Chapter 1
Junie
It looked like the epitome of bohemian luxury online, but whoever designed outdoor bathrooms must be laughing all the way to the bank.
The sun has barely risen, the sky is streaked with pinks and golds, but the air is already thick and muggy. A wisp of island breeze caresses my body as I undress under the open sky, shielded from my neighbors by a flimsy bamboo wall, and step gingerly over the smooth white pebbles to a cold shower. After a week in hectic Bali, this eco-resort on a quiet beach is supposed to be the height of relaxation.
Gili Telu, a tiny island off the east coast of Indonesia, is known for honeymooners. Some small part of me believed that wrapping up our first international trip here would inspire David to finally pop the question after six long years.
But my boyfriend isn’t here.
And what should have been a romantic paradise has become my personal, non-refundable hell.
I let the black thoughts swirl down the drain. I can’t afford to wallow in self-pity when there are action items on the to-do list. I’m on a mission to step outside my comfort zone. To try newthings. To really embrace life. And I have to get started before my best friend Eva wakes up or risk profound embarrassment.
So I squeeze myself into the teeny tiny black bikini. It slips up my ass like butt floss and feels somehow more vulnerable than being naked. I bought my first thong thinking I’d be tanning my buns beside my new fiancé, embracing my sexuality in new and exciting ways. I’d fantasized about projecting an unshakable confidence I’ve never felt before.
But I was never doing it forhim. I’m wearing this thong for Grandma Frannie. And me, I guess.
Which is why I’m up at the ass crack of dawn—so no one will be blinded by my pale, exposed cheeks. Grannie had better be in heaven cheering me on because this latest bucket list experience feels more like an anxiety nightmare. Am I going to give a speech in my underwear next?
I wrap a towel firmly around my waist and tiptoe through the darkened beach shack as Eva gives a great honking snore. She throws an arm over her eyes when I crack the front door, but I swipe my book and my bag without fully waking her.
The sandy path is gritty, but soft, and it sinks beneath my heels with every step. Cerulean waves crash against the shore just yards from our doorstep, and I spread out my towel near enough to feel the spray. Bent over, I feel silly and exposed, but I stuff the feeling down with all the others I’ve been trying to avoid. I admire the rising sun, take a deep breath to fill my lungs, and try to ground myself in the moment.
I’m here, Grannie. I’m trying new things.
The island is still asleep. It’s nothing like the crowded beaches of Seminyak on the other coast of Bali. There’s no one shilling souvenirs, offering massages, or trying to entice me into a surflesson. The only movement other than the tide is at the dive shop down the beach—I can see silhouettes loading gear onto a boat, but I can’t hear them at this distance.
I’d better start getting used to it—being alone. This is my life now.
On paper (and social media) the last week and a half have been amazing. We’re talking months of planning. Dozens of hours of Youtube videos about treehouse villas, private pools, brunch spots, waterfalls, and how few US dollars it takes to become an Indonesian millionaire (only about sixty—I’m rich in rupiah!).
My best friend Eva and I bounced between rice paddies, cooking classes, and ziplines. We visited temple after temple, hit nearly every restaurant on my list, and there was hardly a moment to stop and think about the fact that in five days time, I’ll be returning to my grandmother’s empty house.
This trip is supposed to be a huge step toward living a more authentic life, and to honoring Grannie’s memory. But arching back to rub sunscreen on my own butt cheeks feels like a pointed metaphor: I’m pathetic and alone.
Alone has always been hard for me. Eva tried to get me into meditating. We did all the incense, the offerings, the prayers, but I just can’t seem to get the hang of it. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to banish my thoughts, but it’s useless. My mind is an endless motor and I never stop wanting to think, to talk, or to distract it with shiny, new things.
Even lying on my stomach in front of a gorgeous sunrise, I’m tempted to pull out my phone and start doomscrolling. Instead, I crack open the romance novel I found in the hotel lobby. The pages are thick and bloated with humidity, but they smell like salt and sea. I want to lose myself in gooey, romantic love. Imight’ve ended a six year relationship with barely a whimper, but I know that passionate, messy love is out there. The beefy man-chest on the cover promises a sultry distraction.
Tensions are already escalating on page, pulling my lips up into the ghost of a smile, when I hear it—about three feet long, greenish brown and scrambling slowly up the beach—a sea turtle. A gasp tears from my throat and I freeze. I watch as it spreads its flippers and crawls another few inches up the shoreline. Is this normal turtle behavior?
I lean closer, careful not to make any sudden moves. Around its scaled neck is something unnatural and brightly colored. One of its flippers is almost completely wrapped in fishing net. A long clump of seaweed has tangled in the netting, trailing behind as the turtle drags itself across the beach.
“Oh baby,” I whisper, reaching out tentatively to remove the net. It’s stiff and slimy, prickling at my fingers with sharp edges and slipping through my hands.
The motion jars and frightens the turtle. It shrinks away from me, turning its body, and my chest pangs. I can’t untangle it with my hands. I need a knife, but what if it disappears back into the surf?
The beach is deserted, but there’s still movement down at the dock. I wave my hands over my head, keeping the turtle in my peripheral vision. “Help! Please!”
I jump to my feet. “Hello! This animal needs help!” I cry, nearly weeping with relief when two figures run toward us.
I drop back to the sand and stroke the ridged shell of the turtle, hands shaking, wishing I could do more. The turtle’s sad eyes blink at me slowly. I just hope it isn’t in pain.
“What happened—” I turn my head just as two men approach. Neither of them look like locals. One is dressed in what I’d call business beachwear—a blue polo shirt and khakis, eyes covered with dark, reflective shades. The other is much taller and shirtless. I see tan skin, muscles, and curly ginger chest hairs before he barrels past me.
The scrape of his big arm against mine is electric. His tawny hair is long and unruly, blowing in the breeze, and his jawline is scraped with a rugged shadow of blonde, red, and dark brown stubble. His strong arms and red board shorts make him look straight out of Baywatch.
