Mom laughed. “In fact it is, yes! Birdie is short for Bridget. But since I was Bridget Paulson for my entire songwriting career, I have my friends call me Birdie.” She smirked at Beckett. “Lovers too.”
“Mom!” I cried. She was laying it on so thick, and he had no idea. “You’re such a ballbuster! She’s fine,” I said to Beckett, who was carefully guiding her through the vibrant-but-thankfully-small island airport. “She can walk on her own. Andlovers? Really, Mom?”
“Darling, you have no idea the things I do in my free time.” She waved her hand at me, as if shooing away my foolish interjection. But her grin gave her away, letting Beckett know it was all in good fun.
“Ew,” I added.
“I’m all for healthy sexuality,” she refrained.
“And this will be where we leave you and never speak to you again,” I said to Beckett, approaching the baggage carousel. “If for no other reason than my sheer mortification.”
He laughed. “Please don’t. You two are like a comedy act.” Beckett looked at Mom. She dropped his arm and squeezed his hand before she let go.
“My daughter here has become a bit overly concerned for me in recent months. I just want her to let loose and live a little.”
“I hear one can do that in Aruba,” Beckett replied.
“I plan to,” I said. “I just need a lounge chair, a cold drink, and a book, and I’ll be all set.”
“Bor-ing,” Mom sang. “She needs adventure.”
“Well, lucky for you, Miss Paulson, we’re staying at the same hotel,” Beckett said. “Maybe we can go on an excursion together or something.”
“Please, call me Birdie. And yes. One hundred percent, she should excurt. Excurt? Is that a word?”
“No, Mom. I don’t think so.”
“Brilliant, this one,” my mom pointed at me. “She’s an author. Did you know? Very famous.”
“I am definitelynotfamous.”
“So modest! Beckett, do you like to read?”
He nodded. “I do. In fact, you won’t believe this,” he said.
Mom’s eyes opened wide. “What is it?”
“I’m writing a novel,” he leaned in and said to her, as if the two of them were sharing a secret.
“You stop that right now! Are you serious?” She all but jumped for joy.
“It’s true,” he admitted, with a grin that could light up a Christmas tree.
My mom clapped her hands. “Well. This certainlyisan exciting development. I feel as though the stars have aligned here.” She stopped, and her expression grew serious. “Do you two feel that?” she asked.
“What?” I replied, giving Beckett a sideways glance.
“It’s…magic,” Mom declared.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s maybe dial it down a touch there.”
“You mark my words,” she said. “Something about this”—here, she waved at the space between me and Beckett—“is very special.”
The bags began to circle around on the conveyor belt, which ended the conversation. I pulled mine off, then Beckett found his, and then I grabbed Mom’s. I shoved my fleece jacket into the little space that was left in my suitcase, and then we made our way outside the airport into the blazing heat. The taxi stand awaited us just steps away, and we were ushered into a passenger van quite efficiently.
Our hotel was just minutes from the airport, and on the ride there I took in as much scenery as I could. I felt the warm, dry air embrace my sun-starved skin. I heard the rhythm of a distant drum beat mix with the engines of boats speeding around on the endless expanse of teal water to my left, and I saw small groups of locals sitting underneath palm trees in the shade, sharing either a late breakfast or an early lunch. It was clean, bright,and so beautiful that I was struck by the feeling of hope that blossomed in my chest as we neared the hotel.
It was almost as if, just for a moment, I forgot the reason we were there in the first place.
