Page 71 of A Not-So Holiday Paradise
Hopefully, anyway.
I’ve been good. I’ve beensogood. I have not contacted him once. No emails, no calls, no texts. No carrier pigeons or snail mail. Lots of attempted telepathy, but I pretty much knew that was a bust ever since my eleventh birthday, when no acceptance letters to Hogwarts showed up.
So yeah. Beckett has not heard one single word from me for the entire month of January.
A little twang of nervousness ripples through my gut. One month is a long time—long enough for his feelings to fade. Knowing him, I doubt he’s miraculously fallen in love with someone else during this time, but that doesn’t mean his feelings for me have stuck around, either.
That’s kind of what January was about, though—a chance for us to find out if our feelings for each other were real, or if they were just byproducts of the things we went through together.
There was never any question on my end. Until we got stuck on that island, I was head-over-heels in love with the version of Beckett I had been building up in my head for years. That version of him was based on the real thing, but it wasn’t quite true to life. The real Beckett—especially the current version of him—is a little grumpier than I imagined, a little more antisocial. More protective than I would have imagined, definitely, and unexpectedly softer, too. Vulnerable. Caring.
My feelings for him have not faded one bit. I’m just crazy about the real Beckett now, rather than the version of him I’d been holding onto.
Who knows how he’s feeling about me, though? I want to believe that he still likes me as a person, at the very least. I want to believe that I’m no longer just Wes’s little sister. But it’s hard to know for sure.
Until now, that is.
I bite my lip, looking at the time again. Yes, it’s officially February now, but I shouldn’t call him at midnight, right? That’s bad manners. Also it sort of reeks of desperation.
So I settle for texting him instead. That doesn’t reek of desperation so much as it justslightly smellslike desperation. And I’m fine with that. I wet myself and had a seizure in front of him. I have no room for embarrassment anymore.
It takes me a stupidly long time to formulate a text, considering my message ends up being exactly eleven words. But I hit send, my heart pounding in my chest like fists banging against my rib cage.
Me:It’s Molly. Still want to meet up now that it’s February?
I forcemyself not to sit and stare at my phone, waiting for a response. He’s probably asleep, so I’ll mostly likely hear back in the morning. And I’m okay with that—
Except my phone buzzes, startling me. That thudding in my chest grows louder, picking up speed until I start to think my heart is just going to leap out of my gaping mouth.
Did he really text me back already?
Beckett:Yes. When will you be here?
I can’t helpthe smile that spreads across my face as I look around me—at the row of shops, all dark windows and locked doors; at the stretch of paved stone where Nilson carries Alonso and Señorita during the day; at the port entry on the other side of the square.
In truth, I’ve been on the island for about twenty-four hours now. My work study starts next week, a few islands over. Call me presumptuous, but I wanted to get here early enough to see Beckett before I had to go get settled in the dorm.
I turn on my phone’s flash and take a picture of myself, turned so that the port entrance is clearly visible in the background. Then I send the photo to Beckett with shaking hands. I’m not a big selfie girl, and I’m definitely not one to send selfies to the guys I like. But this feels like a good time to respond with a photo rather than words.
My phone buzzes thirty seconds later, and I take a deep breath before reading it.
Beckett:Stay where you are. I’m coming to you.
“What?”I squawk, jumping up. I figured he would ask to see me tomorrow. He might even ask to see me in the morning, if I was lucky. I didn’t think he’d come to me right this very second.
I’m about to text him back and tell him to wait—because I for sure need to shower before I see him again—when my phone rings.
“Yeah,” I say breathlessly. I don’t even look at the caller ID; I know it’s him.
“Molly, you can’t just wander around by yourself in the middle of the night,” he says. “Can you go inside? Is anywhere open?”
“No,” I say, looking around at all the darkened shops. “But—”
“Of course not,” he mutters. I can hear faint sounds in the background, and I imagine him rushing around his little house, putting on shoes, grabbing his wallet, getting out the door. “Look, just sit somewhere and—I don’t know. Try to turn invisible.”
“Hmm,” I say, a smile pulling at my lips. “A solid plan.” Something giddy and full of sunshine is bubbling up inside of me, and I bizarrely feel like laughing. “What should I do if I can’t manage the invisibility thing?”
“Keep your eyes peeled and try not to get mugged.”
