Savasana at the end of sunset yoga on the surfboards yesterday was absolute hell. I’d laid there for ten minutes, letting the gentle tide of the sea pull us back and forth. I was unable to escape the guilt, concern, and fear all swirling around in my mind.
It began with feeling guilty for skipping Christmas with myfamily for the first time in my life. But I couldn’t stick around and have another repeat performance of Thanksgiving. Then I felt guilty for still not responding to my dad’s text from two days ago, apologizing and attempting to make amends for what he said. But then I realized I needed to talk my response through with Lee before texting back, to make sure I honored his apology without diminishing how hurt I’ve been by the whole thing.
Then I’d finally moved on to my fear about the Grammy awards.
What if my performance goes wrong?
What if I go home empty-handed and I never get nominated for a Grammy again?
What if I win and the crowd boos me?
I couldn’t wait to finish savasana, get off that surfboard, and back to the hotel.
“It is. It’s Alexander Morgan,” a teenage girl with an American accent says as she approaches me. A gaggle of females stands just behind her. “Can we get a picture?” She’s already waving her friends over.
Before I get a chance to decline, wanting to appreciate the little amount of privacy I have left in the world, her phone is already out and live streaming.
“Look who we just bumped into here in the Philippines. Alexander Morgan.”
The girls gather round as I switch into popstar mode, smiling for the camera.
Clearly these girls weren’t taught anything about personal space.
“Hi.” I wave and pull my sunglasses down from the top of my head to my eyes and then dust off the sand stuck to my abs.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” another adds.
A third shoves her phone into my face.
“Can you say hi to our friend Missy? She loves you.”
“Hi Missy. Happy Holidays.” My smile is wider than a Cheshire cat’s.
Each of them surrounds me like seagulls fighting over food, trying to get at me.
“Are you going to the New Years Eve party at El Lobo?”
“Where are you staying?”
“Will you be here tomorrow?”
Their questions are incessant. My jaw tightens with each additional one.
“Sorry girls, we need to be heading off.” Christopher says, quickly packing our stuff and pulling at my arm. More people on the beach have started looking, wondering why these girls are making such a fuss.
We quickly escape to the row of motorbikes where we parked and pull away down the road to the hotel before anyone else can bother me.
“Well, at least you managed to last three days going unnoticed.”
Christopher hands me his helmet while he unties the surfboard, which I brought with me from LA, from the motorbike rack.
I’m only able to muster up a grunt.
I’m resentful of the girls for taking the beach and my privacy away, but I’m also relieved not to be stuck there and bored.
Thankfully, no one here at the resort seems to know who I am. I’m grateful that the big metal gates can keep unwanted visitors from entering as we make our way through the resort, past the grand villas and three infinity pools, toward our villa at the far end.
“What do you fancy doing tomorrow?” I throw the helmets and my bag down on the outdoor couch, pulling the beach towels out to let them dry on the sun loungers by our own private pool.
