“Let’s make a pact.” I pass Byron a cup of Jamaican white rum while I hold on to my ginger beer. “If you even hint at stealing the recipe or look at a jug of rum, you’ll have two choices.”
There’s a hint of amusement dancing at the corners of his mouth. “And what are those options?” he asks.
“Before I tell you, swear to me that you’re in. No backing out,” I reply.
“Okay.” He places a hand over his heart and raises the other. “I swear.”
I struggle not to grin. “You’ll have to choose betweendowning a tumbler of whiskey or getting dragged onto the dance floor.”
“What if I can’t dance?”
“It doesn’t matter. Those are the rules.”
A few minutes later, Byron surprises me. He’s a fantastic dancer who enjoys his tumblers of whiskey and a few other beverages.
“You set me up,” I shout over the music. “You can dance.”
He laughs. “Yeah, I can.”
By dawn, I’ve had a few ginger beers, while Byron has had even more. We dance until my sore leg feels numb.
“We should get back.” I try to keep him still. He’s been dancing for hours.
“Back where? To your place? Don’t you live in Trench Town?”
“Yes, but the Myrtle Bank Hotel is just as close, in the opposite direction.”
“So, is this good night?” He leans in, pressing against me, and I realize my ginger beers were nowhere near as potent as the whiskeys, the white rums, or the John Crow Batty drinks he’s consumed.
“What if I walk you to the Myrtle Bank Hotel? I want to make sure you’re settled before we say good night.”
“Or good morning.” He laughs. “Can’t we just take a cab instead?”
“Byron, we’re in Trench Town and it’s almost sunrise. There are no cabs here.”
“Oh, all right,” he says, awkwardly kissing my cheek. “Thank you. I really needed a night out.”
There’s a sleepy but pleasantly handsome look on his face. “Good. I feel better, too.”
The walk to the Myrtle Bank Hotel takes longer than I expected. When we reach the empty lobby, I ask the receptionist for the keys to his suite. “Let’s get you upstairs.”
“Thanks, Zinzi,” he says quietly before asking the desk clerk to call a cab for me.
“Let’s get you settled first.”
He staggers toward the elevator, but I steer him toward the staircase, explaining that the exercise will clear his head and prevent a crippling hangover. He shrugs and buys into my reasoning, and we stumble up three flights and down a hallway until we reach his suite. Once inside, I lead him to his bedroom where Byron crawls into bed without changing out of his clothes or removing his shoes. I decide to leave him that way. “We’ll talk soon.” I turn to leave.
“Hey, take a nap,” he murmurs. “You’ll be dead on your feet at work without any sleep.” He turns over in bed, wraps his arms around a pillow, and hugs it tightly. “The cab will be there whenever you’re ready.”
I close the bedroom door, seriously considering Byron’s suggestion. I’m completely exhausted, and the idea of a nap draws me in. Feeling drained, I sink onto the sofa in the living room and fall asleep before my head can touch the armrest.
Myrtle Bank Hotel, Kingston
A telephone rings. A male voice mumbles “eggs” and “coffee.” I sit up quickly, wide awake, and immediately know exactly where I am, how I got here, and that it’s time to leave. My plan is to slip out of Byron’s hotel suite without seeing him and having to admit I fell asleep on his sofa.
I look at the clock on the wall and gasp. Ten o’clock? I’m two hours late for work! And I’ll be even later when I factor in the forty-minute trek from the Myrtle Bank Hotel to Constant Spring. I rush into the bathroom, splash some water on my face, and think,Lord, have mercy; I can’t lose my job. There’s no weekly paycheck for being a full-time labor union activist.
A knock on the door startles me. I open it, and there Byron stands before me, holding two cups of steaming coffee, a smile lighting up his handsome face.
