“Yes.”
“How in the world did that happen?”
“There aren’t a lot of flights to Bora Bora, I guess we just happened to book the same one.”
“I mean, why the hell is he in Bora Bora of all places?” It’s more a mutter than an actual question.
“He said it was last minute. I guess since his date was responsible for ruining my wedding he was getting out of Dodge.”
“So it wasn’t orchestrated?”
“Orchestrated? What do you mean?”
“Nothing, never mind. Bane is talking to Lex. It sounds like their father pushed a project that wasn’t supposed to happen for a few months forward because of Brittany Whore-ton’s dick gargling. That’s crazy that you’re in the same place at the same time. Too bad he’s not at the same resort as you.”
“It’s probably better he’s not. I’ve embarrassed myself around him enough as it is. I’d rather he not witness more of my drunk and disorderly behavior.” I’m fidgeting again.
“Come on, Amie, how wild of a coincidence is this? I mean really? How does that even happen?”
I’ve asked myself the same thing and I really can’t answer it. “It’s no big deal. He’s on the other side of the island.”
“For now. I can’t imagine he’ll stay at the same place the entire time. He’ll probably have to move around.” I can hear Bancroft in the background, his tone annoyed but the words too muffled to catch. “I’m glad he’s there. You said you have his number, right?”
“Yeah, but it’s not like I’m going to call him. He’s here on business. He’ll be busy.” The beta testing comment was just a joke, and he’s notoriously flirty. At least that’s what I’m going to keep telling myself. I have a feeling if I call him, I’m going to do exactly the same thing I did when I found him in my bridal suite, and I won’t have any kind of logical excuse for it other than the sheer desire to get him naked and ride him.
“At least you know someone local.”
“I guess that’s true.”
The driver pulls off the main road, and suddenly we’re in the cover of palm trees and the reception becomes shoddy. We try to talk around it, but it proves impossible. “Can I call you later, once I’m settled?”
“Of course. Have some fun and wear sunscreen!”
“I’ll do my best.”
I end the call as we pull up to the main resort building. In the distance the inactive volcano cuts deep green in to the backdrop of pale blue water and the white sand beach. I check into the resort and my bags are transferred into a golf cart. We make the short trip down a narrow path to my private hut tucked between the palm trees lining the water.
Once my bags are brought inside, I tip the concierge and then I’m left to take in the lavish accommodations.
While the exterior is quaint, the interior is sheer luxury. Rose petals dot the white comforter covering the king-size bed, a gauzy canopy lending a hint of privacy and sensuality. A living room with a couch and a TV is set to the left, a small kitchen with a table for two is positioned close to the sliding doors that lead outside. Beyond that is a massive bathroom, boasting a beautiful soaker tub.
I cross the bungalow and step out on to the private deck. The view is spectacular. It’s the perfect location. The perfect honeymoon. Except I’m alone. The anger and the sadness I’ve wavered between coalesces and becomes thicker; a sludge I feel stuck in.
I pull up the most recent voicemail from Armstrong and debate whether I want to hear what he has to say. I’ll have to listen to it eventually, so I bite the bullet and hit the play button:
“This is the fourth time I’ve called in the past twenty-four hours. This standoff is unhelpful, Amalie. Do you realize how embarrassing this is for me? How can I account for your disappearance? What will people think? Do you have any idea what they’re saying? I don’t know what else I can say or do to rectify this situation. As I’ve said before, it was an unintentional mishap. Haven’t you made mistakes in the past? Surely you can find it in your heart to forgive me this transgression.”
“You’re the fucking mistake.” I delete it so I don’t succumb to the temptation to stew in my own idiocy and listen to it again. In all the messages he’s sent he continually mentions forgiveness, but it seems like he doesn’t actually care about the forgiveness part, it’s just about saving face. It’s disgusting and appalling. There’s no excuse for what he’s done.
The view grows blurry as the tears break free. I step off the deck and sink into the sand, wishing this wasn’t my life, and that I didn’t feel so empty.
* * *
Bora Bora is incredible. The resort is beautiful. It’s also the absolute worst place for a rejected bride. There’s a reason why this hotel is touted as the most romantic honeymoon destination in the world. Because those are the only people here. Happy couples in love greet me at every turn. Gorgeous, sexy people kiss and hold hands and stroll the beaches. They sit across from me at every meal and feed each other chocolate-dipped strawberries. I can literally feel people’s pity. There’s no escaping the humiliation or the loneliness.
For the first twenty-four hours, the concierge kept asking after my husband. I may or may not have accidentally said he was probably off getting a blow job, so he was unlikely to arrive anytime soon.
Three days in and I’m miserable. It doesn’t matter how beautiful my surroundings are, the endless happiness of other couples celebrating their love is painful to witness, in part because I’m alone, but also because over the past few days I’ve begun to truly accept the awful mistake I made in marrying Armstrong. I should’ve trusted my instincts and not listened to my mother, because I need to face reality.
The truth is, I married Armstrong because I got wrapped up in the idea of a perfect love instead of trying to find the real thing. I wanted this to work so badly that I allowed him to dictate my choices, not just for the wedding, but in every single part of my life.
It was so much bigger than just manipulating what I wore and ate, although that was definitely part of it. He was subtle in his manipulations, making comments about how things looked on me, what was appropriate and what wasn’t.
All of the things he said and did were meant to make me question myself and undermine my confidence. Worse than that is the way I let him drag me down and make me feel less—less important, less valued, less than good enough. If I had stayed with him I would’ve continually questioned my worth and I probably would’ve ended up falling down a rabbit hole of self-loathing filled with Botox injections and insecurity.
I should’ve taken Ruby’s concerns seriously, but I didn’t and now here I am, alone on my honeymoon, wishing I could go back in time and erase the past year of my life. But I can’t. So this loneliness is my present.
Messages from Armstrong have been constant. It appears my brother made an attempt to deliver the annulment papers a couple of days ago according to one of Armstrong’s many voicemails.
“Annulment papers, Amalie? Honestly? Don’t you think that’s rash? It’s imperative that we have a reasonable discussion, but it doesn’t appear I’ll be able to do that face-to-face with you considering you’re on our honeymoon. Don’t think I didn’t notice the charges on my credit card for the new bathing suit! Or the other items you’ve purchased. I know you went. Do you have my passport? You’re making this extraordinarily difficult.”
This morning I received a message from his mother, which is a new level of horrifying. I’ve avoided listening to it up until now. Her voice is worse than death metal with a migraine.
“Amalie, darling, you’ve made your point. I understand that Armstrong has upset you, however, I think we all know what’s best here. This happens to all of us. Now I realize in this case the circumstances were less than ideal, but I’ve talked to Armstrong and he’s willing to find a way to make amends for this indiscretion. You can’t run from this forever, darling.”
She’s partially right, I’m running from the bad decisions I’ve made in the nam
e of making my family happy, which is hilariously ironic, because it seems like no matter what I do, I make the wrong decision. I’m also running from the fear that I’m destined to end up like my parents, always pushing away instead of finding someone I can stand next to in this life. But, it doesn’t mean I have any desire to reconcile with Armstrong.
Since I arrived, I’ve talked to my own mother once to let her know I’m safe. My dad was out golfing when I called, but she assured me twice that everything was fine. I don’t want the stress to impact her health, and fights between her and my father can do that. Her major concern seems to lie with me making poor choices while I’m away. She reminded me that we don’t want a repeat of Mexico, especially since I’m still technically married to Armstrong. Something I’ve been trying to forget.
A brief text conversation with Pierce informs me he’s still working on getting the annulment papers into Armstrong’s hands, but he’s having trouble getting past his secretary, which explains Armstrong’s most recent voicemail.
I’m currently sitting in one of the lounge chairs facing the beach. I’ve stopped eating meals in the dining hall. Instead, I order room service so I don’t have to deal with all the happy, in love couples.
I’ve read four books, all of them murder mysteries because I can’t stomach romance. As I bring up the latest one on my e-reader, the crunch of tires on gravel draws my gaze toward the path beyond the hut. I can’t see anything, though, my location is that private. I sigh at the thought of another excessively happy couple coming to join the endless party of love. Screw everyone and their happiness. My bitterness is like a black cloud of doom, blocking out the warmth and sunshine. I hate this fucking place.
The golf cart doesn’t continue past my hut; instead it slows. I already have my breakfast. I haven’t planned an excursion for today—yesterday’s scuba diving was horrible since, as usual, I was the only single one. The worst part of the whole trip so far has been being propositioned by the newly married couple in their early fifties to join them in a threesome.
My stomach does a flippy thing at the possibility that I might have a visitor. What if Lexington has come to check up on me? I haven’t messaged or called him, even though I’ve thought about it every day, multiple times a day. I rationalize that he was nice to me in the airport and on the plane because he felt bad for me, and because he didn’t have much of a choice since he was stuck beside me for eighteen hours.
My phone rings. It’s Ruby. Conversations with her haven’t been easy since the reception is weak everywhere apart from the resort lounge. Again, it’s all couples being coupley there, too, so I try to avoid it. I answer the call, the terrible reception making her difficult to hear.
“Hey, hold on. I’m going to try and find the magic spot.” I push out of my chair and head for the spot where I get reasonable reception.
“Armstrong . . . for you . . .”
“What?” Her tone makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
A blip of static-free reception means the next words from Ruby are clear. “He’s in Bora Bora.”
“But he doesn’t have a passport.”
“Apparently he has a new one. Or a spare. I don’t know the details but I do know he’s on his way to you. He posted on social media.”
“Fuckerdoodles.” I check the accounts he posts to most often. There’s a selfie of him in front of the resort sign. He really is here. As in here, here. I do not want to deal with Armstrong. I’m not ready. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready. I’m actually perfectly content to have my brother, or someone from his firm and Armstrong’s lawyer, hash it all out without ever speaking to him again.
“I would’ve called sooner, but he posted it like five minutes ago and Bane saw it so he called me, now I’m telling you.”
As I step onto the deck, the hut door opens and one of the bellhops wheels in Armstrong’s suitcases. He has four. I came with two, plus my tickle trunk. “He’s here. I have to go.”
“Oh shit. What’re you going to do?”
“Mostly I just want to punch him.”
“That’s a fabulous idea. You should do that then, just don’t break anything. Maybe aim for soft spots, like his abs, or his balls.”
I laugh. “I’ll call you back when I get rid of him.” I set my phone on the table, crossing my arms over my chest to stop the tremble in my hands.
Armstrong appears behind the concierge. He’s wearing a pair of khaki pants, white shoes, and a bright pink polo. His blond hair is styled with what is likely the majority of a bottle of some kind of product. A splint across his nose and the black eye hidden behind sunglasses mars his face.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
The concierge’s eyes go wide. Armstrong hurriedly stuffs money in his hand and pushes him out the door.
He gives me his signature smile. “Darling, please.”
“Don’t ‘darling, please’ me, you prickless asshole.”
“Amalie.” That’s his warning tone because my language isn’t to his liking.
“Fuck you, Armstrong. You don’t get to come here and chastise me. I will use whatever the fuck kind of language I damn well feel like.” I stress every curse word. “You might as well turn your ass around and find somewhere else to go, there’s no goddamn way you’re staying here with me.”
“This is our honeymoon. I came all this way for you. I had to jump through hoops to get a passport. I would’ve been here sooner if you hadn’t left me without one.” His tone is accusatory.
“Did you consider that maybe I didn’t want your cheating, lying ass here?”
He takes a step toward me. “You need to let me explain.”
“Explain what exactly? How your dick accidentally slipped into someone else’s mouth at our fucking wedding?” I gesture wildly, as if I’m giving him the floor to speak. “Please. This story has to be amazing.”
He rubs his chest. “I did it for you. I wanted to be able to last.”
“I’m sorry? Pardon?” I must’ve heard that wrong.
“I wanted to last for you. Later. After the reception.”
I honestly feel like my head’s going to explode. I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Are you serious with this? You have hands, you could’ve whacked off in the bathroom if you were worried about your longevity, which by the way, is pretty fucking pathetic at the best of times.”
“I just get ex—”
I point a finger at him. “Shut the fuck up.”
His mouth snaps closed, possibly at my language, possibly because I might look a little crazy right now. “Did you honestly think that coming here and telling me you let Brittany, of all people, blow you during our wedding reception for my benefit was going to win me back? How delusional are you?”
“Amalie, you know how this works. I love you. You’re my wife. I hold you to a higher standard. Everyone needs a mistress or two. They’re what deep throating is for, and maybe anal.”
My mouth opens and closes a few times. I can’t even process what he’s telling me. “A mistress or two?”
“For variety.”
“What about the sanctity of marriage?” I’m starting to feel ill as this new, horrifying reality sets in.
Armstrong shakes his head and purses his lips as he struggles to find the right words. “It’s really just a guideline.”
I sink into the chair, my knees weak. I thought I’d moved past all the anger and sadness into some level of acceptance, but I’ve just been slingshotted back to ground zero. My head is swimming, it feels like I’m drunk, even though I haven’t even had my morning mimosa yet. “Were you ever faithful to me? At all?”
“I’ve never had sex with anyone but you since we’ve been together.” He adds, “I’ve never kissed anyone, either.”
“I don’t understand what that means.”
“It’s just a blow job, Amalie. That’s all. Nothing more.”
“Nothing more?” I echo. “You let someone who is not me blow you at our wedding.
That’s not nothing, Armstrong, that’s cheating.”
“I think you’re working under an antiquated view of what constitutes infidelity. A blow job doesn’t qualify as cheating.”
My shock seems to be boundless. “In what world?”
He rests his palm against his chest. “Amalie, you have my heart. That’s the only thing that matters here. We can work this out. It’s an excellent partnership.”
I can’t listen to any more of this. If I do, there’s a good chance I’ll end up committing murder. I don’t know what Bora Bora’s prison system is like but I’d prefer not to find out. I point to the door. “Get the fuck out.”
“Amalie, you need to be reasonable.” He’s standing right in front of me. His crotch level with my face.
“Or what?” I wonder how many times Brittany has gotten on her knees for him. I wonder if she’s the only one. It seems unlikely based on what he’s just said.
“I’m being nice right now, Amalie. You’ve had a week to adjust your expectations. And people are talking. I don’t think you really want to push my buttons any more than you already have, do you?” His eyes are dark and angry as his fingers wrap tightly around my bicep, squeezing.
“Get your hands off me!” I try to shake free of him, but his grip tightens.
My reaction is instinctual, my years of self-defense kicking in. I cock my fist and punch him square in the nuts, bringing him to his knees.
His mouth drops open in shock as he cups himself and falls to his side on the floor, curled up in the fetal position. “Why?” he gasps.
My chair tips back as I push up to stand. “Because you’re a pussy, and a cheater, and you tried to threaten me with force.” I grab my phone with shaking hands and pull up my contact list, stepping over Armstrong as I scroll to the one and only person who can help me right now.
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