“Right? I was shocked when she actually boarded theplane.”
Steph snorts. “Yeah, well, I was floored that you didn’t get thrown off theflight.”
My eyes flutter as I attempt to hide my feigned irritation. Steph acted as if I didn’t have a valid reason for myapprehension.
“Charlie, I had to wrestle you back into the seatthreeseparate times, promising you we wouldn’t crash.” The animation in Steph’s tone is melodramatic given thecircumstances.
“Plenty of people are afraid to fly.” I attempt to downplay the sheer panic that ripped through me ontakeoff.
Her perfectly sculpted brows arch, and she crosses her arms as if that somehow proves her point. “Yes. Afraid. Nothysterical.”
The sun bakes my skin as I stare out over the crystal-blue water. The scent of coconut oil and saltwater swirl around me with the humid breeze. Paradise… I think on a sigh, then take a burning swig oftequila.
“Just so you know,” Steph relaxes into her chair, squirming to get comfortable again, “I hated Harold. Loathed him,actually.”
“What? I thought you likedHarold?”
“Meh, he was all right until the day he tried to pencil me into your weekly calendar. That put him on my shit list. I’ve been your best friend since eighth grade. I don’t get penciledin.”
I laugh and turn the bottle up again. Honestly, it’s comical that I spent the last ten years of my life living by Harold’s routines—and good God, thespreadsheets.
He had one for everything. He had a serious issue, but he swore it was the sign of a good CPA. There was a spreadsheet for dinner to ensure we were eating the right vitamins. One for bills and mileage. He kept his CSI chart taped to the top of our side table, because his anal-retentive ass had to make sure he watched every episode an equal number of times. I played along for the most part, but I drew the line with companion diaries for our bowel movements.Thatwas too far. I didn’t want to know, orneedto know, the color and consistency of hiscrap.
But even with Harold’s quirks, our marriage wasn’tterrible. Sure, there was no passion, and we had mediocre sex. I at least thought he was safe. I’d learned in my earlier years that men who make you weak in the knees, the ones who give you butterflies, will do nothing other than eat your heart up and spit it out. Don’t even get me started on that love-at-first-sightbullshit.
I settled for an average-looking man with an average job and a propensity for Microsoft Excel, because I was confident he would never disappoint me. Imagine my shock when I caught him screwing our twenty-year-old housekeeper on the balcony of our townhome. I never foundthatwritten into any schedule or accounted for on anychart.
A group of young girls trot along the shoreline. Someone whistles at them, and as I watch them strut along, hips swinging and asses firm, it’s like a halogen light bulb goes off. Bright and blinding before it explodes in sparks and smoke. I’m not twenty-something anymore. I’m stuck somewhere between vibrant youthfulness and over-the-hill martyrdom. Divorced when so many other people have just settled down. “Shit.” I release a loud exhalation. “I wasted my primeyears!”
“You did not.” Steph giggles. “Stop it. You’re not even in your forties, and forty is the new twenty or some shit. The world is your oyster.” She waves her open palm, Vanna White style, at the crowded beach around us. “You could sleep with any of those men. Well, not the young ones with the hard bodies. More like any of those guys.” She points at a group of middle-aged men, half of whom are wearing Speedos. “Oh, look at the one in the neon-green banana hammock.” Steph shoves her fingers in her mouth andwhistles.
“He’s got more hair on his chest than hishead.”
“Meh, so maybe youdidwaste your primeyears.”
Divorces. Speedos. Tits that look like tube socks with tennis balls shoved inside them… Understandably, I turn the bottle up again. I’m newly divorced and in Mexico, after all. When in Rome—in this case, Cancun—do as the Romansdo.
______
A headache rockingthrough my skull wakes me. All I taste is tequila andsalt.
Last night is a blur. There was tequila and “The Macarena.” Tequila and a limbo party. Tequila and… “Oh God,” I groan, swiping my hand over my face. “Steph, I don’t remember anything past that limbo party lastnight.”
When I sit up on the mattress, the cool air kisses my bare skin, and I swallow.Why—am Inaked?
My pulse steadily accelerates. Directly across from the bed is an open closet. Several suits hang neatly inside.Shit! This is not my room.Slowly, I turn my head, and there, where Stephshouldbe—because I most definitely should not be in a stranger’s hotel room—lies a man, sprawled out, face down on luxurious, cotton sheets with only one corner of the linen still inplace.
I quickly peek under the comforter and gasp. I’m focused on the horrible razor burn and offensive tan lines on my thighs when my focus should be my current predicament. I clutch the covers to my chest, desperately trying to plan myescape.
First, I need clothes. My clothes.Anyclothes. Atowel…
Closing my eyes, I inhale and shake my head.It’s okay. I just had my first one-night stand. I’m not a whore. Just inexperienced in life.I direct my attention once again to the sleeping man’s muscular back. Tattoos wind over his shoulder and arm, snaking down the length of his side. This is not the type of guy I usually go for. My heart races at the possibilities of this man’s mafia affiliation—a cartel boss is a definite consideration or maybe a drug lord. Only I could drag in the dregs during a sexual escapade that I couldn’t remember.Jesus in heaven.This is almostscandalous.
I cautiously crawl out of bed, trying not to wake him. As soon as I’m on my feet, I wince. Something about the twinge of pain that just shot between my legs makes this feel even more sordid. I evidently let a strange man fuck me to the point that I—an older-than-I-care-to-admit woman—feel it like a newly deflowered teen. And to top it off, I have zero recollection. Steph is going tolovethis.
I quickly survey the room and find my sarong tossed carelessly on the floor, and I snatch it up. Seconds later, I spot my cell phone and what I pray is my room key sitting on thedresser.
The guy shifts, groaning. My pulse hammers in my ears while I watch in horror as he pats the vacant spot where I’d been lying.Oh, my God. He’slookingforme!
