by Shey Stahl
Seeing that box brings tears to my eyes, and I’m reminded of him. Breaking up with someone is like dropping a glass that breaks on your kitchen floor, and for weeks afterward you keep finding little shards of it that nick your feet. I’m reminded of another failed relationship. The gut ache and confusion that once again I’ve driven a guy away with my social awkwardness and overbearing demeanor.
I dated Justin for about two years. Last year he moved in. Exactly one year from the day he moved in, he moved out.
I’ve said this already—Justin did too—but I’m a very controlling person. And by “controlling,” I mean if I could control every aspect of my life and predict the future, then I would be that girl. I’m not afraid to admit that at all. I don’t like surprises either. They make me nauseous and constipated. Neither are fun.
I am that girl who would rather schedule sex because I don’t have time for spontaneity. I need my life in order. It relaxes me to know what I’m doing every minute of the day and keeping to it. Besides, if I schedule sex, then at least I can remember to shave my legs and keep the bits trimmed nicely.
I can’t say that I’m proud of this particular characteristic of mine—given the failed relationship—but I’ve been this way since I was a child, and some, not me, would say that’s why I’m feeling the way I am right now.
Closing the box of DVDs, I toss them in the trash. He’s not getting them back and I’m surely not leaving them out while I’m gone. I can’t stand a cluttered house when I come back from vacation. Actually, I can’t stand clutter anytime.
As I sort clothes and decide on which outfits I will take and which matching shoes, I think a little more about my current “suck at love” situation.
My biggest problem is knowing that, come this winter, I will be turning twenty-eight. That is another year closer to thirty. The dreaded thirty!
When I was three, I told my mother I would be married when I turned thirty. I’m not exactly on the right path to that particular goal, now, am I?
The correct answer would be no.
When I was younger, I used to get pissed off if my mom wouldn’t have dinner done at the exact moment she said it’d be done. I’d even sit there with a timer like an asshole.
I like people to be precise, and if you say you’re going to do something, you’d damn well better.
At the doctor’s offices, if the doctor is late coming into the room, I’m pissed off. If my room is a mess, I freak out. If my skin is dry, I lather up. Obsessive-compulsive disorder? You really have no idea how much of an understatement that is for me. By some standards, I should be on medication. By others, I should be in an institution. And others, maybe only me, would just tell you I have my shit together.
I’m not as bad as I used to be, but sadly, I haven’t improved enough to, let’s say, keep a relationship alive.
After I finish getting everything packed and have my lists organized for what I need in the morning, I am able to relax in bed, read a little about the Bahamas, and then set my alarm to be sure I am up on time. Not that I actually need an alarm, but still, being late wouldn’t be acceptable to me.
As I read about the islands, I’m somewhat surprised I haven’t been there before. For work, I travel all over the place: Australia, Hawaii, Mexico, you name it, and I’ve been there with clients before. Never to the Bahamas, though.
I’m looking forward to lying on the sparkling white sand, watching the beautiful turquoise water lap at my feet… all with an adult beverage in hand. But, most of all, I’m anxiously seeking the relaxation and opportunity to only worry about myself and not what has to be done for my clients when I typically travel to destinations such as this.
Paradise Island is going to have a whole other meaning for me on this trip.
1 part Cruzan® Guava Rum
1 part Cruzan® Mango Rum
½ part falernum
½ part blue Curaçao
½ part cranberry juice
¼ part fresh lemon juice
3 lemon wheels
½ part ginger beer
Mix first six ingredients in a mixing glass with ice
Place one lemon wheel in bottom of a Collins glass. Fill remainder with ice and top with two remaining lemon wheels. Shake and strain into Collins glass. Top with ginger beer to add sparkle.
Sometimes I think I’m having a midlife crisis at twenty-seven. And before you go saying that’s not possible, it totally is. When I’m surrounded by others, it kind of confirms my theory. Like now.
“Will you just relax?” Rylee asks. “You’re acting like a weirdo, and they’re gonna kick us off the plane again.”
“First of all, that was one time. And second, I can’t. You’re touching me, and your arm hair is tickling mine, and what if the plane crashes?” My eyes fall to her elbow, which is on my side of the armrest. Completely unacceptable. She needs to move it.
“You’re too young to be forecasting risk, and I swear to God, Kendall, if you act all crazy and controlling on this trip when we’re supposed to have fun, I’ll break up with you.”
Fluffing my blanket against the window, I nestle in. “Way to kick me when I’m down.”
Rylee doesn’t care about my mental breakdown. All she cares about is that she is getting married in three months, and this trip is their way of celebrating that. I thought that’s what the honeymoon was for, but apparently when your dad has more money than Bill Gates, you can afford to celebrate before and after the ceremony. Rich people. They’re so weird.
I suppose, if I were her, I’d be the same way. But I’m not her. Instead, my life is in ruins, and here I am, negative as fuck and on a plane with someone touching my arm hair.
Staring out the window, I see the team plane for the Arizona Diamondbacks arriving.
Did I mention Justin, you know, the ex, was a professional baseball player?
If I didn’t, maybe it’s because I’m trying to forget that part.
When you think about it, with my personality, you would probably think dating clients would be a no-no. And it is for the most part.
But if you’ve ever seen a professional baseball player walking through his home naked while you make his flight arrangements, well, you’d probably have a lapse in judgment too.
After a while, I realized a few things. Most of the men I work for are assholes, and I’d sleep with them one night and then find them in bed with another girl the next, or buying flowers for them to have delivered to their latest fling.
Things between Justin and me started out great. Then we moved in together, and slowly a little more pressure was put on the relationship. He didn’t want to get married. Ever. And he knew that was what I wanted. Maybe that’s what drove him away, because I did mention it quite often with that thirtieth birthday looming on the horizon.
Justin isn’t the first client I’ve dated, either. And I’ve dated men who weren’t clients as well. I’ve had boyfriends. Six, to be exact.
My first boyfriend was Josiah, when I was a junior in high school. I thought for sure Josiah was the one. And he might have been, but Josiah joined the military, and my friends would argue the point that it was to get away from me. I won’t go that far. I would say maybe there’s a chance of that, but it’s not likely.
Even though it didn’t work out, I did meet Rylee through Josiah. She’s his sister. Awkward at first when we broke up, but Rylee and I are inseparable, despite her being four years younger than I am.
After Josiah was Jaden. Apparently, I’m attracted to men with the letter “J” in their name.
I broke up with him after two dates. There was absolutely no reason for it, other than the fact that he drove a white van and I thought for sure he was eventually going to kidnap me and sell my body parts. There were other reasons too. He wore his shirt when we had sex, and finally I had to ask, what’s with the shirt?
When I found out, I wished I would have kept my fucking mouth shut, because there are just some things in this world your eyes can’t unsee. Like
a man with a monkey tattoo on his stomach with its asshole as his belly button. Yeah, enough said.
You wished I wouldn’t have told you, huh?
After the monkey man, there was Jimmy.
Oh, God. Jimmy. He was a motherfucking god in bed, hence the oh, God part. But that was about all Jimmy was good at. He was the lead singer in a rock band. We could fuck like there was no tomorrow, but after the actual act of sex, he was quite possibly the strangest person I’d ever met. Even more so than monkey man. Crazy thing about Jimmy was that I often thought of calling him afterward and asking him not to speak. Just fuck me.
So after Jimmy it took me some time to get back to dating. And I gained fifteen pounds by not dating. That was when my personal trainer, Jason, and I got acquainted when I needed to lose some weight. Boy, did he help me lose a few pounds.
Then there was Josh. He’s married, and I didn’t find that out until our fifth date. Motherfucker thought it was Utah or something. Judging by his name, he should have been from there. Only Thatcher’s come from Utah.
Then Justin. You know that story.
After a while, I got to the point where I was constantly asking myself, “What’s the point of dating?” and “What’s the point of anything besides a career?”
I still have no answers.
1 part Knob Creek® bourbon
1 part Sailor Jerry® spiced rum
1 tsp pumpkin puree
¼ part maple syrup
1 dash orange bitters
Juice of 1 lime wedge
2 parts ginger beer
Put all ingredients except ginger beer in a mixing glass
Add ice and shake with mixing tin to break up puree
Strain into double rocks glass over fresh ice
Top with ginger beer
If desired, garnish with grated nutmeg
We land in Miami around noon, but still have another thirty-five-minute flight to Nassau. That’s about the time Rylee starts pushing the alcohol on me. She knows me pretty well. The more alcohol I have, the less likely I am to cause a scene.
“Don’t act like a controlling bitch,” she reminds me.
I roll my eyes and slouch toward the flimsy side of the plane that’s supposed to hold me in, with my rum and Coke in hand. People just don’t understand the difference between controlling and organized. There is a difference.
When we land in Nassau, it’s really no surprise that I’m drunk and sweating. My first words are. “It’s fucking hot.”
A light wind gently fluffs Rylee’s hair as she stands beside me and smiles, sweeping her hands over it. “We live in Phoenix. How is this hot to us?” She lets out a laugh and looks at me, glowing with sweat.
Call me a baby, but humidity is not something I enjoy. I’ve lived in Arizona my entire life. Heat doesn’t bother me. Feeling like I’ve peed my pants because my crotch is sweating, that fucking bothers me. Nothing good comes from a sweaty vagina.
“Will you just stop complaining?” Wesley glares at me. “You’re in paradise. Don’t be an asshole the entire time.”
That isn’t the first time Wesley has called me an asshole. I’m almost positive it won’t be the last on this trip, either. We never get along. As you can tell. Silently I hope he gets eaten by a shark or kidnapped by a Bahamian drug cartel.
A dark-skinned man in a light blue shirt smiles at me as we carry our bags from the runway to a car waiting for us. “Welcome to the Bahamas! Enjoy your stay.”
I smile at him and gesture with a flick of my head toward the vehicle. “Does that car have air conditioning?”
He nods. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Jesus.”
The drive through town, on the wrong side of the road, and over to Paradise Island is interesting. Our windows are down, because guess fucking what? Wesley refuses to roll his up, so it’s pointless to use the air conditioning. Jerk.
Warm, sticky air assaults my already pink cheeks, and it never fails that when the car stops, men approach the car. They warn you as soon as you leave the plane about the drugs and how they’re on every corner. They weren’t lying.
Just as we pass the straw market, I’m offered the first of many joints.
“You want some good stuff, little lady?”
I look at the driver. He isn’t paying any mind, and Rylee and Wesley are occupied.
“Is it legal here?” I know nothing about the drug laws here, and though I’m not into drugs, the thought’s intriguing to me. Rylee did say I needed to loosen up, didn’t she?
“We go over here. I hook you up.” His hand is on my arm now, and the door handle, coaxing me. As tempting as it is, I notice the Bahamian police patrolling the streets, dressed in British tan and red uniforms, with berets and everything. They look official.
I look at the man with hard eyes and a smile as the car begins to creep forward. This seems illegal to me, and I think the moment I step outside this car, I might be kidnapped or, worse, thrown in jail and never heard from again. And on another note, this guy offering up drugs and a free pass to prison, he’s got dirty fingernails. It’s a rule of mine never to trust anyone with dirt under the nails. Unless it’s your mechanic. He has a valid excuse.
The driver finally notices the drug dealer trying to kidnap me—not really, I’m exaggerating—and speeds up, leaving dirty-nail guy to his next victim. “Oh, no you don’t, little lady. No local men. Don’t go to Nassau by yourself.”
That’s his only warning. And then he starts rambling off something else, but to be honest with you, I can’t understand a goddamn thing anyone here says. They have a tendency to drop the “H” when they speak, and I haven’t gotten used to that. Instead, I find myself staring at them and hoping to read their lips. Other times I just smile and nod, pretending I know what they’re saying.
Anyway, to save you the trouble, a good rule of thumb if you go to the Bahamas: drugs are illegal here.
To get over to Paradise Island, you cross a bridge, and then you are literally in paradise, as far as I’m concerned. Keep in mind the most I’ve seen for the last month was my bedroom walls. Stepping into a grocery store probably would have been paradise.
The hotel is amazing. Everywhere I look there are tropical gardens, palm trees, and half-dressed people. It actually reminds me a lot of being back home, but it’s humid and my hair looks like I stuck my finger in a light socket.
We’re staying at Atlantis on Paradise Island in the Beach Tower. My room overlooks the ocean, while Rylee and Wesley’s room overlook the city. I’m not sure how I got lucky on the room picking, but I had a feeling they don’t care about the outside view. All that matters to them is the thread count on the sheets.
First thing I notice when I enter my room? It’s not cleaned. That irritates me. While reminded I’m on a strict “don’t be an asshole” order, I can’t help myself.
Immediately, I call down to the front desk and inform them of the problem. They say they’ll be right up, but I do one better and catch a maid outside my room.
I try to be as nice as possible and tap the girl on the shoulder. “There is only one towel in my room and the bed isn’t made,” I say to her.
She turns around, taking one of her earbuds out, her deep chocolate locks slipping from her bun with the motion. “What?”
It’s unprofessional that she’s listening to music, and annoying that I have to repeat myself. “You’re working,” I note. “Should you really be listening to music?”
“I can do whatever I want to do,” she clips, glaring at me. While her skin is dark, she looks American, with these sky blue eyes that kind of catch you off guard. She’s beautiful.
But I’ve pissed her off for sure. If this was a restaurant, this would be the point where I was sure spit was going into my food.
But it wasn’t a restaurant, and she has access to my room and my stuff.
Don’t be an asshole, Kendall.
“It seems my room is missing towels, and the bed isn’t made,” I say, as polite
ly as I can. “Do you think maybe someone could service it?”
The girl sighs and glances down at her clipboard on the cart in front of her. After a moment, she speaks, and her tone certainly isn’t any nicer than before. “I show your room was serviced already.” Then she turns away without waiting for my reply.
I have to bite my tongue. People like this really piss me off. Her job is customer service, and she’s treating me like shit. “Okay.” I breathe calmly and let out a small laugh to cover my annoyance. “It’s not clean.” I reach forward and grab three towels from her cart, catching her name on her badge. “And I have no towels, Alicia. So are you going to do your job, or should I do it myself?”
That does it. She isn’t pleased at all. But neither am I. She can shove that clipboard up her skinny tanned ass for all I care.
Rylee chooses that moment to come out of her room. “Kendall? What are you doing?”
“Getting towels,” I tell her, as if it should be obvious. It looks obvious to me.
Rylee pushes her way between me and Alicia, looking over her shoulder at the maid as she ushers me back down the hall. “Don’t mind her.”
While Rylee escorts me back to my room, Alicia gives me a death stare. I do her one solid, pointing to my eyes and then at her, letting her know I’ll be watching her.
Can you guess what she does next? Flips me off and then makes a motion with her hand and tongue, as if I could suck a dick.
What the fuck?
Already I’ve met a drug dealer and a prostitute. I haven’t made any friends yet, and when you’re in another country, it’s not good to have this many enemies.
“You need to go down to the bar or something,” Rylee tells me, holding up one of my sundresses. She always feels the need to adjust my style and insist I wear certain dresses that show my assets.
This time she actually picks something good. I put it on as she sits on the edge of the bed, looking through menus. “Where are we going?”
She hesitates, lowering her voice purposely. “Well….”
I know that look. “You’re ditching me, aren’t you?”