“You read Beckett’s book. How did it end?”
“Oh. I’m not sure.”
“What?” I ask, confused.
“I read, like, the first fifty pages, and then I skipped around a good bit.”
“You didn’t read the ending?”
“I’m afraid not, Mel. Ididread all the sex scenes, though, with great interest. I mean, they weren’tmycup of tea, you know, but I was mining them for information and was surprised by how similar they were to yours. But no, I didn’t bother with the ending. You can guess with romance. Happily-ever-after. Same thing every time.”
“Right,” I say. “Okay, Ev. That was all.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah. I’m fine. No worries.”I am decidedlynotfine and am actuallyallworries, but nothing this phone call’s going to solve.“Talk soon?”
“Sure thing. Have a good night.”
“You too,” I say, hanging up the phone.
Then, out of options, I gather up my phone and my ice cream and bring them both into my bed. I reach for my hacky sack—I just want to have it nearby—and pick his book up off my nightstand.The Beginning of Everything.What kind of a title is that even?
It’s romantic, sure, but our time in Aruba was theendof everything for me. My whole fucking world fell apart there.
It’s okay, Melody. Breathe. What you’re holding is fiction. Just read it.
I take a bite of chocolate-covered waffle cone, along with a deep breath,and open up to the page I’ve dog-eared.
Welp,I think.Here goes nothing.
We shared a meal that first night, a trio of unlikely travel companions basking in an ambience of light and laughter. Harmony and her mother actively nurtured a remarkable relationship; each breath of consternation over whether the other’s meal was prepared to her liking or whether the coastal breeze was too much made me ache for a familial bond that strong. Perhaps the most wistful truth was that I was better off the way things were.
I opted not to divulge the details of my father’s sudden disappearance from my life at our little dinner party. Decidedly, it wasn’t an appropriate topic for a first date, particularly considering said date involved a third person for whom the stakes of my second impression were rather lofty. Besides, seated at a table for three in paradise, the last thing I wanted to do was let invasive thoughts about my deep childhood disappointments worm their way into my cranial space. Instead, I kept it simple. I asked her to dance under the twinkling strands of lights inside the Cuban restaurant, then, between a spin and a dip, asked her if she’d like a nightcap at the hotel bar after her mother retired for the evening.
She said yes.
We walked back to the hotel from the square, and Harmony’s mom excused herself to turn in early. The elevator doors closed and I found myself face-to-face with Harmony. I drank her in, struck by her perfect rosebud lips and those doe eyes staring back at me. This was a girl who definitely had noidea just how beautiful she was.
“Hey,” she said. “Thanks for being so nice to my mom.”
“Of course,” I replied. “She’s great. But I don’t want to totally encroach on your vacation. This is supposed to be bonding time for you both, I’m sure.”
“It’s okay,” she reassured me. “I mean, yes, this is a special trip for us, but if she was upset, believe me, she’d let me know.” Harmony smiled, and her whole face glowed as we walked toward the bar along the edge of the open-air lobby. “She’s good that way.”
I nodded. “Fair enough. I’ll still try to be mindful of it, though.” Again, I left plenty of words unspoken. I didn’t tell her that if things went well, maybe we could just keep seeing each other back in New York. I didn’t say that no girl had given me goose bumps or butterflies the way she could just by looking at me. I didn’t want her to know how nervous she made me or how I wanted desperately for her to think I was evenworthyof spending vacation time with. Instead, I abandoned all that information in favor of an offer to buy her a drink, like someone much more naturally suave might have done. She said yes, and we sat beside each other at the bar, her nursing a vodka seltzer with extra lime and me enjoying a cold Balashi from the tap.
“So, what do you do?”
“For work, you mean?” she asked, squeezing one of the lime wedges into her glass.
“Yeah.” I sipped the Balashi. It was probably the best beer I’d ever tasted. But then I thought that about the food at dinner too—how it was the best meal I’d ever had. It made me wonder if everything just tasted better when experienced from withinHarmony’s microcosm.
“I’m a writer.”
“Really?” I asked. “What do you write?”
“Poetry. I teach it, too, at Queens College.”
