by Sarina Bowen
“Well, I’m very busy!” Georgia argues.
“How’s that manicure holding up?” Rebecca asks, grabbing her friend’s hand for an inspection.
“Fine.” Georgia tugs her hand away like a naughty child.
I eat another skewer and wonder if I can just stay here on this beach permanently.
“The chef is flagging me down,” Rebecca says.
“Want me to handle it?” her friend offers.
“Nope. You stay here and nibble. I’ll make sure that dinner is almost ready.” She gets up.
“The hardship!” Georgia says, taking her spot. “More margarita?” Georgia says to me. “Oh—you’re drinking soda. Never mind.”
“Thanks, though.”
“Hey, I didn’t make them. So Silas was a bartender? I feel like we should be exploiting that more often. What’s his specialty?”
“Mojitos,” I say, even though it’s the only drink we’ve made together.
“Yum.”
“But let’s talk about your job and the obvious fringe benefits,” I say, as another hockey player dives for the ball. He sort of flops onto the sand, somehow casting the ball into a neat arc with his foot. All the other players cheer.
“I do have a gorgeous workplace,” Georgia says with a happy sigh. “The office itself is okay too.”
“I can see how it might keep your spirits up.”
“Oh, they’re up.” She gives me a smile. “Do you work with a lot of hipsters in music?”
“Well, sometimes. My job definitely has its star-studded moments. But mostly I write music at home in yoga pants and bunny slippers. If I had coworkers, maybe I’d be more skilled at human interaction.”
She laughs. “You have Becky, though. Your publicist.”
“I couldn’t manage without her. Lately she’s doing the work of three people. But poor Becky doesn’t know how she’s missing out.” I watch the athletes clowning against a tropical sunset. “All Becky sees is my grumpy ass, day in and day out.”
“Well, you’ve had some chaos lately. A recent breakup. That must be heartbreaking.”
“Uh… Heartbreaking isn’t the right word.”
“I guess that’s good, right?”
“Sure. Although if I were truly heartbroken, I’d be less embarrassed. I should have walked away a long time ago.” Brett never loved me. He probably isn’t even capable of love.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. For a long time I confused his attention with love. He made my life easier, so I let him. I wanted a minder, and he wanted the job.”
“I can see how that could happen.”
I steal a glance at her. “Can you? It’s okay if you’re just saying so to be polite. Because I didn’t follow any of my own hunches. But in my defense, I always thought you had to be a meek person to end up in a controlling relationship. I didn’t know it could happen to cynical people like me.”
It happened, though. I grew up with nobody. Before Brett, nobody in my life had ever tried to take care of me. When he did, it seemed like a miracle. Even if I knew in my gut it wasn’t love, it still scratched an itch that I’d had all my life.
“I’ve never been with a controlling man,” Georgia admits. “But I have been young and stupid.”
“Yeah. I guess it just stuck to me a little longer. This isn’t even the first time I broke up with Brett. But it sure will be the last. Every time I walked out on him, it was because I suspected him of cheating. But it was always just a feeling I had. I never could prove it. There would be a weird lipstick stain, or a night out of town that wasn’t easily explained.” Or a voice in the background of a phone call. I’d ignored a lot.
“Oh, ouch.”
“Finally he was busted in the tabloids, and I didn’t have to give him the benefit of the doubt anymore.” I didn’t have to try to make Brett Ferris love me anymore. It was like quitting a bad job. I was more relieved than sad.
“Oh, geez,” Georgia says. “I’m sorry.”
Someone plays a flourish on a set of steel drums.
“The dinner bell! Let’s eat.” Georgia leaps off her chair. “Sorry for my excitement, I have a really fast metabolism.”
She’s not the only one. Silas is already jogging toward me with a smile on his face. “Ready to eat?”
“Of course.”
On our way toward the dinner tent, we join hands, and somehow it feels completely natural to me. Silas doesn’t let go until we reach the buffet, where he hands me a plate. “Would you look at this? I’m going to weigh five extra pounds an hour from now.”
“Me too.” I’ve never seen so much food in one place. I take a portion of Caesar salad and a dinner roll. But let’s face it—I’m really here for the grilled fish tacos, the jerk chicken, savory rice, and crispy plantains. There’s a tropical-fruit salad, too.
We sit down at a table with Jason, Heidi, Leo, Georgia, and the head coach for the Brooklyn Bruisers—who I quickly learn is Georgia’s father.
“Every day is take-your-daughter-to-work day,” he says when I figure out their connection.
“Bullshit!” Georgia makes a face. “I had the job first. You’re the interloper.”
“Becca actually put a plaque on the wall of her office,” Leo volunteers. “It says, I was here first.”
“Damn straight.”
Silas pats my knee under the table and laughs at his friend’s joke. His friends all radiate health and self-confidence. It would be disgusting if they weren’t so nice.
I pick up my fork and dig in.
Silas
The satisfaction I feel sitting beside Delilah at dinner cannot be underestimated. Not only am I happy to finally feed the poor girl, but I’ve been craving this for three years—a few easy moments in her company.
I have nice friends, so that part is easy, too. For me, anyway. I get the feeling that Delilah is less confident than she lets on. Back in California, she always seemed unshakable to me. Cocky, even.
But none of us really are, right? Delilah’s confidence has its limits, just like mine.
“What does the rest of your summer look like?” Heidi asks her. “Isn’t this the season of big, outdoor venues?”
“Usually,” Delilah says slowly. “But my new album hasn’t come out, so there’s no tour yet.” She shakes her head. “I have one big concert in California, at the music festival where I met Ralph the first time.”
“Ralph!” Georgia giggles.
“I thought we talked about this,” I say, poking Delilah’s arm.
“That one was an accident. I swear.” She picks up a cornbread mini-muffin and pops it in her mouth.
“Ralph ought to fly out for that concert for old time’s sake,” Heidi says. “And he should probably take his roommates, just to be nice.”
“I could probably scrape up a few tickets in the first couple of rows,” Delilah says.
Heidi squeals.
“Maybe Silas can finally give you that surfing lesson,” Jason says. “And me too, right? I want to surf.” He tugs on his girlfriend’s ponytail. “Let me guess. You already surf.”
“Just a little,” Heidi says.
“What does just a little mean to you?” I ask Heidi. She is one of those people who is mysteriously good at everything.
“I only won one competition.” She waves a hand like it’s nothing.
Jason just shakes his head.
“Oh!” Georgia stands up suddenly. “I have to say my thing before people get up and wander off.” She picks up a water glass and a spoon, pulls back her chair, and climbs onto it. Leo braces the chair with one hand and eats another chicken wing with the other.
Georgia clinks the spoon on the glass, loudly, and heads swivel in our direction. “Good evening, friends!” she begins. “I want you all to know that last year Rebecca planned my wedding. She did everything from choosing the dresses I tried on, down to the bunches of…” She makes a motion with her hands. “What are those tight little bouquets called…?”
“Nosegays!” Rebecca calls from two tables away.
“Right! Because that’s something every girl should know.” Everyone laughs. “We all have our skill sets. Anyway—I want you all to know that I offered to plan Rebecca’s wedding. Fair is fair, right? But she would only give me one job, and that’s tonight. I planned the after-dinner entertainment! When you’ve finished your meal, please make your way to the great lawn for carnival games.”
A cheer goes up.
“No way!” I holler, because that sounds awesome.
“Yeah, if you’d left your bedroom at all today,” my roommate says, “you might have seen them setting up.”
Georgia holds up a hand, asking for continued silence. “You might notice that no dessert or coffee have been served. They’re at the carnival, too. But you have to win a ticket—or a ticket for your sweetheart—to claim something at the dessert stand. Since I’m surrounded by two hundred of the most competitive people on Earth, I’m thinking that’s going to be fun to watch. Good luck, everyone. I’ll see you over at my favorite game of all. It’s called Dunk the Hockey Player.”
“Uh-oh,” Leo says as she climbs down. “Please tell me you didn’t really get a dunking tank.”
“Oh, I absolutely did. You’re wearing swim trunks, anyway.”
Leo sighs. “Did you take any practice shots during setup?”
“What do you think?” Georgia asks.
He gets up without her.
“Where are you going?” Georgia calls as Leo turns away.
“To get towels. Duh. See you over there.”
“Georgia is clearly a genius,” I tell Delilah as we stroll down the impromptu midway. There’s a ring toss, Skee-Ball, and a booth with pop guns capable of firing corks at a stack of soda cans. It’s all set up on the vast lawn in front of the mansion house.
The air smells like warm wind and sea salt. And nearly everyone I care about in the world is standing around me, their faces lit by candle torches and tiny string lights.
Delilah’s hand is in mine, and it feels like it belongs there.
We stop in front of a basketball shooting game, where O’Doul and my retired teammate Bayer are already talking smack. Apparently ice cream isn’t high enough stakes for these two.
“Ten bucks a ball,” Bayer says.
“Twenty,” O’Doul counters.
His girlfriend Ariana just crosses her arms. “Would somebody just sink one so I can have ice cream?”
“You’re sporty,” I remind her. She’s our yoga instructor. “Not a basketball fan?”
She shakes her head. “I bend things and balance things. I don’t throw things.”
“We gotcha covered.” Bayer, without turning around, throws the basketball backwards over his shoulder, sinking it on the first try.
Ding! the machine chimes, spitting out a ticket with an ice cream cone printed on it.
“Works for me,” Ari says, tearing the ticket out of the machine.
“I am so fucked, aren’t I?” O’Doul asks.
“This is going to be fun,” Bayer says with a chuckle.
Ari shrugs. “Sink one for Delilah before you start the Great Basketball Battle of the Century.”
“I want to win my own,” Delilah says. “But not at basketball.” She glances around. “Actually, this might take a while.”
Ariana laughs. “I’ll be eating ice cream and staying out of trouble.”
We stroll on, hand in hand. “What should we play first?” I ask her. “The ring toss looks hard. Those rifles might be fun. Or pick something where I don’t have to let go of your hand.” I lift her palm to my mouth and kiss it.
Her eyes go a little soft. “I’m not great at throwing things, either. But that looks like fun.” She leads me toward the bouncy obstacle course. “We could have a bet, too. Loser pays the winner ten bucks for every second he comes in behind.”
“That could add up,” I say with a shake of my head. “I don’t want to take your money. Do you want a head start?
“Head starts are for sissies.” She toes off her sandals.
“You talk a good game.” I step out of my flip-flops. “But no crying afterwards. Deal?”
“Please remove your shoes,” says a bored-looking young man who’s stationed in front of the inflated red archway that marks the beginning of the course.
“Got it,” I say, resisting the urge to point out that we’re standing in the grass in bare feet. “Thanks.”
“Thirty seconds until your race starts.”
“Thanks,” Delilah says, giving me a fierce glance. “Is there anything I should know? You’re not the league champion at bouncy courses or anything, right?”
“Never done this before in my life,” I admit. “But there is the whole professional athlete thing.”
“And the eight percent body fat,” she adds.
“It’ll be nine after I win the first ice cream.”
“And, go!” says the worker.
All I see is the back of Delilah’s head as she shoots through the arch ahead of me.
I should have seen that coming. But I take off after her, and since my legs are longer, we reach the inflatable climbing wall at the same time.
Like some kind of sexy spider monkey, Delilah has found her first handholds and footholds before I’ve even assessed the challenge.
But my arms and legs are longer than hers, and I’m a goalie, so I’m super limber for a dude. Three seconds later, I’m halfway up the wall in just two lunges. “How’s it going down there?” I ask the top of Delilah’s head.
“Not bad,” she puffs, reaching for her next handhold. “Wouldn’t get complacent if I were you.”
I laugh. But laughter is dangerous. It shakes my body just enough to dislodge my foot from the weird rubber ledge where I’ve stashed it.
Before I even know what’s happened, I’m bouncing on my ass at the bottom of the wall.
“Guys, look! Silas is getting dusted by a girl.”
I hear my teammates laughing somewhere behind me. But I’m already grabbing at the wall again.
Above me, Delilah clings like a cat as the wall ripples under my bulk. The second it calms again, she climbs one more step and then disappears over the top.
Huh.
Concentrating now, I scale the wall. There’s a slide at the top, which I careen down just as Delilah is righting herself at the bottom. As I slide, she disappears into a forest of man-sized tubes poking up from the bouncy floor. As if she were ducking between a giant’s whiskers.
I plop to the bottom of the slide with a jaw-jarring bounce, giving myself a world-class wedgie. But this is no time to worry about personal comfort. I spring forward, plowing between the inflatable obstacles, pushing blindly onward.
I can’t see Delilah, but I can hear her laughing up ahead of me. When I emerge from the forest, her arms are just disappearing through a low tube on the left. So I dive headfirst through the one on the right. It pitches downward at an angle I wasn’t expecting, and I hear myself yell as I accelerate toward the unknown.
We both land with a bounce and a gasp on the other side.
“Omigod!” she squeals from her back.
“That was kind of like being flushed down a bouncy toilet,” I gasp.
She rolls over. “We’re not done.” And off she goes.
By the time I’m on my feet, Delilah is making her way up another wall. This one has two thick ropes, one for each of us to grab as we haul ourselves upward. Instead of leaping for my rope, I reach up and catch Delilah by the hips, holding her in place, preventing her progress.
“Silas!” she shrieks.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Were you going somewhere?”
She lets go of the rope, destabilizing me.
Falling is sort of a secondary specialty that all hockey players cultivate. So I brace her in my arms and lie neatly back on the inflated surface until we both bounce to a stop.
Delilah rolls out of my arms. When she looks down at me, she’s flushed. Hair w
ild. Eyes bright. “If you weren’t so good in bed, I might actually be irritated right now.”
I laugh, and she kisses me once, quickly. Then she leaps up and scrambles over the wall.
And I chase after her.
We swing over a gap like Tarzan and Jane. I hold back a couple of seconds just so I can watch Delilah’s hair fly past the darkening sky and hear her whoop of joy. All that’s left after that is a quick scramble through a corkscrew thing that looks like it belongs in a Dr. Seuss book.
Panting, we roll up at nearly the same moment to another archway, where an employee waits with ice cream tickets. Delilah slides her toe over the line first. “Better luck next time, Mr. Professional Athlete.”
She gives me a glee-filled smile and takes her ice cream ticket.
“Do I get one for almost tying?” I ask the attendant.
“Sure.” He hands me one. “You know you don’t even need the ticket, right?”
I do know that. This place is a fantasy land constructed to give rich people pleasure. “Thank you,” I say. “Have a nice night.”
Nothing here is real. I’m all too aware of that as I slip my hand into Delilah’s, and we reclaim our shoes. In three days we’ll be headed back to our regular lives.
I dread it.
“What flavor are you getting?” Delilah squeezes my hand as we head for the ice cream stand, where a cute young woman with ebony skin is serving sundaes and cones.
“Do I have to pick just one kind?” I ask.
“They have German chocolate,” Delilah says, letting out a low moan. “I need that in my life.”
Forget ice cream. I need that sound she just made in my life. We’ve had our clothes on for maybe two hours. And it already feels like too long.
When it’s our turn, the young woman staffing the dessert stand turns to us. She lets out the kind of high-pitched shriek that shatters glass in cartoons. “Oh my God!” She clutches her face. “Delilah Spark! OH MY GOD.” She darts around the stand and grabs Delilah’s hand, like they’re long-lost friends. “This is amazing! Can we take a photo?”
