Both the man and woman burst into laughter, and I can’t help but do the same.
“In the painting, honey,” the woman amends. “What else did you see on the wall besides the whale?”
“Ooooh,” the little boy replies in his heart-melting voice. Clearly, he wasn’t trying to be funny or sassy when he answered his grandmother’s question. Like most kids his age, he was likely being literal, as his brain is wired to be during this particular stage of development. “I saw fishes and a sea turtle and ...”
Yet another wave of grief slams into me. When I said yes to Brandon’s marriage proposal, or whatever that was, I thoughtI’d one day get to be like that beautiful lady over there: a wife and mother and, eventually, a grandmother. I know I’m young, but I’m scared I might have wasted too many years of my life with Brandon—that because of him, I’ve somehow missed some sliding door I was supposed to walk through to meet the true love of my life.
“Next, please,” the rental car clerk calls out, jerking me from my thoughts.
“Aloha,” she says brightly as I step to the counter.
“Aloha,” I manage, even though I’m feeling more like dog poop on the bottom of a flip-flop than a happy tourist.
“Name?”
“Iris Benedetto.”
The clerk taps on a keyboard and furrows her brow. “That name isn’t coming up. Could it be under another one?”
“Oh. That’s right.” I palm my forehead. “Brandon Gladstone.” My stomach revolts. Saying his name makes me realize I’d be standing here as Brandon’s wife, Mrs. Iris Gladstone, if it wasn’t for Delilah saving the day.
“Ah, yes. I see it now.” The clerk gasps and looks up from her screen. “It’s your honeymoon! Congratulations, Mrs. Gladstone!” Whatever facial expression overtakes my face instantly makes the woman’s smile droop. She clears her throat. “Would you prefer to change the name on the reservation?”
I exhale. “Yes, please. To mine. Iris Benedetto.” I shift my weight. “The wedding didn’t, uh, pan out. I’m here for a much-needed solo vacation, instead of a honeymoon.”
The rental car clerk’s mouth twitches with sympathy, but other than that, she maintains a neutral expression. “No problem,” she chirps. “I’ll change the name on the reservation and upgrade you to a Jeep.”
“Oh, no, I can’t afford an upgrade.”
“It’s on the house, Miss Benedetto.”
A lump rises in my throat. “Thank you. I really appreciate that.”
We finalize the paperwork, and the clerk slides a set of car keys across the counter. “Honeymoons are overrated, anyway,” she murmurs. “You wouldn’t believe how many couples on their honeymoons squabble viciously over which car to rent. Nice way to kick off a marriage, huh?”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I wordlessly nod and grab the keys. When I turn around, however, I’m shocked to find the pretty older lady from earlier standing before me with my sunglasses in hand.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” she says sheepishly. She holds up my sunglasses. “You dropped these a while ago, and I ...” She shifts her weight. “I didn’t want to interrupt your conversation, so I waited.”
Crap. Everything about this woman’s body language makes it clear she overheard my embarrassing exchange with the rental car clerk. Which means there are now twopeople too many on this island who know the mortifying truth about why I came on my Hawaiian honeymoon by myself.
“Thank you,” I choke out, taking the sunglasses from the woman. “I’d lose my head if it wasn’t connected to my ...” I can’t finish the sentence. I’m suddenly too overcome with emotion and embarrassment to speak, partly thanks to this woman’s kind, sympathetic face reminding me so much of my mother’s.
“Oh, sweetie,” the lady coos. “Let’s sit for a minute. You can’t drive like this.”
“I’m okay.”
“No, no, come sit with me.”
As she guides me toward a bank of chairs, I babble, “I’m not normally this emotional. I mean, yes, I’m an emotional person, but I’m unusually emotional today because, on top of everything else, I’m really sleep deprived.” I’m also hungover, thanks to all the tequila shots I threw back at my raucous Iris-dodged-a-bullet celebration last night. But I see no good reason to confess that fact to this lovely woman, when she’s already overheard far more about me than I’d ever want her to know.
“Well, if sleep and relaxation are what you came for,” the woman says, as we settle into some seats along a wall, “then you’re in the right place.” She assesses me for a moment before brushing a lock of hair from my face, the same way my mother always used to do. “Hang in there, my dear. This too shall pass. I know it doesn’t feel that way. But one day, you’ll look back on this horrible pain and realize it was the thing that propelled you to your rightful destiny—a place in life that’s going to make you happier than you can imagine in this difficult moment.”
Well, shit.If this lady is trying to make me cry, then she’s figured out the perfect way to do it. As my tears flow, she opens her arms to me, and I fall into them.
“Good girl,” she says, patting my back. “Keeping sadness locked inside only makes it harder to heal and move on. Let it out, honey.”
Did my mother send this angel to me? That’s certainly how it feels in this moment.
