This summer is going to be a tough one; I already know it. I don’t have enough planned. I spent the past two summers staying busy. So, so busy. I wrote and I toured. I stayed out of the house as much as humanly possible and blew tons of money on motels in far-off spots, like Idaho and Milwaukee, just so that I could do small-time appearances at local, indie bookstores there. Totally on my dime, not part of anything Cabaret Books was planning for me. Also, never by plane. Just me and the open road, the cushion of distance and the comfort of my still relatively new car keeping my mind safely preoccupied.
Anything to keep from being home.
It’s the lack of structure that kills me. I need to haveplans, stuff going on. Having nothing to do is the number one surefire way to end up sliding into a dark place. I worked too hard to claw my way back to the land of the living after Mom passed away to flush it all down the toilet now at the hands of my own procrastination.
The thing is, I wassupposedto have a bunch of events booked. The original launch date forHoliday Islandwas June 27, next Tuesday, and Ihad it all set: the launch party at Kew & Willow Books in nearby Kew Gardens, a signing at the Ripped Bodice in Brooklyn, and then off I would go, first to a Barnes & Noble in New Jersey, then further south to Delaware, Maryland, Virginia, and Georgia. The plan was to space the events out enough to spend a little time in each spot, with Evan and me ultimately meeting up in Atlanta for an “in conversation with” event at Posman Books and a few days with his sister, who lives in nearby Kennesaw.
But once Jax and Evan pushed up the pub date to April 11, squarely in the middle of spring break here in New York, some of those events felt too far away from the book’s new launch date. Instead, we did some juggling, moving up the Atlanta trip to that spring break week and rescheduling some of the other events. I did Kew & Willow and the Ripped Bodice but had to reorganize dates on the remaining tour stops, which led to a haphazard mess of canceled reservations. That wasn’t the worst of it, though. It was a TikTok in late March that really screwed me over.
Some BookTok creator (@tropesandsmut4092) went viral with a video comparingHoliday IslandtoThe Beginning of Everything. Evidently, this person had access to early copies of both books and noted some similarities that led to a scathing video questioning my moral compass. I never watched it, because Evan and I have a deal about what I’m allowed to look at on the internet. But he alluded to the fact that “something was brewing online” and that he would reach out to the powers that be at TikTok to report it as slander and have it taken down.
It didn’t matter. By the time it was removed, apparently the damage had already been done. Bookstores began contacting me to cancel my appearances. Not my launch week ones, thankfully—they’d already advertised the events and I had some good personal contacts there—but beyond those, folks who didn’t know me as well, who didn’t want to contribute to the success of a potential plagiarist. All of a sudden, I was falling off people’s social calendars like the guy who brings Covid to the Christmas party.
Which brings me here, to the Wednesday before the end of school, with exactly one bookstore signing coming up—at the end of July, in a small town somewhere in Cape Cod.
I’ve spent the last two months coming to terms with the fact that my writing career is probably over, but I can’t come to terms with the idea of sitting in this apartment all summer, stewing in regret at the hands of my mother’s memory.
I need to finish reading this book ASAP.
And make some hard decisions.
True to my word, Idideat Taco Bell for dinner the following night. A Crunchwrap Supreme hits the same in Aruba as it does in New York, all gooey deliciousness. We were taking a break from fancy in favor of fast food; Harmony and her mom were slated for a Domino’s delivery that Harmony insisted on paying for herself. Which was fine by me, because she didn’t know it, but I just dropped all of my casino winnings and then some on a night we would both—hopefully—remember forever.
Harmony and I spent our fifth evening at a comedy club in Eagle Beach called Aruba Ray’s. There’s something magical about laughing hysterically with someone who you just know is on the precipice of becoming a huge part of your future. Laughter itself is a powerful drug. I wonder if it releases endorphins. A better science teacher would know the answer. Alas, I can only say that it offers a feeling of fulfillment, of satisfaction, of wanting more.
All things that Harmony was doing to me on a regular basis by this point in the trip.
On our sixth day—New Year’s Eve—Harmony and her mom spent the morning at the private island. They’d enjoyed some spa bonding time the day before and I guess they were beginning to feel like the trip was coming to an end, so they wanted to soak up as much of that special little island as they possibly could. I hopped a boat over there to meet them in the afternoon and found that the family-friendly side of the beach was being set up for a wedding.
“Can you imagine?” Harmony asked me when I found her. “A wedding in paradise. What a lucky couple they must be.”
“I wonder how it works,” I replied.
“Oh, it’s simple,” she explained. “I overheard the setup guys talking about it. They shut the island down at six instead of seven, so an hour early. But the guests begin arriving somewhere around 5:30, and the ceremony is at like 6:15 over there.” She pointed to a temporary archway down the beach adorned with white flowers and lights. “They run shuttle service for the wedding guests via the water taxi and the reception is right here on the beach.”
“Sounds fun,” I said.
It was hard not to focus on the island’s transformation as the afternoon progressed. The group of movers was turning the shoreline into a stunning venue, being minimally disruptive to the guests who were lying out or swimming, all under the watchful eye of a ringleader, who must have been the maître d’. We almost felt intrusive, although Harmony was still excited about the spa hut she’d been to the day before, and she shared that the island was revealing more and more of its secrets to her.
“I’m telling you, it was pure magic. You just go down thatlittle walkway, and it’s like a whole other section over there that nobody knows about,” she gushed. “It was gorgeous. So private. I wish I could show it to you.”
My head spun in anticipation of what her reaction would be to our upcoming dinner at The Old Man and the Sea. That was one of the many things I’d grown to appreciate about her—the fact that she paid attention to details, offered praise generously, and valued a thoughtfully curated aesthetic.
The three of us left the island around 4:00 p.m., in time to get ready for an early dinner at 5:00. We dined at Fresco, the on-site restaurant overlooking the pool and the beach. It was nice, simple, fresh seafood and produce spun into island classics: Baja fish tacos, a poke bowl, and sweet and sour shrimp. I got the sense that Harmony’s mom was tiring, and we didn’t want to push her. Best to just let her enjoy the last days of the trip of a lifetime.
After the meal ended, Harmony excused herself to use the restroom in the lobby, and I saw this as my opportunity to ask her mother for permission to take her out on our final night in Aruba. I explained my plan to her in abridged, hushed sentences.
“Are you kidding me?” her mom replied, grinning. “That place sounds stunning!”
“It will be. I just want to make sure that you’ll be okay. I don’t like the idea of you eating alone,” I said. “I tried to book a later time, but the 5:30 was all they had available.”
“Listen to me,” she told me, reaching out to pat my hand. “I think you’re great for my daughter. I haven’t seen her this happy in—honestly, I don’t know how long. And I’m agrown-up. I’m more than capable of ordering room service for a night.”
“I just—I want you to know that I’m serious about her,” I went on. “I’m planning to ask her to put a label on this.”
“Meaning?”
“I want Harmony to be my girlfriend.”
