I am therefore feeling quite smug and saintly when I finish the trudge back to Paradise Fun and see him sitting, sweaty and disconsolate, on the stairs outside our door waiting for me. He holds up a single, miserable hand in greeting.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” I say.
“I’m acutely sorry about this,” he says.
“Yep. Me too,” I say, walking past him to unlock the door.
“I really will sleep on the floor,” he says to my back.
“Sure. Whatever.”
He comes in behind me, carrying several shopping bags.
“What’s all that?” I ask.
“I got more provisions.” He dumps them out on the bed. There is shampoo, conditioner, real body wash, a hairbrush, and a family-sized bottle of SPF 70 sunscreen. Two pairs of Wayfarer sunglasses—one in black, one in hot pink. His and hers cotton pajama sets emblazoned with BAHAMA PAJAMA!!! in a neon airbrushed font. And a selection of bottled water, Coca-Cola, and something called Goombay Punch, all still cold enough to be glistening with condensation.
“Planning to build a new life here?” I ask.
“Well, it’s looking like I’m here for three nights,” he says. “Might as well indulge in hygiene and sun protection.”
I reach down for the Goombay Punch. “What’s this?”
“A local specialty, I’m told.”
I open it up and try it. It tastes like if pineapple Fanta had even more sugar. I love it.
“Amazing.”
He pops open a Coke and holds it out to me. “Cheers,” he says. “I guess.”
I sigh, and clink bottles.
Then we stand there awkwardly and drink soda in silence.
“Look,” he says. “Don’t feel like you need to spend time with me.”
“Definitely don’t feel like I need to,” I say.
“But,” he goes on, “I owe you a huge favor for this. Can I take you out to dinner or something? I can’t speak for you, but it was a pretty shitty day and it might be nice to go, like, be in proper air-conditioning and eat food that isn’t out of a vending machine.”
I haven’t eaten anything that wasn’t fried or wrapped in cellophane since my carb feast yesterday morning, and this idea does have a certain appeal. Especially when the alternative is walking around alone in the heat or lying in this mildewy room playing the game of Tetris that came installed on my flip phone.
“Fine,” I say. “But I’m going to shower first.”
“I’ll see if I can find a nice place.”
I collect Felix’s stash of bath products and wash off the grit of salt and grime that has accumulated on my skin after my day hoofing it across Nassau. When I emerge from the shower he’s gone. There’s a couple of text notifications on my phone.
Felix:Got us a booking for 7pm. Back in an hour.
It’s 5:30, and I have no idea what he could be doing in the meantime, but I’m glad that he’s not here. I sprawl out on the hard, lumpy mattress and read my other text.
Lauren:Hey! Did you get a passport???
Hope:Not yet. It’s supposed to be ready in two days, and then I can get a flight the next morning. I’m going to fly back to NYC from here as soon as I get it.
