“Let me walk you back to the bungalow,” he offered, his hand still on my arm.
“I can manage,” I insisted, taking a step and promptly stumbling over absolutely nothing. “Oops! The sand jumped up and attacked me. Very aggressive sand you have here.”
“Sure it did,” he said, wrapping an arm around my waist. “But humor me.”
I was too dizzy to argue. The combination of sun, alcohol, and emotional confessions had left me thoroughly disoriented. I leaned into Callan more than I’d intended as we made our way down the path to the guest house.
“You know what’s really sad?” I said as we walked, my filter completely dissolved by rum. “I haven’t had sex since Austin. That’s more than two years of cel... celi... not having sex. My vagina probably has cobwebs.”
Callan made a choking sound. “I’m sure that’s not anatomically possible.”
“You don’t know. It could be like an abandoned house down there. Dusty. Haunted. Full of spiders. The ghosts of orgasms past, rattling their chains and moaning sadly. A condemned building with a sign that says ‘Do Not Enter’ but really means ‘Please, Someone, Anyone, Enter Before I Forget How This Works.’”
“This is a fascinating metaphor,” he said, clearly struggling to keep a straight face.
“It’s not funny,” I pouted. “It’s tragic. I’m a tragic figure. Like... like Jane Eyre. Or Hamlet. But with less murder and more... more sexual frustration. Sexual-Frustra-Hamlet. That’s me.”
“Hamlet died in the end,” Callan pointed out as we reached the bungalow. “Let’s aim for a less tragic comparison.”
He helped me inside and guided me to the bedroom, where I immediately flopped onto the mattress with a contented sigh. “This bed is amazing,” I mumbled into the pillow. “Like sleeping on a cloud made of dreams and marshmallows and... and really good mattress stuff. What’s in mattresses? Clouds? Baby dreams? Rich people tears?”
“Glad you approve,” he said, sounding amused. “I’ll get you some water.”
He disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a glass, which he set on the nightstand. “Drink this before you sleep,” he instructed. “It’ll help with tomorrow’s headache.”
“You’re so nice,” I said, rolling onto my back to look up at him. The ceiling seemed to be gently undulating, like waves.Very pretty waves. “Why are you so nice to me? You’re s’posed to be a mean rich person. That’s how it works in movies. The rich person is mean until the poor person teaches them the true meaning of Christmas.”
“What if I’m Jewish,” he replied, clearly amused.
“Then the true meaning of... of Hanukkah,” I amended, waving my hand dismissively. “Whatever. You know what I mean. The point is... the point is... what was the point?”
“That I’m being nice to you?” he suggested.
“Yes! That. Why are you so nice to me? Even when I compare my vagina to a haunted house. A very sad, lonely haunted house that misses visitors.”
“I like you,” he said simply. “Even when you compare your vagina to a haunted house.”
“Especially then,” I suggested with a giggle. “You like me because I’m weird. Because I say the things. The things in my brain just come out of my mouth. Like right now.”
“Among other reasons,” he agreed. “Now get some sleep.”
“Stay,” I said impulsively, reaching for his hand. “Just for a little while. Please? Pretty please with sugar and cherries and whipped cream and sprinkles and... and all the other ice cream things?”
Something flickered in his eyes. “Anica, you’re drunk. Like, really, really drunk. Olympic-level drunk. Gold medal in the Drunk Olympics drunk.”
“Not that drunk,” I protested, though the way the ceiling was gently spinning suggested otherwise. “Just drunk enough to be honest. An’ honestly, I don’t want to be alone right now. Too many... thinky thoughts. Brain won’t shut up. Need comp’ny.”
He sighed, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed. “Fine. I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”
“You’re a gentl’man,” I said, patting his arm clumsily. “A gentl’man with very nice arms. Have I mentioned your arms arenice? Because they are. Very nice. All... arm-like. Good at arm stuff. Lifting. Carrying. Arm... ing.”
“I believe that’s the textbook definition of arms,” he agreed, chuckling under his breath.
“Don’t laugh at me,” I pouted. “I’m eloquent. I’m just also drunk. Very drunk. The most drunk. Never been this drunk before. Except maybe when Austin... when the napkins... y’know.”
“I know,” he said softly, his expression sobering. “I’m sorry he did that to you.”
“Me too,” I said, feeling suddenly melancholy. “But then I wouldn’t be here with you if it hadn’t. Silver linings and stuff. Cloud linings? Whatever the saying is. The good part of bad stuff.”
