But then again, who the fuck cares? This honeymoon is a sham and this whole marriage is a lie, anyway.
Yeah, I’m in a foul mood this morning.
I swallow my first espresso, grab a towel and head for the bathroom. As the hot water washes over me, my thoughts wander back to last night—the source of my current temper.
One minute we were kissing. Like, really kissing. His hands were in my hair, and his tongue, deep in my mouth. I was enjoying every second of it and anticipating what he’d do next.Surprise!He pulled back and said something about not wanting to rush things.
Rush things?Rush things??
We’re married. We’re on a honeymoon. What’s left to rush?
My stomach twists with annoyance. And frustration. Tons of frustration.
After his puzzling bout of propriety, Antoine went straight to the bathroom and turned on the shower. When he climbed back into the bed, I’d crawled to my usual spot, teetering on the edge and pretending to be asleep. He had the gall to ignore my unequivocal body language and give me some unsolicited advice.
“Can you move closer to the center, please?” he’d said. “I won’t sleep well if I’m worried you’ll fall off and hurt yourself.”
And I moved!
I guess I didn’t have the energy to argue. Thankfully, I fell asleep without much trouble, thanks to the wine, and I slept like a baby. I don’t know why I’m worked up about the whole thing now…
Get over yourself, Laura.The third day of your honeymoon awaits.
The sun iswarm on my back as I settle onto my stomach, adjusting my towel under me. The hotel’s private beach is picture-perfect, with the turquoise waves lapping gently at the shore, and the faint hum of distant cicadas filling the air. I could almost relax—if I were able to ignore the two cameramen lurking nearby.
I glance sideways at Antoine, who’s reclining in the shade of a striped umbrella, sunglasses firmly in place, eyebrows drawn, like he’s mentally filing his taxes.
I turn my head the other way. A woman in a neon yellow swimsuit and a pale guy in bright red swim trunks are walking toward the beach along one of the pathways. They’re followedby a cameraman and a sound technician, both sweating visibly under their equipment.
“Look,” I say to Antoine, craning my neck. “Over there.”
Antoine shifts and pushes his sunglasses up just enough to see. “Oh. One of the other couples.”
“They must be, right?”
There are six other WAFS couples honeymooning here at Cala Stella with a small crew assigned to each. But the hotel is so big and the show’s schedule so well-oiled that we never bump into each other.
The couple coming down to the beach is laughing about something, their movements relaxed and easy. They look happy.
I feel a pang of envy and push it down. “Weren’t the producers supposed to keep us all separated?”
“This was bound to happen eventually,” Antoine says. “It’s no big deal.”
“No, I guess it isn’t.”
He sits up and glances at his watch. “Anyway, we should head back. You don’t want to sport a sunburn at the poolside party tomorrow night.”
I stand, shake the sand off my towel and gather my things. Antoine does the same. As we walk up the wooden pathway toward the hotel, I don’t wear my flip-flops, loving the feel of the warm boards under my bare feet.
“They looked happy, the other couple,” I comment.
Why did I say that?Did it come out bitter and resentful? Will the viewers decide I’m an envious bitch?
Antoine shrugs. “Appearances can be deceiving.”
“Such optimism! You should become a motivational speaker.”
What’s with all the snark, Laura?
