1
Amara
The thing about running away from your problems is that you have to actually run far enough. Eight hundred miles and one resort villa apparently don’t cut it.
I’m crouched in the sand at 11:52 PM on New Year’s Eve, cursing under my breath while trying to light a paper lantern I don’t even want to launch.
But the wind keeps killing my flame.
Even the weather’s got a sense of irony tonight.
This is what freedom looks like.
You and a cheap lighter having an existential crisis on a beach.
The resort staff pressed this lantern into my hands a few moments ago because apparently someone in management decided to borrow traditions from the Far East for tonight’s festivities. Because why stick to normal Bahamian New Year’s celebrations when you can appropriate the Lantern Festival, which, for the record, is traditionally reserved for Lunar New Year, not December 31st, and transplant it to aCaribbeanbeach?
Cultural authenticity aside, the whole thing is also technically illegal in the Bahamas, but hey, what do I know? I’m just a corporate litigator.
But here I am anyway, trying to participate in this ridiculous imported ritual because the alternative was staying at the villa’s main pavilion watching drunk couples make out at midnight while pretending I’m fine being alone.
Which I am.
Totally fine.
The lighter sparks again and dies. I cup my hand around it, lean closer. The fuel cell at the base of the lantern refuses to cooperate.
“Come on,” I mutter, clicking the lighter again.
I give up on my current position and start walking farther down the beach, away from the main pavilion’s glow. At least the wind keeps the no-see-ums at bay. Small mercies. Those invisible little bastards are basically the Bahamas’ way of reminding you that paradise comes with terms and conditions. Specifically, the condition that at dusk you will be consumed alive by midges so tiny you can’t see them unless you’re absolutely slathered in bug spray. It’s well past sunset now, so in theory they’ve clocked out for the night. Then again, if they’re anything like me, they don’t respect normal working hours. So good thing we have the wind playing backup security.
The darkness thickens around me as I walk farther, though “darkness” is a relative term on a clear Bahamian night. Above me, the sky is doing that whole tropical celestial show-off thing. Moon bright enough to read by, stars so thick they look like someone spilled glitter across black velvet. It’s annoyingly beautiful. The kind of beautiful that would be romantic if I wasn’t actively avoiding romance. Plus people from the resort have already started releasing their illegal lanterns. Above me, glowing paper wishes float up, adding to the celestial show.
Maybe out here, away from the crowd, I can finally launch my own lantern. Or at least no one will witness my ongoing battle with basic fire safety.
I turn right, walking parallel to the water until the resort is just a wash of cozy orange light.
The beach here is dotted with darker shapes. Folded umbrellas. Stacked chairs. The occasional abandoned beach towel. All the detritus of a resort day winding down into a resort night. I navigate around them carefully, because adding “tripped over beach furniture” to tonight’s highlight reel seems excessive even for me.
I stop at what feels like a good spot. Private. Dark enough that my failure won’t have an audience.
“Okay,” I say to the lantern. “Third time’s the charm. That’s legally binding in the universe of clichés, right?”
I cup my hand around the lighter. I angle my body to block the wind, stepping to the side, but then my hip catches something solid.
There’s a scraping sound, the brief sensation of wood tipping, and then soft thumps as multiple objects hit the sand around me.
“Shit.”
I abandon my lantern and lighter and scramble to collect what I’ve just knocked over. I can barely make out paper lanterns. At least six of them, rolling away in different directions like they’re personally offended by my very existence.
Which they probably are.
Exhibit A: Why Amara Khan cannot have nice things.
My face is burning. Not from the lighter. From the mortification.
Thank God there’s no one around.
