Page 42 of A Not-So Holiday Paradise
“Where are you?” he says, leaning closer to me and speaking into the phone.
“We’re on the ship,” my mom says, sounding miserable. “Last night I sent Wes to check and make sure you had come back, and your cabin door was open with sounds coming from the bathroom. He assumed it was you, sweetie, but it was the cleaning service. We’re getting off at the next port stop, and they’ve told us we should be able to find a ferry back to you. It’s going to be two days, though. Are you okay for two more days?” she says anxiously. I can imagine the exact way she’s wringing her hands right now, knuckles white, fingers tight.
“Of course,” I say, ignoring the way my heart sinks. Two days will put us right at Christmas day. There’s nothing we can do, though, and there’s no point in worrying them further. “We’ll be fine.”
I let Beckett take over the phone call from there. I don’t have to ask him—he just seems to realize that I need him, his eyes darting over my face as it falls. I try to smooth out my expression, but I know it doesn’t work. I’ve never spent Christmas away from my family before. Maybe I should be more okay with the separation than I am, since I’m in my twenties now, but…
I sigh. All we can do, I guess, is wait. Wait and hope my body and brain behave themselves without my medication.
And try to protect my heart while I’m at it—because every second I spend with Beckett is another second I fall for him even more.
Two days. I can do this. I can still celebrate Christmas here, and I can definitely make it forty-eight hours without caving and confessing my undying love for this man.
Two days.
Thirteen
Beckett
Normally I don’t minda little mess, but as Molly and I step through the front door of my house, I’m keenly and uncomfortably aware of the clutter. A shirt draped over the back of a kitchen chair; a stack of books on the floor by the couch; a stray sock wedged under the fridge, gold toe peeping out. I’m hit with the very unusual urge to run around and pick up, shoving everything into the back of my closet like I’m a teenager again.
I resist. I’ve never cared about this stuff before; I refuse to change just because a woman is setting foot inside. Thefirstwoman to set foot inside, actually, now that I think about it.
To be fair, there’s not much to the little house. It’s maybe six hundred square feet and equipped with only the basics—a kitchenette, a bathroom, and a curtained-off bedroom that couldn’t fit a queen bed if I tried. I know because Ididtry, and it didn’t work. I had to return the mattress and get a double instead. I didn’t bother with a bed frame, either; I just plopped the mattress on the bedroom floor and called it good.
“Right,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck as my gaze darts around the room. I dedicated exactly zero dollars to decoration, so the place is pretty bare, pretty bleak, and pretty ugly. Stark white walls, navy Berber carpet, peeling laminate tile in the kitchen. “Uh, the bathroom is there”—I point to the closed door on my right—“so you can go ahead and shower.”
“Excellent,” Molly says fervently, sliding her backpack off and dropping it on the floor. It was pale yellow when she arrived on the island yesterday; now it’s a dingy, yellowish-brown.
She starts toward the bathroom but then stops, looking over her shoulder at me. “What’s the hot water situation like?”
“Dismal,” I reply.
She nods. “I’ll be quick, then.” Casting a glance down at her clothes, she adds, “Anything I can wear?”
“Yes,” I say, hurrying past the little couch and sliding the bedroom curtain aside. There’s no closet—just a narrow set of drawers. I dig through a few of them and emerge with a shirt and some basketball shorts.
Crap. She’s wearing a swimsuit. Does she have underwear? Does sheneedunderwear? How do I even ask something like that? Should I just give her a pair of boxers and not say anything about it? Would she prefer briefs?
I go through another drawer, my fingers clawing frantically as I search for my least embarrassing pair of boxers, until I find some that are plain black. It’s the best I can do, and I’d rather not know she’s going commando under a pair of my shorts. I close the drawer. Then I take all the inappropriate thoughts trying to surface, shove them in my brain’s little black box, and close that too.
I tuck the boxers in between the shirt and the shorts and then leave the bedroom, heading back to Molly. I won’t say anything; I’ll just let her find it. That way we can both maintain our dignity—
“Oh, boxers!” she says, not two seconds after I’ve handed her the bundle of clothing. She holds my boxers up, waving them in my rapidly heating face. “Thanks. I didn’t know if I should ask, but I wanted to.”
Well. So much for that.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “I don’t have…” I swallow, gesturing to my chest. “You know. Bras.”
Molly nods. “I figured. Do you have a first aid kit?”
I point to one of the four kitchen cabinets. “In there. Why?”
“Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies,” she says in a singsong voice as she waltzes over and begins digging through the cabinet.
“Right,” I say. I take that to mean she doesn’t want to tell me, and I probably don’t want to know either. I turn my back and focus my attention on the wall, giving her whatever privacy she needs as she finds the first aid kit. She said there wouldn’t be anything at a pharmacy to help with her seizures; what could she possibly find in my cabinet that would work?
I’m hit with a bolt of anxiety as I’m reminded yet again of her medical predicament, but I take a deep breath and force myself not to panic. I listen instead to her every move as I stare at the blank white wall.
