’t been seeing much of you.”
Huh. That’s all a little strange, but I don’t have the time to care.
“Right, well...long story short: I need a new phone. I mean, a new personal smartphone with my old number and service plan. Is that possible within a couple days?”
I realize how farcical this is to ask at a fucking hotel as I say it.
“Just put me in touch with your provider; I’ll have a new phone ready for you by tomorrow.”
Word of my generous tipping must be getting around.
“Yeah. Great, thanks.”
My body perks up reflexively as I notice a very familiar laugh and voice resonating through the lobby from somewhere behind me.
Madeline is standing by a small, potted palm tree close to the exit, ensconced in a conversation with Laura...well, at least Laura is ensconced. Madeline is glancing at me, trying not to look too obvious about it.
To be fair, she shouldn’t be too surprised to see me here, but I understand if it makes things difficult, if she just wants to let it all fade.
But fuck that. We should talk, just to wrap things up, just to say goodbye. It’s not like we didn’t know this was coming, and the healthiest thing to do is at least try and be adults about it.
Maddie doesn’t flee out the exit when she sees I’m approaching her, so that’s something.
Why can’t we just try to make this work?
Fuck. I can’t seem to get that idea out of my head.
I slow my pace a little. I’m thinking about what this conversation is really going to entail. I can’t just offer to move to her fucking city. If I come on too strong, it’s going to ruin the memory of this week for both of us.
Fuck, she’s actually smiling as I get closer, but it looks like she’s trying to hold back―to avoid leading me on. Not a great sign.
“Ethan. So nice to see you.”
She’s using just my first name, which is still a rarity, but in this case, it’s a polite formality, the polar opposite of the way she’s used it before.
Two fucking days ago. Less than even that, actually.
I guess a few days really can make a difference, and not always a great one.
“Hello, Madeline,” I reply as I arrive at a good conversational distance.
I’m just trying to match Madeline’s tone, but there’s still clear disappointment in her eyes after she hears my greeting. Like she wishes I weren’t here at all, or I that I would at least ignore her.
I’m trying to be understanding, but after what we went through literally yesterday, this is getting ridiculous.
This sudden, mysterious backlash actually feels worse than the sudden, mysterious backlash I experienced with Audra.
Much worse.
“It’s good to see you,” I state in sort of a drone, taking a breath, silently reminding myself that we agreed this was a fling, and Madeline’s acting completely rational.
I probably seem a bit crazy, in fact.
“Good to see you, too,” intones Madeline robotically, hesitantly, repeating her initial greeting almost verbatim, staring at the floor with palpable discomfort and a touch of anguish.
Fuck, she really doesn’t want this shit. I can’t leave it like this, though.
“Maddie...”
Damn, why did I have to call her that? That word just catches in my throat, making it impossible to finish the sentence for some reason.
Like I’m fucking getting choked up or something. Of course, that would really be ridiculous, but it looks like Madeline softens slightly when she sees my weird, out-of-nowhere struggle with speech.
“You okay there, Eth?”
I chuckle. That caught me off-guard, and I want to want to laugh much harder, but I bring myself under control for the sake of avoiding complete catastrophe with this conversation.
“Yeah. I was at that seminar on How to be Socially Awkward in the main ballroom this morning. Looks like it’s paying off for me.”
“Oh, I went to
that seminar, too, if you couldn’t tell.”
Madeline and I laugh for a moment, and that feels nice enough.
I steal a quick peak at Laura, who’s been silent this whole time. She’s trying her best to smile politely, but she’s looking straight at Madeline with a look of pity and mild concern.
“Alright, Maddie,” I say. “If I don’t see you, have a safe trip back. And good luck at grad school. Don’t let the workload get to you―crush that shit and get that motherfucking advanced degree. You deserve it.”
Laura finally acknowledges me, though silently, with a nod as if to say Okay, that’s enough now.
Maddie’s look is fixed somewhere indeterminate on the other side of the lobby, as if she can’t wait to be done with this.
I guess this really is goodbye.
“Maddie,” Laura’s addressing her friend in a sweet, matronly tone, “isn’t there something else you’d like to say?”
Laura’s trying to get Maddie to say farewell with finality so she can get a clean break from her vacation liaison and return to the reality of the real world.
“Thanks.”
That’s all Madeline says. Maybe because I wished her luck, but it’s time to stop speculating about any part of this.
The sunny, Hawaiian day visible on the other side of the lobby door holds no appeal for me whatsoever.
I give Madeline the quickest nod I can and turn away from her to go back to my suite.
Ethan
This is a fine fucking spot to be in at the end of a fucking honeymoon:
Waking up in the late afternoon from a two-hour nap―a nap you only took to get away from reality for a while―not even in the California king-sized bed, but on it, on top of the comforter, still fully dressed and with your fucking shoes still on as your feet dangle off the endive of the mattress.
If that sounds like a pretty pitiable spot to be in on your honeymoon, or anytime, you probably don’t have to worry about being there yourself anytime soon unless you’re my sorry ass, waking up in the darkened honeymoon suite bedroom after my sorry-ass nap.
Fuck it. Married or not, once I get back to my job in New York, it’s not like I’ll get more than a couple hours of sleep every night. I see how goddamn dark it’s getting already through the window.
Maybe the best use of the rest of my time on this stupid trip is a mini-hibernation to prepare myself for another year, or two, or the whole fucking rest of my lifetime of being a markets zombie, dedicating my brain, my body, my entire being to tracking, predicting, trying to nail down shit that has nothing to do with shit, all about cash and nothing else.
I’m already drifting back into slumber when a cacophonous clanking of bells shatters through the room’s silence, rattling lamps and furniture.
Either my suite’s been magically transported to one of the Notre Dame Cathedral towers, or my room phone is ringing.
I reluctantly roll off my bed and slog to the unholy clamor emanating for the unassuming little hotel phone on a nightstand.
I pick up the receiver, and take a moment to bask in the renewed silence. I fight the urge to just hang up, and I bring the receiver to my ear begrudgingly.
“Yeah,” I answer, doing the best I can right now to not sound like too much of an asshole.
“Mister Barrett!”
I recognize the concierge’s affable perkiness through the phone. I think I gave him my mobile provider info on my way back to the suite earlier.
“Yes, what is it?”
“We’ve tracked down a great mobile phone for you, a smartphone like you requested, actually a ‘phablet’ as they call it.”
“I’m not certain what that is. How much is it?”
“It just has a slightly larger screen than most, Mister Barrett. And don’t worry about the expense, the management’s taking care of it.”
That’s confirmation that a stockholder, or possibly even an owner, of this resort or its parent company knows who I am. That’s fine, as long as they’re not involved with my firm in any capacity.
Or maybe the concierge is hoping for one of my famous gratuities.
My mind’s blank as I shower, shave, brush my teeth and get ready to retrieve the stupid phablet as soon as possible and tie up any loose ends so I can get the fuck away from here as quickly as possible.
On the elevator down to the lobby, I run the possibility of using my new phone to change my flight reservation so I can leave tonight and pretend that none of this ever happened.
As soon as the elevator door opens, I spot the concierge behind his desk, holding a large phone up at chest level and speaking into it.
He wouldn’t be this brazen about it if there was anything legally hazy about this gift from the resort, most likely.
I try to smile while walking to the desk, reading the concierge’s name plate.
“Ah, here he is now.”
“Hey, Kingston.”
“Is that you, Mister Barrett? We just need your address and account number to confirm.”
The voice is coming loudly through the speakerphone. It’s the service provider.
This is shady as hell, right? But I don’t have it in me to be suspicious. I recite the information loudly and clearly right in the middle of the fucking lobby.
Kingston is a bit perturbed by this, but what are you gonna do?
“All set, Mister Barrett,” declares the bubbly male voice through the phone speaker, “everything’s now transferred to your new device.”
I want to turn around to see if anyone’s watching this ludicrous display, but if they are, I’ll just let them enjoy it.
Now that all my stuff is on there, Kingston casts his eyes skyward so he doesn’t see the screen as he hands over the device. He slides the box with the charger across the desk as well.
“I thought you’d appreciate it being ready for you when you got it.”
I flip through different screens on the device, everything is surreally in the same place where I left it on my old phone―only larger.
“I sure do, Kingston. I’ll get you when I check out.”
I don’t feel like going anywhere, but I really don’t feel like going back up to the fucking honeymoon suite again.
I find a seat on a generic, semi-comfortable piece of lobby furniture and continue looking through my phone. I have hundreds of unread emails, those can wait...no missed texts or calls that I can see, which is kind of surprising, but everyone knows I’m out of town.
I try to open the web browser so I can look into changing my flight, but my thumb hits the wrong icon, opening my photos.
I think it’s an accident, but I can’t guarantee it.
The last photo I took fills the spacious screen. The picture’s from shortly after I first arrived, and it was overcast. There’s no one in the photo, just the boarded-up beach bar, and the empty beach. I remember thinking that it didn’t look like Hawaii, not in this weather.
Fuck this shit, I can’t just leave.
I know damn well that I’ll never see Madeline again after this week, but I’m not going the rest of my life without telling her how I feel about her.
How do I feel about her, anyway?
I’m still holding the cloudy, empty beach in my hand.
That’s partly why I need to see her: to talk to her, so I can figure out what this pseudo-honeymoon chapter actually means before I try to go on to the rest of my story.
If this shit sounds selfish, well, I guess I can’t argue with that.
But I’m not thinking about myself when pocket my phone and my charger and stride across the lobby and out the door.
I’m not thinking about myself at all as I walk quickly, jog across the pavement and onto the beach.
I’m not thinking about myself, or where I’m going, or any clear plan in mind as I break into a run, going south along the beach, passing the bar but seeing no one there.
Running even faster back to the pavement, bounding, dashing to the other part of the resort, I’m thinking about
nothing but Madeline.
About seeing her emerald eyes one last time.
About trying to make her laugh.
About saying goodbye for real.
About telling her…
About telling her what I need her to know before she parasails away from me for good.
When I push through the front entrance of the nightclub, I’m nearly gasping for breath, my heart is pounding with quick insistence, and I’ve got sweat plastered all over my face and shirt.
I walk slowly across the empty first floor of the club, trying to regain some semblance of composure. I can only hope Maddie happens to be upstairs, although the odds on that are probably not great.
I visit the restroom to wash my face and try to dry off a little. After making myself marginally more presentable, I walk into the ill-conceived little gift shop by the stairwell.
I don’t know if I’m trying to delay seeing Maddie, or if I’m trying to delay not seeing her, but this gift shop in a nightclub is fucking weird as fuck.
I still take the opportunity to grab a few random things: a fairly fresh-looking bouquet of anthuriums, a lei of assorted regional flowers, a six-ounce sampler box of chocolates…wait, no, that larger box…no, actually that four-pound box is even better, and maybe one of those small ukuleles painted with a floral design…
By the time I get upstairs, carrying all of that, plus a five-foot teddy bear, I’m mostly relieved to see Maddie―sitting at a table with Laura―so that she can take at least some of this stuff off my hands. If she wants any of it.
God, she looks good.
She must’ve gotten that sundress dry-cleaned as well, because she’s wearing that, and her long hair is flowing down just one side, over her right shoulder, strands of gold framing her radiant face and draping further down to rest atop...
Anyway, Maddie doesn’t look shocked or surprised in any way to see me. After taking a microsecond to register the sight of me trying to take careful steps across the room both arms loaded with all this crap, Madeline instantly begins shrieking with laughter as her face turns beet red in disbelief.
Laura’s probably used to Maddie’s laughing fits, so it takes her a few seconds to bother turning around and enjoy the scene herself.
