by Jo Watson
When I froze, right there on the snow-white sand. Something was very wrong.
It took a few seconds for my brain to realize that I’d forgotten my flip-flops as the hot sand scalded my feet. I ran screeching for the nearest lounger and jumped onto it, eagerly rubbing my fiery feet.
When the stinging had finally worn off to a mild glow, I stretched out and got to focus on my most important job—relaxing. Well, just as soon as I covered my pale body in SPF 50+ (at least). My quest to find the perfect sunscreen, one that doesn’t wash off and doesn’t smell like a banana and a coconut had a child, is very ongoing. But I think I’ve finally found it. This one didn’t wash off; in fact, it was so permanent it would probably survive the total nuclear destruction of the planet. Once the billowing mushroom clouds and ash had settled, all that would be left were cockroaches wearing this sunscreen.
And I needed to wear sunscreen like that because I don’t tan, I burn. Being blessed with strawberry blond hair and a freckly complexion means I never really change color—to anything other than bright red, that is. If I’d had the money, I might have considered a spray tan so that when I pulled off my dress and exposed my body, I didn’t look like I glowed in the dark.
“Bonjour, madame,” a little singsong voice said behind me. I turned. “Would you like a drink?” the waiter asked in a thick French accent, which always makes things sound so much more appealing.
Now that is the life. Lying on the beach while waiters bring you fabulous drinks. I scanned the menu until I found my poison.
“This one,” I said, pointing at the picture of a coconut shell oozing with umbrellas and pieces of pineapple.
“Of course, madame.” He turned and disappeared.
I gazed around the beach again. A few people looked like they’d been lying in the sun for days, dark and bronzed to the point of being shiny. A couple of children were splashing in the shallow waters and attempting to build sandcastles, but the sand was so soft and flyaway that they were failing dismally. Some energetic souls were canoeing while others were playing Frisbee. In the distance I could even make out the small silhouette of someone fishing on the sandbar. Personally, I’ve never really seen the point of physical exertion on holiday.
Soon my waiter was back and handing me the most tropical drink I’d ever seen. Navigating your lips to the rim was a challenge in itself; one had to first part the sea of umbrellas and twirly straws, and then push through the sea of floating fruit.
But when I sipped it…
Cool.
Strong.
Delicious.
I placed it on the little table that was attached to the lounger and opened my book, but as I started raising it, something caught my attention. Someone.
To my left, about three loungers down, sat a man. The person of interest stuck out like a sore thumb, and I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed him sooner. For starters, he was the only person not wearing a bathing suit. Instead, he was dressed in a shirt and shorts. He didn’t look relaxed, either. Far, far from it.
He sat bolt upright in his chair, had a laptop perched on his crossed knees and an iPad and cell phone on the table next to him. Technology overload, especially for the beach.
Stranger than the menagerie of gadgets, though, was the fact that his hands were hovering just above the keys.
Not moving. Not typing.
I must have watched him for about five minutes, and in that time he did nothing more than stare at the computer screen. He was so still that I wondered if he hadn’t fallen asleep, or in some bizarre twist of fate, had maybe died in that position and rigor mortis had set in. I studied him a bit more.
Scruffy thing.
Messy, dark blond hair highlighted with flecks of gray. Not that he was old, he was obviously just one of those guys who acquired the Clooney-style salt-and-pepper look early on. If I had to guess his age, I would say midthirties. Big, dark sunglasses, not the cool kind, either. Well, nothing I recognized anyway. He also had more than the start of a beard—definitely a week or two more than a five-o’clock shadow. Perhaps he was a hipster? Perhaps he was contemplating obscure ukulele bands, wondering whether vinyl was too mainstream, if it was time to switch back to cassette tapes, or what filter to put on his next Instagram pic?
But whatever he was, he was not my thing. At all. He might have been my type several years ago, but all that had changed since clean-cut Trevv…I sighed. I would probably never date such a good-looking guy again. That’s shallow, I know. But it did feel good having someone so good-looking on my arm.
My eyes moved from his hairy, unkempt face to his shirt. He was wearing a short-sleeve button-down shirt, off-whitish in color. But when I studied it closer, I realized that it had definitely once been white. Poor thing had probably ended up in the colored load of washing, giving it a strange sort of bilious greeny-creamy, beige hue. The top few buttons of his shirt were undone, and you could definitely see a fair splattering of chest hair. Again, not really my thing.
His shorts were another story altogether. They were a strange length, neither here nor there. Sort of knee length, sort of not. They were made from a hot, heavy-looking black fabric—who wears that to the beach? He looked tall. Not freakishly so, but definitely taller than average. Large, broad, and well built. Not a gym bunny, though. In fact, he looked like the kind of guy that had never set foot in a gym—not his thing.
Creative type, I imagined. Advertising maybe? Advertising types often have that intense vibe about them—trust me, I know. They always look like they’re ready to pounce and sell you something “new and improved” with a “money-back guarantee”…but wait there’s more.
And then, just as I was convinced he was indeed dead and rigor mortis had set in and perhaps I should investigate further, he opened his mouth and started mumbling something.
He was talking to himself!
What on earth was he saying? The mumbling soon escalated until it looked like he was having a full-blown conversation with himself. His hands even joined in at times, gesticulating and flapping. In fact, if I watched closely enough, I could almost distinguish two different personalities having a conversation with each other.
It was quite comical, really. I was still staring at him and coming up with scenarios in my head that could explain his behavior—most ended with him being some kind of crazy person, like the guy that stands on the highway preaching at the passing cars. I was just starting to wonder if he, too, believed in the “invasion” when I was jolted back to reality by a sudden movement and loud noise. He had, very suddenly—and very violently—slammed his computer shut and was now looking straight into my prying gaze. It was as if he’d sensed I was staring at him. Mortified, I quickly averted my eyes and buried my face in my book, hoping that I hadn’t caused any offense.
CHAPTER FIVE
It was suddenly very quiet around me—the shrill, excited shrieks of children and the splashing of water had all disappeared. I guess I must have fallen asleep because suddenly…
“Hey.” Someone shook my arm rather hard. “I think you need to get out of the sun. You’ve been asleep for a while.”
I jumped. Shocked by the voice that was suddenly very real and right next to me—an American voice. I rubbed my eyes and looked up, coming face-to-face with a pair of Bradley Cooper–blue eyes.
I must still be asleep. Dreaming.
“Thought I would wake you, you’re getting really burned.” Blue-Eyed Cooper spoke again in a husky, sexy-sounding voice.
How truly peculiar. If dreams had hidden meanings, what the hell did this mean? Or if Dr. Freud was right and everyone in your dreams actually represents a part of yourself; what did a male version of me as Bradley Cooper standing on the beach mean? Curious.
The blue eyes looked at me oddly. “Um…are you okay? I think maybe you’ve had too much sun or something?”
Suddenly I started getting a strange feeling. Very strange. This was starting to feel less and less like a dream. I squinted my eyes in an attem
pt to block out the glare that was partially silhouetting him. And as the blinding light lessened and the rest of his facial features came into proper focus, I noticed the beard, the scruffy dark blond hair, and those grayish streaks…
It was Laptop Guy.
“I think you need to get out of the sun,” he repeated.
My confusion must have shown on my face, because he leaned in close, looking at me with the kind of concern you might have if you saw someone mixing paisley and pinstripes.
He spoke again. This time his words were slow and deliberate.
“The…sun…HOT…too…long…in…it.”
Why was he speaking like Yoda?
I looked around. The sun had shifted its position in the sky, and then I became aware of an intense stinging sensation coating my entire body.
“How long have I been here?”
“Long enough,” he said.
I tried to move, but winced. “Ouch.” I glanced down at my various appendages and could see they had turned a lobster-esque color.
“Shit.”
“Yep. Like I said. Too much sun.”
“I didn’t realize I’d fallen asleep.”
He stuck out an accusing finger and pointed straight ahead at my empty coconut cocktail. “Those things are deadly. I had one yesterday and walked around in a daze. Bit liberal with the rum, if you ask me.”
I nodded and when I did, noticed that my head felt heavy. Laptop Guy continued to stand there casting a much-needed shadow across me as I set about gathering my things and shoving them into my bag. But as I swung my feet over the side of the lounger and onto the sand…
“Crap, that’s hot.”
I immediately recoiled. Like touching a frying pan that had been left on the stove overnight.
“Don’t you have sandals?”
I shook my head, “I forgot to bring them.”
“Well,” he said quite seriously, “I could throw you over my shoulder?”
“Huh?” I looked up at Laptop Guy and scrutinized his face for the telltale signs of jest—there were none. So I waited a moment or two for the…“Just joking!” to come, but it didn’t.
“You’re not being serious?”
“Well, what other options do you have?”
“No! I’m not letting you fling me over your shoulder. That’s just…weird.”
“Fine,” he said, looking totally unfazed before shrugging his shoulders and walking away. “Good luck!” I heard him say as he disappeared out of sight.
Was that supposed to be sarcastic? It was hard to tell by the tone of his voice. Because “Good luck!” is usually the kind of thing you say to someone who’s about to take an exam or their driver’s license test. Not someone who’s about to burn the soles of their feet to a cinder. That’s just sarcastic.
Oh, I’m about to stick my hand in a blender…“Good luck!”
Oh, I’m about to fall face-first off a very high cliff…“Good luck!”
Oh, I’m about to have my toes burned off by a wayward fireball…“Good luck!”
Now I didn’t care if he had the eyes of Bradley Cooper and the face of Ian Somerhalder—he was just a big sarcastic prick with a beard and weird shorts. This sudden surge of irritation gave me the boost of adrenaline I needed to counteract my slightly woozy, wobbly feeling. My room was only a few yards away, but the sand felt like it had been baking on the surface of Mercury. I was going to have to muster up the courage to make a quick dash and hope that I reached the other side without scalding blisters and boils.
And so I ran.
You know what it’s like…you’re at the gym, you’re on the treadmill, or the stepper, and you’re watching the countdown clock. You swore blind that you’d do twenty minutes of exercise, but as the timer reaches the last minute, the last thirty seconds, it feels impossible to carry on. Each step becomes painful, as if your entire body is weighted down by a hundred pounds of concrete. That’s how it felt. The closer I got to my room, the worse it got. And the last few steps were completely unbearable.
Finally I reached my room, flung open the door, and ran for the bathtub. The cool water couldn’t have come soon enough and I felt instant relief.
But not so relieved when I looked in the mirror and an apparition stared back at me.
Red is not my color. I avoid it at all costs and in all forms: lipstick, dresses, accessories, and sometimes I even avoid standing next to people dressed in red, or stop signs. It really doesn’t jell with my red hair and freckles. So when I looked in the mirror and realized I was red from head to toe, well, I was very unhappy.
Worst of all were the big white stripes down the sides of my face and large white circles around my eyes where my sunglasses had been.
I looked positively freakish. Hey, just throw me into one of those shows next to the bearded woman and the fire-eating dragon man; I would have fit right in. I tsked loudly at my stupidity and realized that my lips also felt burned. There goes the possibility of making out with a scuba instructor, or any kind of instructor—or any member of the male species for that matter. Not that I was expecting any such holiday dalliance.
Luckily I’d brought a bottle of moisturizing after-sun cream. I couldn’t believe I had let this happen. I started applying the soothing cream as liberally as I could, but my skin was so hot and dry that it seemed to suck the cream up like a thirsty camel. About ten layers later, the stinging started to dissipate, and my thoughts went back to Laptop Guy.
Only one thought, really:
Why were men such a-holes? I’d definitely developed a general mistrust of men. I now suspected most—if not all—of cheating, and most—if not all—of being monstrous, evil pigs. I had become sensitive, cautious, and suspicious. Rightfully so.
If a guy held the door open for me, I was sure he was just trying to sneak a peek at my ass as I walked in front of him.
If a man let me go in front of him in a line—the same thing applied.
If a man said he was running late—out drinking with the guys and flirting with chicks.
Going out to buy milk—banging his secretary.
Playing golf with his friends—definitely clubbing baby seals.
I’d often thought back to all of Trevv’s late nights, conferences away, out-of-town fund-raisers, and other such things that I never went to because, “Shame, you’d be bored to death, babe. Not your cup of tea.”
We had been leading such separate lives for the last six months of our relationship. The signs were all there, staring me straight in the face, but I’d missed them, or maybe ignored them.
I thought about one evening in particular. It had been another one of those “not my cup of tea” functions, according to Trevv anyway. In retrospect he’d been saying that a lot, and now I could see it had nothing to do with his gentlemanly consideration of my feelings, and everything to do with wanting to spend alone time with Tess. Clearly I was a terrible inconvenience.
I’d gone in the end, but it had been one of the most painful evenings of my life. From the moment I arrived, it felt as though everyone in the room was whispering and staring. At the time I’d written it off to jealousy; I was carrying the latest—not yet in the shops—Chloé bag and was wearing a rather fabulous dress by a new up-and-coming South African designer that was so cutting edge. But looking back now, they were staring because they knew.
“Shame, there she is. I wonder if she knows about Trevv and Tess?”
“Oh my God, I can’t believe he brought her. With Tess right there?”
Tess had been so nice to me, too, that evening. God, I’d been so blind.
I couldn’t help wondering how many of our mutual friends had known, too, or at least suspected and not bothered to tell me. How mortifying. I thought back to all those dinners we attended, that time I went shopping with his best friend to buy him a thirtieth birthday present. The idea that everyone knew, except me, left me feeling sick to my stomach. Had I been a laughingstock? Had he been high-fiving his friends while telling them he
was fucking the hottest girl in the world and his stupid girlfriend didn’t even know?
God! I was driving myself mad again. So I pushed the thoughts out of my mind and forced myself to get dressed and ready for dinner. I poured half a bottle of thick foundation on my red face, which just made me look like I was wearing a mask. I then tried to hide the cracked red landscape of my lips with an excessive dollop of lip gloss—this just made me look like I could charge by the hour. Oh well, it’s not like I was trying to impress anyone, and I could probably do with the extra cash anyway.
I walked down to the bar feeling like I was radiating UV heat onto all of the people around me—and of course in my mind they were staring. But I kept a brave—if somewhat scary-looking—face and walked as fast as I could without chafing my sensitive skin.
The whole place looked mystical at night. The lights from the buildings shined onto the white sand and sea, giving them an iridescent quality, as if someone had tipped a can of gold paint into the water.
I walked down a long path through the lush gardens, which were made even more lush and tropical-looking under the green lights that were shining on them. And when I got there, the bar was amazing. It was actually an island built right in the middle of the pool with a little bridge that leads you there—a bridge that I would hate to walk across after a few drinks.
On the one side of the bar you could swim all the way up to the counter and sit in seats that rose up out of the water, giving you the opportunity to sip drinks while half-submerged. Definitely something to put on the to-do list.
Something that was definitely not on the to-do list, though, was bumping into Laptop Guy again. But there he was. Sitting front and center at the bar. Still with his fingers hovering over the computer keys. Still not typing. I turned and tried to slink away unseen into the shadows but…
“Hey!” I heard him call out. I froze. Was he calling for me?
“Hey, sunshine.”
Great. He clearly hadn’t left his sarcasm back on the beach.