by Mia Sosa
He winces when he sits up, his eyes glossy and droopy, and when he tries to stand, he lets out a deep, tortured groan. I scoot out of the way when he predictably crashes back down.
“You’re trying to do too much,” I tell him.
He pins me with an incredulous stare. “How is it that you’re completely unaffected by the seven shots of vodka we drank? Are you a mutant?”
“It’s a talent of mine. Always been this way, too. Comes in handy when making drinking bets with unsuspecting men who assume their gender guarantees them a win.”
He falls back onto the sand. “I didn’t assume anything because of my gender. I assumed I’d win because my stomach and kidneys have never failed me before.”
“Don’t take offense at my question—”
“Don’t tell me how to feel about your question before you ask it.”
That shuts me up, just as he likely intended. I like this guy—because I would have responded the same way. “Are you at your typical weight?”
He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut as he does so. “I’ve lost a few pounds recently. How’d you guess?”
“You don’t look comfortable in your own skin. You move as though you’re used to carrying more weight. And I’m a personal trainer, so I see this all the time. You have the look of someone who’s operating at fifty percent.”
He shrinks back and shields his face with his hands. “Stop, the flattery is too much to bear.”
Goodness, he’s such a drama king, and I refuse to feed into it. “My point is that your blood alcohol level depends on a bunch of factors. Gender. Personal tolerance. Weight, too. You want to drink like you just did? At least pack on some pounds first.”
“Believe me, I’m working on it.”
“Good. Do you need help getting up?”
He places his hands in the sand and twists himself into a standing position. “I’m good.”
“Need me to ask Damon to get you to your room?”
“Are you trying to kick me when I’m down?”
“I’m trying to help you.”
He raises his head to the sky. “I’m just going to stand here and stare at the stars.”
I think he fully intends to do just that, but he’s swaying like a palm tree; one strong gust of wind and he’ll topple to the ground.
“I’ll sit, actually,” he says as he plops down and crosses his legs. “You’re welcome to join me, though.”
So I join him, because . . . why the hell not?
After a few seconds of silence, he points at the night sky. “See that constellation of stars over there?”
My brain is too fuzzy to focus on stars, but okay, I’ll play along. “Yeah, sure.”
“That’s Indicitus Minor.”
A spectrum of colors—black, navy, and indigo—blanket the moonlit sky, and I do see a bunch of stars, but nothing’s readily recognizable. “Really? What’s it supposed to look like?”
He laughs and scratches his beard. “I have no idea ’cause I just made that shit up.”
I push on his shoulder and shove him away. “Charming.”
“Sorry. I’ve just always wanted to say something like that. Sounds appropriate when you’re looking at stars on the beach.”
“Ha. Anyone ever tell you you’re special?”
“All the time.”
There’s an edge to his voice that suggests he doesn’t appreciate that fact. I tip my head to the side and consider him. Brooding male alert. He’s a good-natured person, so his reaction to my question begs for further exploration. “You sound unconvinced. You don’t think you’re special?”
“Most people tell me what they think I want to hear.”
“But if it’s true why does it matter?”
“Because even if it’s true, a person’s motivation for saying so is just as important.” He picks up a stick and drags it through the sand. “To me.”
I get his point—most people would, I think—but I’m more interested in why he’s so grumpy about it. “So—”
“Enough about me.” He tosses the stick and dusts off his hands. “What’s your story, Tori? Why are you here vacationing alone?”
“My boyfriend broke up with me, and I wanted to get away to clear my head.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m to blame.”
Carter rears back. “Wait. He broke up with you, and you’re to blame. How so?”
I didn’t expect Mason to manipulate our relationship in public, but given the nature of his career and ambitions, I suppose it was inevitable. The odds were always against us. To Carter, I say, “I should have anticipated that we weren’t a good match, that’s all. The signs were as bright as a fireworks display. He’s an attention seeker, and I’m the exact opposite. Our demise isn’t all that surprising.”
Carter, who’s again sifting sand through his fingers, pauses and clears his throat. “Ah.” Our gazes lock, and then he drops his chin, breaking the connection. “You seem to be taking it well.”
He’s right, of course. And that’s telling in a way I hadn’t focused on until this moment. “Now that I’ve had time to consider what he did, I can see that I was more upset about being duped than being dumped. But it’s all good. Siempre pa’lante, nunca pa’tras.”
Carter’s brows snap together. “What does that mean?”
“It means I’ve got to keep moving. Onward and upward. Never backward. My ex is in my past, and that’s where he’ll stay.”
“Just like that?”
I nod. “Just like that. I suppose I shouldn’t be upset with myself for being thrust in a bad situation, but if I let it continue, well, then the blame really is on me.”
“How long did you date?”
“About a year.”
Carter angles his head and stares at me, his eyes flickering with . . . interest, maybe? “He was a lucky man for about a year.”
My breath quickens, and a tingle runs along my spine. His words are like a verbal caress that’s too intimate to ignore. “That’s sweet of you to say, but you don’t know me well enough to come to that conclusion.”
“Are you the kind of woman who changes completely when you’re dating someone?”
“No,” I say on a laugh.
“Then my gut tells me he was a lucky man for about a year.”
I part my lips and take in a slow breath. “Thank you.”
He breaks our eye contact, and I’m grateful someone’s thinking clearly.
“So where do you train in Philly?” he asks.
“At a fitness club in Center City. I’m the manager.”
He widens his eyes and leans back. “Now I see where you get your taskmaster tendencies.”
This man gives me a permanent grin. If I’m not careful, I’ll break my vow to avoid a vacation hookup. And that would be foolish. I mean, I haven’t given Mason his official walking papers, so why is this even a consideration?
He drops onto his back, apparently not caring that the sand will infiltrate his hair. It’s a luxury I’d never be able to afford; sand and curly hair simply don’t mix well. “Congratulations, Tori-not-short-for-Victoria,” he says as he yawns. “You’ve gotten me trashed.”
I stand up and dust off the back of my dress. Now’s as good a time as any to escape temptation. “Then my work here is done, Carter. I’ve got to get up bright and early for my run, so I’ll bid you adieu.” After tugging on the hem of my dress to make sure it’s covering my backside, I salute him. “You’re off the hook, but let the record reflect that I did in fact outdrink you.”
I wait for a witty retort, but none is forthcoming, because Carter’s eyes are closed and he’s snoring. So much for his stamina.
When I reach the bar, I raise a finger to get Damon’s attention.
“What can I do for you, princess?”
“Mr. Williamson’s back there taking a nap. Can you make sure he doesn’t stay there all night?”
Damon ducks and peers at the
beach. “Found him. Yes, I’ll take care of it.”
He hands me the guest check, and I charge the drinks to my room.
“He seems like a good guy,” Damon says.
“He does. Funny, too.”
“Maybe you won’t be alone on this vacation after all, huh?”
“Maybe,” I say with a coy smile.
Although my decree still stands: No rebound hookups. No one-night stands. Not even a kiss on the cheek. Nothing.
THE NEXT MORNING, I rise at six and throw on my running gear. The view from my balcony convinces me to slow down, though. The sky is clear, not a skyscraper or puff of smog in sight, and dolphins are skimming the water’s surface. I take in a deep breath of the salty air. Then my stomach growls, jockeying for my attention, as if to say, Beyotch, forget the view and feed me.
Breakfast is my favorite meal, but I can’t whip up an omelet in my room. And I’d never order room service this early in the day because I’m convinced those calls annoy the staff and they put “special sauce” in your scrambled eggs to spite you. A granola bar it is, then.
I hold the bar in one hand as I check my phone. I’m not surprised to see several missed calls from Mason, which makes me chew harder. The Do Not Disturb feature on my phone is a lovely tool. It’s the technological equivalent of my roommate and best girlfriend, Eva. If she were here, she’d send Mason straight to voice mail, too.
After a quick brush of my teeth, I leave the room and take the spiral stairs to the hotel courtyard, where I’m surprised to find Carter sitting on an iron bench surrounded by hibiscus plants. He and his workout clothes don’t mesh with the stunning backdrop. It reminds me of the plywood scenes my sister and I used to stick our heads through at carnivals, the ones that made us look like farmers with ears of corn and radishes in our hands. Here, it’s Carter’s head sticking out of the hole cut into the majestic island backdrop.
I glance at his feet. “You’re running with me?”
“Sure.”
Hmm. How to put this? He’s a man, so I’m guessing I’ll have to be delicate here. Fragile egos, you know. “Carter, you got wasted last night. Running this morning might be more taxing than you realize.”
He tries to wave my concern away. “I’ll be okay. I might not be dripping with physicality, but I’m actually a pretty fit guy.”
I stare at the physique of which he speaks. The personal trainer in me can’t help it. He’s underweight, perhaps due in part to a freakishly overactive metabolism, but he otherwise looks healthy. Yesterday’s Caribbean sun has warmed his pale skin, giving him a not-quite-but-on-its-way-to-healthy glow. “Fine. Let’s head out to the beach and stretch.”
He points to my waist. “Wait. What’s going on with that fanny pack?”
“It’s not a fanny pack. It’s called a waist pack, and it will hold my water during the run. Does it offend your fashion sensibilities?”
He wrinkles his nose. “It certainly does. I wouldn’t have agreed to run with you had I known you’d be wearing that.”
I stare at him for several seconds while I figure out if I’m hallucinating. “Are you serious?”
He stretches his neck, and then he shakes his head. “No.”
I can’t help snickering. Damn him. “You’re stalling. Have you changed your mind about running?”
“I’ll admit to being nervous. Your calves are intimidating as hell. I didn’t see them well last night. Makes me think this is going to be painful.”
Holding in my laughter, I turn away and wave good-bye. “Suit yourself,” I say over my shoulder.
As expected, Carter catches up, and we walk in silence toward the beach.
We park ourselves under a divi-divi, its leaves creating an irregular swath of much-needed shade across what will soon become sun-drenched white sand. It’s an iconic tree in Aruba, for sure. Kind of like a bonsai tree in reverse, its artistry emanating from the trunk that’s seemingly carved into submission and forced to point in the direction of the winds. Every online travel guide included it on the must-see list, and now I understand why.
Carter traces the tree’s tightly coiled branches. “This is incredible.” Wearing an intense gaze, he circles the trunk, which splits into branches that jut out at an almost ninety-degree angle. “How do they get like this?” He resumes his exploration, his long fingers ghosting over the plant delicately. Would he worship a woman’s body with the same reverence? Dammit. Why did that thought pop into my head? It’s time to get Carter away from any island vegetation, obviously.
“A natural wonder,” I say as I point and flex my calves before dropping into a walking lunge. “Hey, Carter, join me, huh?”
Carter turns away from the tree and rotates his hips in a circular motion. “You do this every day?”
I shake my head and move into a stork stretch. “I do some form of physical fitness daily, but running is usually reserved for the weekends.”
Carter mirrors my stance. “You said you run with someone at home?”
The question reminds me that Eva envisioned this beach scenario differently. “Find yourself a local,” she advised, “and have cake by the ocean.” When I gave her a blank look, she smacked her forehead and said, “Sex, Tori. Have sex. The kind where you get nasty sand burns.”
Until then, I’d had no idea what the lyrics to “Cake by the Ocean” were about. But I can always rely on Eva to educate me. After I met her during my first year at Temple, my pop culture literacy reached Mensa levels. “Yeah,” I tell Carter. “My roommate usually runs with me.”
“I’ll try to do him justice, then,” he says.
Fishing for information much, Carter? “Her.”
He smiles brightly. “Ah.”
“The concierge mapped out a four-mile route starting at Palm Beach, running along the main road that parallels the water, and ending at the California Lighthouse. If you’re game, we can run there and back for an eight-mile workout.”
His eyebrows shoot up, and then he coughs. “Yeah, that should be fine.”
We start at a jogging pace. The road is clear and largely populated by early morning runners like us. I’m enjoying the rhythm of our footsteps and the crashing of the nearby waves.
Not even five minutes into it, Carter slows to a stroll and points ahead. “Look. It’s a Dunkin’ Donuts.” There’s wonder in his voice, like he’s spotted a unicorn.
“There’s a Starbucks at the hotel,” I say, unimpressed.
“Not the same thing at all,” he says as he veers toward the door.
Okay, I’ll give him this one. Abuela’s café con leche can’t be replicated. Even my mother’s version is only a close approximation, so if DD is his thing, who am I to judge? Nevertheless, I pull him back and point two fingers at my eyes. “Focus.”
He tilts his head and drops his shoulders. “Right.”
Five minutes later, he again slows down when he sees a row of street vendors. “Look, Tori. Bracelets. And charms. And stuff.” Now he’s waving his hands like Vanna White. And pretending to be excited.
“Carter, if you didn’t want to run why’d you agree to join me?”
He stops and dons an innocent expression. “Me? Not want to run? What makes you say that?”
Now I employ the infamous side-eye. “The fact that we’ve only managed an eighth of a mile in ten minutes.”
“Sorry, I’m easily distracted. But that’s not fair to you. Let me buy a drink and then we can get going. Do you want something?”
I shake my head and point to the fanny pack he detests so much.
He motions to a vendor selling fresh coconut water. “One, please.” He turns to me. “This is okay, right?”
“Actually, it is. Full of electrolytes and not a lot of sodium. Good choice, Carter.”
He beams at me, and then he pays the vendor. As we walk, he sips the coconut water through a straw. “Oh, that’s good. Nothing like the ready-made ones in the stores.” He holds the coconut in front of me. “You sure you don’t want any?”
<
br /> I lean over and take a sip. It has the characteristic sweet and nutty flavor I adore. “That’s how they tasted when my grandfather pulled them off the tree in his backyard.”
Carter stares at my lips but quickly drops his gaze to the ground.
“What?” I say as I wipe my mouth.
He takes another sip of his drink. “Nothing. So . . . your grandfather had a coconut tree?”
“Yeah. In Puerto Rico. He’d twist one off the bunch and chop the tops off with a machete. My sister and I would wait for him to pour the water into our cups. We’d have the ice and straw ready.”
“Do you still see him?”
“No. My grandparents passed away a long time ago. My grandfather first and then my grandmother about five years later. I have lots of great memories of them, though. Are your grandparents still alive?”
“On my mother’s side, yes. And my grandfather still chases my grandmother like they’re youngsters. Grandpa James is a player.”
I chuckle, imagining Carter’s grandfather literally chasing his grandmother around the house. “Good for them.”
We walk in silence a bit, and there’s this ease to us being together that makes me feel like I’ve walked along this road with Carter before. I decide just to enjoy it, taking in the scenery and enjoying the morning breeze. Somewhere along the way, though, we acquire a small following, in the form of two stray dogs.
My chest tightens. I’ve never encountered a wild dog, but I’ve seen enough stories in the news to know they’re nothing to be cavalier about. “Carter, don’t flick the juice off your hands and don’t make any sudden movements. We have stray dogs behind us.”
Ignoring my instructions, Carter whips around and jumps back. One of the dogs, a mangy mixed breed with short ears, bares its teeth, and the other dog, a black Lab mix with matted fur and saliva hanging from its mouth, begins to bark aggressively.
My heart races like a Thoroughbred—and I sure as hell hope I’ll be able to move like one, too. “Drop the coconut and run,” I yell.
This time Carter listens to me and chucks the coconut across the road, and then we run like we’re being chased by wild dogs—because we are.
But within seconds, the gap between us and them widens, and it becomes clear that these dogs either can’t or aren’t interested in expending any energy to catch us. Still, Carter looks like he’s competing in an Olympic track meet or reenacting Tom Hanks’s infamous sprint in Forrest Gump, and I match him stride for stride, the dogs nowhere close to our heels. I’m so overwhelmed by the ridiculousness of the situation that I burst out laughing as tears stream down my face. “Run, Carter, run!”
