The President's Secret Baby

by Gage Grayson

  How is a coconut killing officially recorded? If somebody drowns in a coconut while trying to drink its milk or whatever the fuck happens, what would the cause of death be?

  Drowning, naturally.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Aaron. You expect me to believe that there’s some organization investigating deaths throughout the world, trying to determine if there’s a special coconut nature to them?”

  “Hey, do me a favor, will ya, wifey?” Nope. Not even acknowledging that one.

  “Don’t go sitting under any coconut trees, okay?”

  “So, that’s your big kicker? More people get killed by falling coconuts than sharks?”

  Aaron shrugs.

  “The point is that sharks are statistically harmless, they kill four people a year—while people...well, we’re a lot worse than sharks, I can tell you that.”

  Aaron’s face drops in a way I wasn’t expecting.

  His eyes inspire a sudden slew of feelings I don’t entirely understand.

  The first thing I think to myself when I see his face is oh, poor sharks, which is a new sentiment for me—although I’m sure he has a very valid point about that.

  But the notion that soon takes over is that, for the first time since I’ve been in St. Maarten, the tall, handsome figure taking up a part of my vision isn’t simply Aaron the Annoying, here to make spring break a living hell.

  No, this time it’s just Aaron, a human being, and he’s making himself known for just a brief yet shining moment through the faint traces of sadness, angst, earnestness, and underlying hope in his eyes.

  But as I notice that we’ve stopped and we’re near the boat, ready to take us on this insane fucking escapade—I can see the human in Aaron’s eyes retreating as his usual self resurfaces.

  “Ready, Macy? They’re waiting for us.”

  Fuck.

  I follow Aaron towards the departure point, searching my brain for half-believable excuses to stay ashore.

  Another secret I’m keeping to myself for the time being: I’m not loving the idea of this activity, though I’m not sure why.

  Coconut, think coconut, I tell myself like a mantra, trying to slow my suddenly swift heart rate.

  It’s silly, really, and I can’t explain where this fear is coming from, but it’s definitely trying to take over.

  Aaron looks as unfazed as expected.

  He fits me with the oxygen tank and mask with the ease of a veteran fucking scuba instructor.

  “Now remember, there’s nothing to worry about.”

  His face is inches from mine as he speaks to me.

  I nod. The lump in the back of my throat seems to be growing.

  Coconut. Coconut. Coconut.

  I barely notice the short, bearded man talking to us from ten feet away, giving us a safety speech about breathing and releasing pressure.

  I watched the instructions on my phone earlier. The resort had sent me a video.

  I’m trying to remember it as best as I can while I follow the bearded man in the white sweatshirt onto a small speedboat, boarding solemnly with Aaron behind me.

  I start at the sound of the motor and feel my stomach seize as we move further away from land.

  Five minutes later, when the driver cuts the engine, I don’t feel any better at all. I feel like a zombie, paralyzed with anxiety as I stand up with Aaron.

  “On three, we’ll hit the water,” he says and holds up his fingers as we take position at the edge of the boat. “One…two…three!”

  With an almighty splash, I enter the coolness of the ocean. For the second or so it takes, it feels like I’m plunging into an alien planet. I look around me to try and find Aaron.

  He seems to be diving into the deeper area of the water already.

  With a big kick, I dive downward.

  Instantly, all sound is turned off. It’s almost as if someone pressed the mute button to life. It’s so still.

  I look around.

  Aaron may have said this isn’t Jaws, but the theme music’s playing in my head.

  Not just those piano notes, I’m talking about when the cellos and trombones kick in—to me, that’s the scariest fucking part right there.

  To distract myself, I focus on Aaron’s muscular, chiseled back. He’s swimming slightly ahead of me, giving me a perfect view of his entire physique,

  How would it feel to run my hands along his spine, to caress his shoulders, and massage and knead his ass?

  I bet John Williams could compose a pretty good score for that.

  I see him stop and turn around.

  He seems to know how comical those goggles make him look, but he gives me a thumbs-up.

  I return the gesture.

  So far, so good.

  It might be nice to see a shark. From a decent distance, of course.

  I mean, for the shark’s sake. I’m sure they’re scared of humans.

  For some reason, Aaron is making odd little circular movements with his hands in the water. It takes me a while to realize he’s trying to tell me to do something.

  Am I supposed to stop? And then what?

  There he goes again, twirling his hands around.

  And now he’s got his whole body spinning.

  My brain finally catches up and I spin around my own axis.

  There it is, a hundred and eighty degrees exactly.

  How long has it been there, staring at me?

  I just stare back. I’m not going to scream or anything. Fuck th...

  Oh, never mind.

  That has to be my own shrill fucking scream I’m hearing, and that’s definitely my own panic I’m feeling.

  What the fuck? It’s right there, with two big eyes and a very wide mouth.

  In almost slow motion, the wide mouth opens.

  I’ve seen enough, and frantically move my arms and legs to get away from this man-eating creature.

  Statistics about coconut and sharks have totally gone out the window. I’m the fucking coconut now, and this shark’s hungry for some saturated fats.

  Trying to flail backwards, away from this man-eater’s maw as it continues to open, I bump into something behind me.

  Yes, swim with sharks, jump right into their territory so they can work together to tear you apart.

  I flail harder, kicking and twisting, but it’s no use; it feels like the water itself is not letting me move.

  That giant, white shark, its mouth still in the very beginning stages of trying to open, is now inching even closer.

  I guess this is it. I guess I’m one of the lucky four, or maybe it’ll be five, this year.

  It’s all happening so slowly, but that might be time slowing down as I enter my final moments.

  I try to leave my mind blank, but odd thoughts keep popping up.

  Like NYU better name a building after me. On West Fourth Street.

  Or, better yet, Washington Square North.

  Cara better have the amazing life that she deserves, and not think for a second more of this is in any way...

  I’m suddenly moving again in the water, spinning, but I don’t see any more sharks. As my spinning stops, all I see are Aaron’s eyes.

  Out of pure happiness at being alive, I lunge myself at him, wrapping my arms around his neck, with my legs following suit.

  He’s trying to say something.

  It’s probably about coconuts or some shit.

  Now he’s pointing, and I slowly turn my head as my gaze follows his finger.

  The huge shark seems to take great delight in staying close to us.

  To my utter horror, Aaron moves toward it…him…or her.

  My grip tightens around Aaron.

  He seems totally relaxed.

  His hand extends and strokes the creature’s nose.

  Now the shark opens his mouth, and I reel back in horror, only to find I’m staring into a mouthful of—gums.

  This creature has no teeth.

  Aaron seems to be enjoying himself and keeps rubbing the tip of it
s nose. Then the shark turns around and presents his belly for Aaron to rub.

  Aaron the Shark Whisperer obliges, petting the tummy of the imposing creature.

  When we emerge again, I can still feel my heart racing in my chest. It was exhilarating and frightening at the same time.

  “You okay?” Aaron emerges next to me, grinning warmly.

  “You’re quite the wildlife expert, aren’t you?”

  “Nah,” he waves his hand in a dismissive fashion. “I read about this old shark that you see if you go diving here. He’s called Harpo and has no teeth. I think he’s so old they’ve fallen out.”

  It doesn’t make me feel any better.

  “Teeth or no teeth, there’s something primordial that kicks in when you’re close to an apex predator of that size—so sue me.”

  “Apex predator? Pfft. Coconuts are deadlier.”

  The exhilaration of surviving is almost enough for me to let Aaron have this one—almost.

  “It’s an urban legend, hubby, let it g...wait, did you say the shark’s name is Harpo?”

  “Yeah. Is that strange?”

  “Kind of. Why would someone name a shark Harpo?”

  Aaron shrugs. “You can’t name him Gummo, can you? I mean it’d be too fucking obvious.”

  I take a deep breath.

  Here comes the really hard part.

  “Thank you” I say. And I mean it, too. Okay?

  “For what?”

  “For not making fun of me for my freak out.”

  “I wouldn’t do that, Mace-face. You know why?”

  With another sigh, I decide to indulge him this time.

  “Why?”

  “Because if we run into any coconuts while we’re here, I will let out an earsplitting scream that would put yours to shame. If that happens—and it probably will—I’ll expect the same courtesy from you.”

  “Oh, I bet I could get some fresh coconuts sent up to the suite this afternoon.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “We’ll see.”

  I make sure that Aaron can’t see my smile as I swim back towards the boat.

  Aaron

  We’re both quiet in the shuttle on the way back to the resort. Macy is sitting by the window.

  It’s not a bad kind of quiet—the kind that comes with frustrations piled so high you don’t even know how to address them anymore.

  No, this is a good kind of quiet—the quiet that comes with ease and comfort.

  Needless to fucking say, this is the quietest that Macy and I have been together by a long fucking shot.

  So, I’m enjoying it. For now.

  I rest my arm at the back of her seat, looking more at her than out the window.

  I can’t get the feel of her clinging to me out of my mind. Sure, it felt fucking good, but more than that, it brought such a feeling of joy. I mean, Macy isn’t a woman I expected to ever see put on such a jubilant fucking display.

  The study in light and shadows between the razor-sharp, no-bullshit chick I met at the bar and the lively ray of goddamn sunshine I saw bursting beautifully through the water today...

  Fuck, it’s piercing right through me, driving me crazy on some sort of higher plane that I really might not be able to handle.

  “Excited about dinner?” I lean a little closer to make sure I breathe my words into her ear. The fine, dirty blonde strands have started to pull from her hair tie.

  On the other hand, today was a prime demonstration that just about anything can happen this week.

  I’m encouraged as she turns to answer, and our faces are inches apart. She doesn’t shy away. “Definitely.”

  If this shuttle bus has seatbelts, I’d be buckling mine now.

  Fuck, there’s a reason they never let me pitch voiceover copy for trailers.

  Dropping my arm on her shoulder, I let my fingers curl around her slim upper arm. “Are you okay? Recovering from your brush with death?”

  She laughs—not flirtatiously, or politely, but fucking honestly—and I notice we’re pulling up to the resort already.

  “I think I’ll make a full recovery, and I’ll even hold off on the coconuts for the sake of your, what is it, phobia?”

  “No. Phobias are irrational.”

  If she thinks I can’t keep this up the entire week, I’d be more than happy to demonstrate.

  To be fair, the way her eyes roam to the window as she nods silently tells me she’s already getting sick of it.

  Okay, her call.

  The shuttle stops, and I hear doors opening behind me.

  “Piña Coladas? Now those I can handle,” I announce with a wink.

  Another nod, but her face still has the vestiges of an actual smile, and her eyes have a calm, accepting gleam.

  I grab both our bags, and head out to the resort. She’s right behind me and gets her key card ready for our suite door.

  As the sun sets and the Caribbean air grows cool, our comfortable quiet continues all the way into the lobby, the elevator and the hallway.

  How does she smell so fucking good after everything that happened today?

  No wonder Harpo likes her so much.

  Walking into the room, I take our bags and set them by the walk-in shower. Emptying them, I hang up the damp items and put the bags upside down to dry.

  We’re likely going to one of the resort’s serious fucking eateries tonight, which is not something I’d always take so, well, seriously, but tonight I’m going all-out to ensure that Macy gets the full experience she signed on for.

  “Do you want to shower first?” I peel off my shirt and wet board shorts and hang them to dry, too.

  I hear her behind me. “That would be great.”

  She doesn’t say a word as I walk naked by her when she comes in.

  Unfortunately, she shuts the door to take her shower. That’s okay.

  As has been established, this week is nothing if not full of fucking surprises, so I may as well just keep enjoying the ride.

  Turning on the TV, I let it play in the background while I pull out linen slacks and a short-sleeved button-down. Throwing them across the bed, I pick the remote up and surf to find some international sports event to watch while standing on my own two feet to give the furniture a break.

  It’s good furniture, it deserves not to get ruined—at least not until I dry off a bit more.

  And, as a free spirit who has experience spending quality time with a variety of personalities, I’m certain that some women find sitting naked on furniture a real turn off.

  It isn’t long before she opens the bathroom door and comes out in a bathrobe.

  She still doesn’t say a word about my nudity. Taking my time, I stretch and wait for her to be done in the closet.

  “Do you want the remote?”

  She looks at me then, but just shakes her head no.

  I’ve gotta give it to her, she keeps her eyes on my face.

  “Okay. I’ll take my turn in the shower.” Walking directly in front of her, I head into the bathroom.

  The shower feels great and I know I’ve got plenty of time to make myself five-star-resort-dinner presentable, so Macy can see that side of me, too.

  As for me, depending on what day it is, my mood, and whatever fucking obligations lie ahead, I can get myself looking dangerously fucking presentable in a hurry.

  But when dangerously presentable isn’t sexy or impressive enough—like tonight, for so many goddamn reasons—I honestly enjoy taking my time to upgrade from dangerous to devastating.

  Switching off the walk-in shower, I think about trying to find a stronger word than presentable to go with my devastating dangerousness.

  Luckily, my straight razor works well for clearing out that post shark-swim stubble, and my subtle blend of aftershave and cologne adds just the right amount of faint yet undeniably intoxicating aura to any proceedings I’m involved in.

  By the time I get out of the bathroom, Macy’s already working on her makeup—and she looks fucking gorg
eous.

  “You look great.”

  “Thanks.” Glancing briefly at me, she looks away quickly when she realizes I’m still naked.

  “Is there any food you don’t like? Are you allergic to anything?”

  “Shrimp.” Then she laughs.

  “Don’t like them or allergic to them?”

  If I’m going to show Macy the full fancy-schmancy five-star wining-and-dining resort experience, I might as well take note of any dietary restrictions, preferences, and basically anything that she’s willing to share with me.

  Giggling, she turns to me and winks. “Just don’t like them.”

  Ah. Well, look at that. Macy’s latest barb comes packaged with an off-color joke, and a decent one at that.

  “Is it the size or the name?” I pull on a pair of light grey boxers then sit down to grab the remote.

  “Oh, it’s the size and all the veins…” She trails off, and I can see her smirk in the mirror.

  There’s one small spark I still sometimes carry from my days of actually being passionate about movies, before making them went from art to a finely-honed, money-making craft. It’s the concept of people, other people, of getting to actually know them beyond the surface.

  The surface is usually all that we share with each other. I think one of the ideas of the medium is to get beyond that, beyond what you would ordinarily see of another person, and create a different perspective to be shared, communally.

  No, I don’t think about that shit very much anymore, but occasionally, someone will interest me enough to think about for a minute—usually it’ll be random, a quiet extra that casting keeps sending to sets, or a guy selling t-shirts from a box on Ventura—but I don’t think about it for too long because then I’ll start thinking about my own life, and I’ve done enough of that to last the rest of my fucking life.

  “I’m sure the menu’s extensive,” Macy says, looking through a makeup kit, “I know what I can eat, and what I want to eat, and I can choose for myself.”

  Macy takes a quick side glimpse at me as she rifles through her makeup. I’m not even focused on that, though, I’m more focused on how I’m getting that feeling with Macy.

  That she’s got a story to tell, depths that are worth getting to know.

  “As long as you promise me one thing,” I offer.

  “Oh? And what would that happen to be? It better not involve shrimp.”