Carly downs her last sip of fizz. “Well,” she says. “Your reaction sort of makes sense. Your feelings were hurt so you weren’t thinking clearly—not able to see the humor in it.”
“Yes, that’s it!” Amanda says. “You overreacted because the idea she was lying to you hurt more than you were prepared for. You didn’t want to acknowledge you could be so devastated by what you were telling yourself was an empty fling.”
“Because it wasn’t an empty fling, was it?” Carly asks.
“No,” I admit softly. “It wasn’t.”
It was something much deeper than that. Something I have now ruined and will not be able to get back.
It’s gutting.
“I need to apologize to her,” I say, more to myself than to Amanda and Carly.
They nod.
I pick up the check, say goodbye to my dining companions, and take a cab back to Paradise Fun. Hope hasn’t returned yet. I lie on the bed under the fluorescent overhead lights, stare at the water-stained popcorn ceiling, and contemplate the words I should use to tell her I’m sorry.
They all sound so insufficient.
The truth—that I was falling for her and reacted in an overblown way—sounds manipulative, like I’m angling for more than forgiveness. But saying I rewatched the videos and simply accepted they aren’t serious doesn’t feel heartfelt enough.
I must have dozed off, because I’m startled awake by the sound of Hope letting herself into the room.
She leans back against the door, crosses her arms over her chest, and glares at me.
“You’re in my bed,” she says indignantly.
I jump up. “Sorry. All yours.”
She grabs one of the two sad, thin pillows off the bed and tosses it onto the floor.
“Sweet dreams,” she says, gesturing at the pillow.
“Hey, listen,” I say. “Can we talk? About what happened?”
She looks at me like I’ve suggested we eat live snakes.
“No, we cannot. It’s two in the morning. I’m tired.”
She disappears into the bathroom and I hear her brushing her teeth. It sounds angry. Like she’s taking her frustration with me out on her gums.
When she comes out, she’s wearing her BAHAMAS PAJAMAS!!! She throws herself onto the bed and starfishes so that she takes up every inch of the surface area, making sure that I’m watching this territorial claim before pointedly closing her eyes.
I do not need any more clues that this is not the time for my clumsy apology.
I turn off the light and lower myself onto the hard cement floor.
It’s painful. The penance I deserve.
Hope
I wake up face down on the scratchy, not-entirely-clean-smelling coverlet of the hotel bed.
My whole body is sore from last night. I think I rage-danced with every jazz musician, local fisherman, and vacationing frat boy in Nassau. It was fun, but not worth shin splints.
“Good morning,” Felix says from the windowsill, where he is perched because there is nowhere else to sit in the room except the bed I’m sprawled out on.
“Hungry?” he asks. “I got guava duffs.”
