She smiles and looks away, but I catch the flush of pink in her cheeks.
“Is this your dream destination?” I ask, trying to keep the line of communication open. It’s been so long since we just…talked.
“No,” she says quietly. “Paris was.”
Our eyes meet, and for a moment I don’t know what to say. There’s been so much bad blood between us, but I know I can’t blame it all on her. We’vebothmade mistakes.
“Brooklyn, look, I—”
The elevator dings as we stop on the first floor and the doors glide open.
“Save it,” she says, breezing past me.
As I watch her walk away, I can’t help wondering: is there a chance we could fix this?
I’m leaning backin a beach chair, my toes dug into the cool sand, hand wrapped around a frosty mojito as a warm breeze ruffles my hair. Taking a deep breath, I realize I feel…calm.
What the hell is happening to me?
There’s no denying it: I’m actually enjoying myself. The breathtakingly clean, pale pink beach stretches around me for literal miles, the expanse of water even more brilliant and clear up close than it appeared from above. I’ve been stretched out in my chair here for several minutes now, sunglasses on, sipping my drink. Hell, maybe it’s been longer. Time has kind of slipped away and the longer I let myself zone out, the more peaceful I feel inside. How about that.
It’s a relief to be away from the circus, even if it’s just a brief respite. The stress and constant worry about my work are gone. I mean, I’m fully aware of how many unanswered emails are sitting in my inbox, how many contracts need vetting, how many meetings I have lined up next week. But for some reason, it’s easier to hold it all back, push it aside and just breathe. There’s something about the air here. It’s different.
I just want to keep sitting in this chair with the warm waves intermittently rushing up to splash my ankles and the million-dollar paradise view spanning in every direction.
Not to mention the sight of my wife.
Brooklyn has just emerged from the water and is heading toward me, flipping her wet hair back like a Bond girl. Except her string bikini is so scant that her nipples are barely covered by the little triangles of fabric, the globes of her breasts perfectly on display. Her bikini bottom is just as skimpy, with little bows tied at her hips just begging to be tugged loose. And while there are a variety of other women wearing similar suits, my gaze is drawn repeatedly to my wife.
That lithe, toned body appearing out of the ocean like a lost goddess of Atlantis, practically glowing in the sunlight, impossible to look away from. She’s flawless.
“Look at you being all happy for once,” Emzee says sassily as she steps from the water alongside Brooklyn in a vintage polka dot one-piece. “I didn’t recognize you for a second.”
“Ha ha.” I playfully toss an ice cube in my sister’s direction while turning to Brooklyn, who just smiles and keeps walking.
We still haven’t spoken much since our arrival last night. My family has been keeping us so busy with drinks (and a never-ending supply of food) that we haven’t gotten much alone time, and on top of that it seems like the Zoric women are all treating this vacation like a girls’ trip with all their gossip and giggling. For my part, I stayed up so late talking to Stefan over a bottle of bourbon that by the time I got back to the room, Brooklyn was already asleep. Then this morning started with Tori and Emzee barging in to pull my wife out of bed so they could all go watch the sun rise.
But finally, here we all are, taking a dip in these picture-perfect tropical waters. Well, the rest of them are. I haven’t actually gotten in yet. I track my eyes to see where my wife is now. She’s ducking under the shade of Emzee’s huge umbrella, patting herself dry and throwing on a sheer beach coverup.
“Where are you headed?” I call out. We don’t have any group plans until later.
Brooklyn grins. “I made a self-care appointment. Sugar scrub. Massage. Hot stones. The works. See ya later.”
She slides her sunglasses down, flips me a little wave, and then she’s gone, long legs striding across the sand until she disappears around the privacy fence at the back of our resort.
Watching her go, an idea pops into my head.
I wander to the beach-side bar and get another mojito, then head back to the bungalow. Brooklyn is already gone by the time I get there, but it only takes a call to the front desk to find out where her reservation is. I slip on a fresh tee shirt, sipping my drink as I head to the spa.
Maybe it’s all the sunshine and the alcohol, or maybe I’m just drunk on paradise, but I want to be with my wife. I want to put my hands on her in a way that reminds me how things used to be between us. I want to feel something for her other than anger.
The hurt over her betrayal is still with me, but it feels distant, as if it’s faded with time. It crosses my mind much less these days. I hang on to it, I suppose, as a form of self-defense. I’ve been hurt and betrayed so much in my life that staying angry and guarded with people who’ve hurt me in the past is my default. But when Brooklyn and I first entered into his fake marriage and things started to progress, I saw that things could be different. That opening up didn’t have to mean inevitable emotional destruction.
Too bad I was wrong about that.
Or was I?
I enter the upscale spa and tell the hostess behind the counter who I am. Then I slip her a hundred to tell me which room my wife is in, and she happily leads me down the hall, catching the female masseuse before she can go in and work on Brooklyn.
