Sunscreen & Coconuts

by Eliza Lentzski

  The scent of marinara and garlic hung heavily in the air. The restaurant lights had been dimmed, and the flickering candle on our table struggled mightily to make up for the lack of overhead lighting. Boston’s North End neighborhood was a bit of a tourist trap in the summer, but in early February, we were practically the only ones in the restaurant.

  Bethany sat across from me at the table for two. A breadbasket and olive oil sat between us on the red and white-checkered tablecloth.

  She used a fork and spoon to capture a particularly large nest of spaghetti noodles. “I was surprised to get your text.”

  I took a sip from my water, obfuscating red wine for the night. “Really? Why?”

  There was no point in admitting I couldn’t remember sending the text. At least all of the words had been spelled correctly. Beyond the unexpectedness of my phone message, there was no reason for her to have suspected I’d been blackout drunk when I’d sent the text; it had barely been 10:00 p.m. at the time, but I’d been drinking since the workday had ended.

  “We haven’t really spoken much lately,” she noted. “I thought maybe you were only using me as a fish-sitter. How’s Greg, by the way?”

  “Still swimming,” I confirmed.

  “That’s good to hear. How’s the semester going?”

  “Really well,” I admitted. “My students are great, my parents this year are even better—very involved.”

  “That’s great. I heard from Jackie that you guys just got a big donation, too,” she noted as the conversation began to pick up steam.

  My fork slipped against my plate and I nearly lost my handle on the utensil completely. I wasn’t particularly graceful most of the time, so she didn’t make note of my awkwardness. Jackie was my school’s librarian. She was a mutual friend and the person who’d originally set Bethany and me up.

  I shoved a piece of garlic bread into my mouth. “Uh huh,” came my muffled reply.

  “She couldn’t stop gushing about the new computers in the library,” Bethany added. “And she said it was a total surprise, too—that nobody really knows where the money came from?”

  “Yeah.” I didn’t trust myself to elaborate beyond that. I cleared my throat. I was hopeful she wouldn’t interpret my awkwardness as anything more than first-date jitters. “So, uh, have you read any good books lately?”

  At the conclusion of dinner, we walked back to the subway together. An icy wind blew off of the ocean, so we walked at a brisk pace instead of a post-dinner leisurely stroll. Bethany lived south of the city while I was traveling west, so we parted ways just beyond the subway turnstile.

  “I had fun tonight,” she observed.

  “I did, too,” I said in earnest. It wasn’t a lie; I’d always found conversation with her to be easy. We had a lot in common from favorite TV shows to our worldviews.

  “I’m glad you reached out,” she continued.

  I didn’t have the chance to agree with her again; the mechanized voice over the loudspeaker was announcing the arrival of my outbound train.

  Bethany smiled tightly, visibly agitated that our goodnight had been cut short. “Better hurry.”

  I leaned forward and gave her a brief, but tight hug. As an afterthought, I kissed her on the cheek. I could hear the screeching of my wheels as my subway train slowed to a stop.

  I yelled over my shoulder as I bounded down concrete steps to the westbound platform: “Travel safe!”

  I was able to glide in between the train’s doors just before they closed behind me.

  The train was typically packed with commuters, but it was late enough in the evening that people were already at home. I fiddled with my phone during the ride, mentally wrestling with myself about sending Bethany another text message. The night had been fine—no awkward silences, no social faux pas, plenty of laughs and genuine smiles. It was everything a person could hope for from a second First Date. I knew Bethany; I was comfortable around her, and we got along well. I couldn’t recall any major shouting matches when we’d been dating and we’d even broken up under amicable terms.

  It was a short walk from my subway stop to my apartment building. I continued to weigh the pros and cons of a second attempt at happiness with Bethany, but the sides of the scales were too evenly matched.

  I climbed the stairs to my apartment but stopped short of my door when I saw the bouquet of flowers on my welcome mat. A dozen long-stemmed roses were carefully arranged in a glass vase, accompanied by a small balloon, shaped like a heart. I looked around in the immediate vicinity for whomever had delivered them, but, finding no one, I unlocked my front door and brought the flowers inside.

  I found the small envelope attached to the heart-shaped balloon. Inside was a piece of cardstock with unfamiliar handwriting--probably the florist who’d delivered the bouquet.

  Thank you for a night as beautiful as these roses. – Bethany

  There was no possible way Bethany could have ordered the flowers for delivery after our dinner—my commute home wasn’t that long. She must have pre-ordered flowers so they would be waiting for me at the end of the night.

  The flowers arrived on my doorstep along with unsettling guilty feeling. I didn’t want to lead Bethany on. I really liked her company, but could we ever get that spark back? Had we even had a spark to begin with? Lesbian Death Bed had crept up on us too early in the relationship.

  I set the vase of roses on my coffee table and began to go through my pre-sleep routine.

  I should have texted Bethany to thank her for the flowers. An actual phone call would have been more appropriate. I should have immediately acknowledged the gift, but I couldn’t rush back into anything until I knew exactly what I wanted.

  But there was one thing I knew for certain. She didn’t taste like sunscreen.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I opened my apartment door after hearing Racy’s signature knock. “Happy Galentine’s Day!” My friend swooped into my apartment and raised two paper grocery bags. “I brought tequila!”

  It had been our tradition since reconnecting in Boston to spend the Hallmark holiday with each other, eating enchiladas and getting moderately buzzed on margaritas. This year it was my turn to host, which meant that Racy was responsible for bringing the alcohol.

  Homemade chicken enchiladas in a tomatillo sauce baked in the oven. Guacamole ingredients were spread out on my kitchen counters. I’d already juiced fresh limes for the margaritas and had only to crush ice cubes and mix everything together.

  Racy called to me from the living room. “Who are the flowers from?”

  I grimaced, realizing my mistake. The roses Bethany had sent me after our date were still on my coffee table. They were on their last leg, but I’d been too lazy to dump them out.

  I turned on the electric blender and drowned out Racy’s question with the sound of ice being pummeled in the blender.

  “Sorry, what?” I yelled over the noise.

  When she asked her question again, I hit the pulse button on the blender.

  I couldn’t evade her question forever though. Racy poked her head around the corner into my galley kitchen. “I said ‘Flowers? From who?’”

  “From whom.”

  Racy rolled her eyes. “Does one of your first graders have another crush?”

  “No. They’re, uh, they’re from Bethany.”

  “No! Why?!”

  “We went on a date last week,” I revealed.

  “No! Why?!”

  “Why? Why not?” I said, growing defensive by her reaction.

  “Because you’re friends!” she exclaimed. “God—you and I have more sexual chemistry than you and the librarian.”

  “That’s not fair,” I frowned.

  “No, what’s not fair is that you’re rebounding with Bethany. You can’t do that to the poor girl.”

  “Rebounding?” I scoffed. “From who?”

  “From whom.”

  “Whom,” I said with increasing agitation.

  “From your Gilded Age
heiress, obviously.”

  I snorted at the suggestion. “In order for me to rebound from someone, first we would’ve had to have been in a relationship.”

  “Relationships come in all shapes and sizes,” Racy remarked.

  “When did you become the relationship expert? None of your relationships last longer than a weekend,” I deflected, feeling myself growing angrier.

  Racy held up her hands like a shield. “I know, I know. I’m the last one to talk. But as someone who’s an expert in short-term relationships and avoiding commitment, hear me out.”

  I folded my arms across my chest in a defensive posture, but I remained silent so Racy could say her peace. There was no use fighting it, really—she was going to tell me what she thought regardless if I solicited her advice or not.

  “You like Kate. You find her attractive, charming, smart, and funny.” She ticked off Kate’s qualities on her fingers. “Plus, you’d probably be jobless if she hadn’t donated all that money to your school.”

  “Just because I feel indebted to her doesn’t mean I want to be with her.”

  “Exactly. I think this money thing is clouding your judgment. I know how funny you get about finances and who pays for what.”

  “Whom,” I reflexively corrected.

  Racy shot me an impatient look before continuing. “If Kate hadn’t given your school all that money, I think you’d be all over her.”

  “We live in different parts of the world.”

  “Which can very easily be remedied with money,” Racy emphasized as if trying to convince a child.

  “What are you suggesting?” I posed.

  “Swallow your pride for once, Mercy; let someone treat you. If Kate wants to buy you an airplane ticket every other weekend so you can take turns seeing each other, why wouldn’t you do it?”

  I shook my head. “That’s not what a relationship looks like.”

  “Yeah, not on those black-and-white sitcoms you watch,” she agreed. “But just a generation ago people wouldn’t have agreed to two women having a relationship together either.”

  Racy, for once, had a point, but I was too stubborn to admit it. Besides, I had other misgivings about a relationship with Kate.

  “We’d never see each other,” I protested. “Weekends aren’t enough. I’m a grown ass woman; I deserve more than a long-distance relationship.”

  “I thought you might say that,” Racy observed with a wry grin. “Now I know you only teach first grade—but try to follow my math.”

  I snorted at her comment.

  “I looked it up online, and teachers work 180 days a year.”

  “We work more than that!” I bristled.

  Racy held up a hand. “Save me the speech. I know you work well after 5:00 p.m. and on weekends and on holidays and over summer. You’re an underpaid angel, blah, blah, blah. What I’m saying is you’re in the classroom 180 days out of the year.”

  I relaxed, but not entirely.

  “Now, how many days in a year?”

  “365.”

  “And what’s 365 minus 180?” She didn’t wait for me to do the mental math. “185. You could hypothetically spend time with Kate over half of the days in a year. That’s a lot more than many people in so-called traditional relationships can claim. And just think how much more relaxed you’d be grading spelling quizzes on a tropical beach than this dump of an apartment.”

  I didn’t immediately respond to her logic. “I don’t know what to say,” I admitted.

  “Say I’m right.”

  “Your math is right,” I conceded.

  “And you’d rather pursue a relationship with Kate than stay in your sweatpants with Bethany.”

  She was right about that, too, but I bit my tongue.

  “There’s no way she’d want me anymore,” I lamented. “I was awful to her when she was in town. She’s probably regretting ever meeting me.”

  “She’d be $400,000 richer if she hadn’t,” Racy quipped.

  I shot my friend a dirty look. “Thanks.”

  “Just doing what I can.”

  I put my head in my hands. “God, what do I do?”

  “Here’s a novel idea—start letting people do nice things for you,” Racy proposed. “I’ve got frequent flier miles to get you to Curaçao.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “You think I should just show up?”

  “I think it’s safe to say this girl likes her gestures very grand,” Racy observed.

  I nodded somberly. “You’re right.”

  Now Racy looked surprised. “You’re actually going to do it? You’re actually going to listen to me?”

  “Don’t make me second guess myself!” My voice came out shrill and high pitched.

  Racy produced her cell phone. I couldn’t see the screen, but her head was tilted with determination as her fingers typed out her commands. “There,” she said with a confident finality.

  “There, what?”

  “I booked you a ticket. You should be getting the confirmation e-mail any second.”

  As if on cue, my phone chimed with a new e-mail to my inbox.

  My hands started to shake. “Oh shit. This is happening.”

  Racy jumped in place. “Oh shit. This is happening!”

  + + +

  The butterflies only hit my stomach when my flip-flops hit the blacktop. Securing a plane ticket, packing, and getting to Boston’s airport hadn’t left me with any emotional or mental space to really think about what I was doing. I’d somehow been able to sleep on the flight, knowing that I’d need to hit the ground running once we landed.

  I was admittedly nervous about seeing Kate. What would she think when she saw me? I hoped she’d be happy, but part of me worried she’d be taken aback—maybe even unnerved that I’d shown up unannounced. But I could only reassure myself with the reminder of the coconut she’d left behind and the unnaturally generous donation she’d made to my school.

  I took a taxi from the airport to the resort. It seemed like the most likely place to find her; the sun was out and tourists milled around the all-inclusive resort property with money that needed to be spent. My taxi dropped me off at the front lobby. I bypassed the uniformed women with their tablets and fresh juice at the check-in area and traversed deeper onto the resort’s grounds.

  The makeshift marketplace was busy, crowded with overly eager and aggressive locals trying to separate tourists from their pocket money. Shouts of big sales or “I’ll make you a deal!” followed me as I walked down the center of the shopper’s bazaar. I looked back and forth amongst the carrels, but I couldn’t find coconuts. A man sold hand-woven baskets and hats from palm fronds; another carved and painted miniature surfboards. I saw the caricature artist who drew overly exaggerated facial features on couples’ portraits, and the little old woman who painted your name on a shark tooth, but I couldn’t find Kate.

  Both times that I’d seen her in the marketplace she’d been positioned by a man selling knock-off designer sunglasses and a woman with woven and beaded bracelets. A cart overflowing with vanity license plates was in the space she typically occupied.

  I recognized the woman—Eva—I remembered her name, who had once overseen Kate’s cart while we looked at tidal pools.

  “Hi, excuse me,” I said, announcing my presence. The middle-aged woman looked up from the thread she was weaving into a bracelet. “Have you seen Kate?”

  I was sure it was an unexpected question. The woman looked momentarily confused, narrowing her eyes and furrowing her brow.

  “Short, blonde hair. Hawaiian shirts?” I offered in description.

  The confusion lifted from Eva’s face. “Not today, no.”

  “Do you know where she might be?” I fished.

  “No,” she replied before returning to her work. Apparently our conversation was over.

  As I wasn’t a potential customer, she had little reason to pay attention to me. I wondered if Alexander Hamilton or Andrew Jackson might coax more information out of her, but I d
idn’t want to be insulting.

  I bobbed my head with the dismissal. “Okay. Thank you,” I said, despite her unhelpfulness.

  Having struck out at the resort bazaar, I headed next to the Thirsty Coconut. Maybe she’d sold enough coconuts to satisfy her budget for the day and she’d headed to the fringe bar for a drink.

  My chest tightened as I crossed the resort, passing the buffet restaurant and the winding ocean-side pool. It was a beautiful afternoon on the island—bright blue skies with very little cloud cover—but I was too unsettled to fully appreciate my tropical surroundings. I imagined Kate sitting at the bar, laughing with Jimmy, the ponytailed bartender, not a care in the world, while I rushed around the resort in a panic.

  God, she was frustrating. When I finally found her, I vowed to give her a piece of my mind for having done this to me.

  A familiar surf rock song greeted my ears as I approached the open-sided, thatch-roofed bar. Most of the tables were vacant and the hostess stand was empty as well. I stood just under the roof and scanned the faces of the scattered patrons. My heart sank when I didn’t see any obnoxiously bright flowered shirts or attractive shorthaired blondes. Where could she have been?

  Jimmy, the ponytailed bartender, stood at his post behind the horseshoe-shaped bar. As I approached, he flipped a cardboard coaster out on the bar in front of my place.

  “What can I get you?” he asked. He used the white rag draped over his shoulder to wipe away a condensation ring on the bartop.

  I could have gone for a strong, boozy drink, but I had more pressing matters to take care of.

  “Nothing to drink, thanks,” I rejected. “Have you seen Kate Emerson?”

  He paused in his cleaning of the bartop. “Who?”

  “Sells coconuts? Wears terrible Hawaiian shirts?” I supplied. “Snarky expatriate?”

  “Oh, Kate!” The bartender chuckled to himself. “You threw me off with the Emerson thing. I didn’t know she had a last name.” He picked up a pint glass and ran it through the bar sanitizer device. “I haven’t seen her today, sorry. She usually doesn’t come in until evening. Have you tried the resort shops?”