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LUCIA / LUCY
The things that we love tell us what we are.
I love that quote. But I’m fairly sure St Thomas Aquinas never pictured a half-naked, sunbaked woman in Antigua, clinging to an ice-cold margarita like it’s holy water, when he came up with that gorgeous line.
I grin to myself as I pass a freshly shaken mojito across the bar and lift my own frozen cocktail in silent celebration.
This.
This is the damn life. Who cares about the heatwave rolling in off the scorching beach or the beads of sweat trickling down my temples and along my spine when I have this incredible view?
When the summer tourists have mostly gone, leaving behind a few stragglers and the locals who know how to drink without being obnoxious about it?
I’m busy enough but not totally rushed off my feet, with a few minutes here and there to appreciate the vibe and my surroundings. Just the way I like it.
A blend of reggae and Afrobeats rolls out from the twin speakers mounted either side of the entrance to Marcel’s Place,a crooked little beach shack named after its equally crooked owner.
Palm-frond roof, mismatched stools, tables and chairs, and a bar top scarred by years of salt and spilled rum.
It isn’t fancy, but it’s home.
When I first arrive almost eighteen months ago, it’s overwhelming. The noise. The heat. The unusual rhythm of island life. I can barely tell a daiquiri from a piña colada, and Marcel takes one look at my shaking hands and mutters something in Creole that I’m pretty sure isn’t kind.
Now? I can free-pour like a pro, juggle three orders at once, and read a customer’s mood before they even open their mouth.
Progress.
The bell over the bar door jingles and I glance up to see Jax strolling in, long limbs loose, thin dreadlocks brushing the small of his back. His skin is polished dark gold, his smile bright, his presence easy. Behind him, Naomi, his girlfriend, is all curves and confidence, hips swaying like music follows her.
They live two doors down from me in Palm Row, the little cluster of pastel houses tucked behind the beach road. We’ve grown close enough to call them good friends.
“Evenin’, Lucy,” Jax drawls. “Tell me you got somethin’ cold for a man who worked too hard today.”
I slide him a beer without asking. He grins and takes the bottle with a wink.
Naomi hops onto a stool, eyes flicking to my hair after she takes the drink I pass her. “Mmm. Time for a refresh, girl?” she says in her thick island lilt.
I laugh, fingers going automatically to the elaborate French braids she wove for me last week, enjoying the sound of the beads clicking softly. “You think? I was hoping they’d last the rest of the week.”
She tilts her head. “Two more days, you gon’ look like you been wrestlin’ a hurricane.”
“Rude,” I say. Then, grinning, “Can I pay you in drinks?”
From the back, Marcel’s voice booms, “I heard that! You tryin’ to bankrupt me, girl?”
“Oops. Busted!” I call.
Laughter rolls through the bar. Someone whistles. The mood stays light, lazy, sun-soaked. Two couples are dancing on the patch of sand we optimistically call a dance floor. One of them, young and blatantly honeymooners, wrapped around each other like the world doesn’t exist, makes something twist in my chest.
She perches on a stool with her margarita, playing with his fingers. He can’t stop looking at her. The look in his eyes. A cross between awe and disbelief. Like she’s the only thing that matters.
I swallow and look away, half-resenting the tinge of jealousy that brackets my thoughts. I pick up my cocktail. Sip. Secretly hoping the alcohol will work quicker.
Halfway to lowering it to the counter, my skin prickles.
It’s nothing new, this feeling. It’s come and gone since I arrive, like a ghost sensation I can’t shake. Paranoia, maybe. Or instinct.
