Page 8 of A Not-So Holiday Paradise
The problem is, I’m not sure heisokay. I don’t know him now the way I used to years ago, and I’m not sure it’s something I can ferret out over the course of one day. But I don’t remember him being this closed off before.
Maybe I’m imagining things, but it seems to me that on his perfectly tanned forehead, hovering over his brows and deep brown eyes, there’s a largeLEAVE ME ALONEstamped in bright red ink—a flashing neon sign with a blaring alarm attached. It’s the vibe he gives off—to me, anyway. He hugged Wes and has been chatting comfortably with my parents, so maybe it’s just me he’s uninterested in talking to.
That’s a great feeling, let me tell you.
I sigh, pushing that thought away. I distract myself instead by checking out our surroundings. It’s not midday yet, but it’s getting there. The sun is hanging overhead, and the warmth surrounding us is thick and muggy, pulling an unpleasant clamminess to my skin. It’s only the breeze coming off the water that makes it bearable. I can feel my hair whipping this way and that, escaping its braid and doing its own thing as per usual, so I pull it over my shoulder and remove the hair tie, combing my fingers through it to get rid of what’s left of the braid. Then I stand with my face to the wind, so that it’s pushing my hair back where I need it to go, and pull all of that orange up into a floppy bun on top of my head.
I smile when I feel the wind on my neck; it chases away the clinging dampness, kissing my skin like a promise. “Much better,” I say happily, smiling to myself. I close my eyes, tilting my face toward the sun.
I soak up the rays until my parents and Beckett catch up to us, and I know they’ve caught up to us because my mother does not do anything quietly.
“And how much longer do you think you’ll be out here? I worry,” she says from a few feet away.
My eyes pop open just in time to see Beckett’s half-amused, half-affectionate look as he answers, “I’m not sure, exactly. But if everything goes to plan, we’ll be able to wrap up in about six weeks.”
“Oh, that’s not bad,” my mother says. Her cheeks dimple as she smiles at him. “And then what will you do? Come back to the States?”
“Technically thisisthe States,” I point out. “These Virgin Islands are U.S. territory.”
She doesn’t even look at me; she just swats a hand in my direction. “He knows what I mean,” she says.
“I’ll probably go back to Florida then, yes,” Beckett says. “Keep working in the lab at the university.” He stops walking, and all of us gather around him—sheep circling our shepherd, waiting for his direction.
“So as you can see, there’s a bit of a path here, but it’s not paved.” He points to the tree line, where a narrow dirt path appears to wind through the dense greenery, disappearing from view. “We’ll take that for a little way, and it will open up to a wider dirt road. There’s a paved road we laid down on the other side of the island, but I thought you guys would like to see the stuff we’ve left mostly untouched.”
He’s right; choosing between a paved road through paradise and a path so narrow I can spread my arms and touch trees on each side, I’ll take the narrow path. Pick me up and drop me in the wild; as long as I have the necessities, I’ll love every second.
Speaking of necessities…
I pull my backpack off, clutching it to my chest. It’s old and faded now, a buttery yellow instead of the sunshine it once resembled, and it’s so worn that the zipper is smooth and silent when I open it.
“Here, Dad,” I say after a second of digging, pulling out my jumbo bottle of sunscreen. “You didn’t wear a hat.”
“I put some on already,” he says, reaching up to touch his shiny head.
“The stuff you and Mom brought?” I say. “That’s SPF 30. This stuff is SPF 70.” I wiggle the bottle at him.
“I already—”
“Just take it, Robert,” my mom says, tutting at him. She grabs the sunscreen from me and forces it into my dad’s hands. “You’re miserable when your head burns, and it looks funny when it starts to peel. Put some more on.”
I try to hide my smile at this, but I’m not sure it works. “Anyone else can use that if they want,” I say. I personally already smell like a walking Coppertone ad, but I’ll apply another layer in an hour or two. Skin cancer is no joke—as I am now intimately aware, thanks to this morning’s rabbit hole dive about cancerous moles.
My dad grumbles under his breath as he slathers a big blob of white all over his head, which increases the shininess factor by probably fifty percent. We’re not quite talking disco ball level, but it’s still a phenomenon I can’t leave unexplored.
“Whoa,” I say, standing up on my tiptoes so I can see better. I tilt my head, examining the greasy sheen and the way the sunlight is bouncing off. “I bet I can see my reflection—”
“No need,” Wes says with a smirk. “You’re just as ugly as you were before we left.”
“Wes!” I smack him hard on the shoulder, and he darts away, cackling like a maniac. I force a laugh too, though, as I say, “You jerk. I look fine now!”
“I don’t know,” he says, pointing at my face. “I think I can still see some pink—”
“Children, children,” Beckett intones with exasperation. “Let’s act our age, shall we?”
“Yes, Father,” Wes says, grinning.
I roll my eyes. “Yes, Father,” I repeat. I snatch my sunscreen from Wes, who’s about to squirt some into his open palm. “You’ve lost your SPF 70 privileges.” I shove it back into my bag, swinging the whole thing back over my shoulder and then marching forward. I pass Beckett, who’s mouthing wordlessly and sputtering.
