I am stunned for only a second. “I don't disagree,” I say, before needing to clear my throat again.
“Good, so you'll go find this Irish rascal today and finish what you started last night.”
Inwardly I groan as I recall the brief messages I sent Jake about the sex I wasn’t having with Marty last night. After he’d made a technically inaccurate joke about Irish craic, Jake had asked me if I was okay. I’d told him I was relieved as I had wanted an early night although lying to my brother didn’t feel good at all.
“Jenna, you owe it to yourself to have a little fun...” Jake’s eyebrows are high and a little ominous.
“It really wasn’t a big deal. It was a little flirting and a little talking and then I asked him to come back to my villa and he declined.”
“You offered and he declined?” My brother leans back.
“Yes. Twice, actually.” I throw salt on my own wounds.
“Twice?” Jake’s face says it all. Normally I love how expressive his features are but in this very moment I am not enjoying his crestfallen frown. “What the fuck? Is he a virgin?”
“I highly doubt that as he was in a long-term relationship for a while. By the way, your gaydar was way off. He’s bisexual.”
“Really?” Jake rolls the R for a second too long.
“His ex was a man.” I keep talking, processing the thought as it materialises. “And I think there's a story there.”
“Well, there's a story with yours too,” Jake says as he finishes his banana. “And I suspect there could still be a story between you and this hot Irish bisexual.”
“Marty, his name is Marty,” I say as much as an excuse to say his name as anything, as if I may not get another chance. “God, I shouldn’t have told you his sexuality. That was very crass of me. Disrespectful too.”
“He was disrespectful when he denied you a shag.”
I chuckle with my brother. “You are saying all the right wrong things to make me feel better.”
“I’m just being honest. Has he seen you? You are almost as lovely-looking as me.”
“I’m just confused. What kind of twenty-something-year-old flirts like it’s his job and then bails at the last minute? I really thought he was at least semi-attracted to me.”
Jake’s coffee cup clinks as it lands back on its saucer. “Why do I feel like we have swapped roles here? Normally, I’m the one asking myself unhelpful questions about men and you’re quoting from your books and research and generally smart, sensible brain about not hyper-fixating, not giving somebody you don’t really know more energy and attention than yourself. What’s going on here, Jenna?”
He's right and I’m not going to argue with him but I am going to clarify, more for myself perhaps than him, why my mind is spiralling and why I think that’s okay. And then I will move on. I’m determined not to indulge this self-doubt for much longer.
“This is the first time I’ve felt... certain things for someone else, since Robert, and even with him I didn’t feel much for the last few years.”
“But you’ve been on dates...”
“Yes to overpriced restaurants with average food and dull men that didn’t flirt with me. With men who had receding hairlines and protruding nose hair and children from previous marriages and probably quite excellent free financial advice but that didn’t make me...” I groan. “None of it turned me on.”
“Really? None of that turned you on?” Jake fake exclaims.
Suddenly bored and deeply despondent about the state of my romantic life, I shake my head as I sip my coffee. “Can we talk about something else?”
Jake flamboyantly shakes his arm to reveal the watch on his wrist. “Lucky for you, I have to go now and find out if I will live to see another day or if the Bouras’ want my intestines for a new lobby light feature.”
“Oh, Jake, please let me know how it goes.” We both stand and start loading the tray again.
“As long as you promise to do everything in your power to get laid tonight.” I am relieved when he is too distracted by tidying up to notice I don’t reply but instead lean in to kiss his cheek.
After Jake leaves, I feel an immediate and unwelcome rush of restlessness come over me. It's almost certainly because of what my brother and I were justtalking about: my book. Or rather, my dream to write a book. It’s been a dream for so long that I’ve started to think that is all it ever will be. All it ever should be.
As I just told Jake, I don't feel qualified to write a book about love or sex or connection or intimacy when all of the above have been so sorely missing from my life. How can I profess the importance of work and effort and patience in relationships when my husband and I couldn’t give each other any of those things? How can I write about intimacy and connection when I let both die slow, painful deaths in my marriage, long before we divorced? How can I write about desire when the first real spark of longing I felt for someone last night was rejected... twice?
While this restlessness is unwanted, it’s not an unfamiliar feeling and I have things I can try and do to ease it a little. It’s why I quickly change into some clean gym clothes, splash my face with water, pull my hair into a high ponytail and with my room key and a bottle of water in my hand, and my phone and headphones tucked in my sports bra, I make my way to the outdoor gym. It’s only a short walk from my villa, as it’s also at the very peak of the resort. I’d almost like the walk to be longer as I enjoy filling my lungs with air that’s still cool and fresh but I’m approaching the gym in minutes. I check the time and because it's still early I’m hopeful I’ll be alone when I get there, just as I was yesterday morning.
