by Amy Matayo
I keep staring at the bed, a realization coming over me that we’re going to have to share it. Might be awkward…or interesting. There’s a smile on my face before I realize Rory is staring at me. I clear my throat and give her a look. “Yes, we’re married. Have been for a while now. But after a few years, sometimes you can start to feel like strangers. That’s why we came on this vacation.” I snake my arm around her waist and pinch her on the butt. “To reignite the fire, if you know what I mean.”
The woman sucks in a breath and looks at her husband. “Will that happen to us? Will we turn into strangers again?” Her tears intensify.
Rory wiggles away from me and plops on the bed, but not before she whispers in my ear.
“Way to go, moron. Why don’t you give the poor girl something else to worry about?’
When the husband gives me a look, I grab Rory by the hand and pull her toward the door. She’s fights me for a second, but eventually gives in. But not without her bag. Whatever. I need a beer. Whiskey. A few dozen tequila shots. I’ll carry the stupid bag myself if she will hurry.
We’ve just crash landed in the worst possible scenario, and I’d like to drown it out with something.
“How did we wind up here?” I say once we’re safely cocooned in the hallway. There’s a busted window to my right held together by gray electrician’s tape. This keeps getting better. With any luck, we’ll see a few dozen rats scurry by. “I thought I’d be in Los Angeles by now, drinking mojitos and singing a drunken version of ‘Deck the Halls’.”
“Well I thought I’d be on my way to Seattle watching a movie by myself, but also drinking mojitos. Think they’ll have any around here?”
“We’re about the find out,” I say.
We walk into the lobby. It’s dimly lit, and from the looks of things it hasn’t been redecorated since the sixties. A dancing Santa with one broken leg and a dying battery sits on a table to our left. His Ho Ho Ho is deep and drawn out, and his dance is awkwardly one-sided, looking more like a limp. A Christmas tree is propped against the wall. I think it’s broken too. To make things worse, only the top half is lit up and tinsel hangs to the floor. If this is Christmas in the Dominican Republic, Santa should skip it.
On the upside, we find a bar around the corner. We walk toward two open barstools located in the far corner, and I pull one out for Rory. We sit side by side in very close quarters and wait for someone to take our order. My arm is pressed against hers and there’s no hope for moving it. The room is packed with people stranded just like us, suitcases lined up against the wall like matchsticks waiting to be plucked and shuffled. We might be here a while. But anything is better than that room. I can’t believe our stupid luck.
As though she’s reading my mind, Rory brings it up. “A couple on their honeymoon? Can you believe we got so lucky?”
Something in her tone makes me laugh. Lucky isn’t the word, but there’s something funny about bad turning into worse and worse turning into awful. That’s been the way of this whole freaking trip.
“Yep, real lucky. Did you see the look on her face when I said we were practically strangers?” I can’t stop laughing. She joins me, and soon we both sound crazy. Like two sleep-deprived lunatics who finally cracked under the pressure of pretending to be okay.
“Married five minutes, and we already need counseling.”
I run a thumb under my eyes. “Yep, because of you and all your issues.”
“The only issues I have are of the Sports Illustrated variety.”
“I’ve seen them. No issue there. Not any unpleasant ones anyway.”
Her giggles multiply. “Why thank you, sir. Also, did you see the size of that bed?” She leans her head on my shoulder, and her side shakes. “We have to share it. Hope you don’t mind cuddling all night, husband. I hope you can sleep with me practically on top of you.”
At that my laughter slows, and I kill it on a hard swallow. Finally the waiter comes by and I order us two beers. They’re fresh out of mojitos—of course they are. Two minutes later I take a long gulp of whatever was on tap, still thinking about her statement.
That bed.
I saw it.
Of all the things that have gone wrong on this trip, I can’t help but think that’s the one thing that’s gone right.
I trace the rim of the frosty mug with my fingertip.
I don’t mind cuddling at all.
Especially not with Rory Gray.
Sleep though…there’s no chance of that happening tonight.
Chapter 9
Rory
“Why is your hand there?” I whisper into my pillow.
“Where would you like me to put it?” His voice. It comes from behind me in a warm rush and feathers right into my ear. A chill crawls up my back, but I try hard to ignore it and work up some fake anger instead.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe somewhere that isn’t right between my thighs?”
I feel his hand come up and around and stop. Real funny.
“Is that better?” Another whisper. Another chill. Followed by a shudder. I hate my stupid reactions even more than I hate him.
“Now it’s on my chest.”
He moves his hand down an inch. “I’m sorry, I thought that was your stomach.”
“My stomach isn’t that round.”
“Well I mean, you did have a beer earlier…”
That’s it. I’m sick of him and his rude comments. I flip around in bed until we’re face to face. I don’t exactly mean to knee him in the groin, but it happens. Sue me.
He sucks in a breath and I smile in the darkness. There’s nowhere to put my arm except around his waist.
“Are you calling me fat?”
“I’m calling you…curvy.” His voice is tight with pain, and I breathe a little laugh. I pinch his side to annoy him.
“For your information, no woman likes to be called curvy no matter what the magazines say.”
“For your information, I don’t read the magazines. And you are curvy. In the best possible way.”
“I think I liked it better when your hand was between my thighs.”
He comes up on elbow and grins down at me. His expression is wicked and evil and I said the wrong thing. “Is that so? Because if you flip back over I can—”
“I meant because you weren’t talking then. I didn’t mean I actually enjoyed it.”
“Sure you didn’t.” He falls onto his back and gives a little stretch. The sheet slips a little, revealing the hard lines of a very well-defined bare chest in the moonlight. I stare a moment too long, and he notices. “Looks like you aren’t enjoying anything right now, too. You’ve got a little something right there…” He reaches up and touches a finger to the corner of my mouth. When I realize what he’s referring to, I slap his hand away.
“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m hardly drooling. Put on a shirt.” I flop down beside him, but he’s taking up the whole bed. I have no choice but to settle my neck in the crook of his arm. “You’re taking up the entire bed.”
He pushes against me, and I catch myself just before I fall to the floor. I give him a look and settle back into place, only this time I hook a leg over his and shove my elbow into his armpit.
“I take it back. You’re not curvy, you’re all sharp edges and protruding bones.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“No babe, only you.”
I blink up at the ceiling, unable to stop the grin that spreads across my face. Maybe it’s the way he says babe, or maybe it’s the slight possessiveness in his words, but I like the way they sound. And I’m aware my reaction would horrify all the feminists who came before me and who will come after me, but I don’t care. The stupid grin won’t leave. Gloria Steinem can deal with it.
A crack of lightning chases the grin away. The lightning is followed by a loud rumble of thunder that causes a small window across the room to rattle in its frame. I toss a quick prayer up to heaven that it stays in place and scoot a little cl
oser to Colt. Yesterday he was a stranger; today he’s become my only lifeline.
“Something tells me we’re going to be here for a few days,” he whispers next to me. I don’t miss the way his arm comes around my shoulder and squeezes, pulling me closer. “This storm doesn’t show any sign of letting up. So tell me, Cover Girl, what kinds of things do you like to do for Christmas? Because I’m pretty sure you’re going to be stuck with me.”
In the bed next to us, the guy snores loudly and flips over. I giggle. Sometimes things are so awful that your only choice is to laugh.
But the strangest thing…this Christmas doesn’t feel nearly as awful as it should. Suddenly my mind spins with possibility. A few days here with Colt might not be so bad. Hurricane or not, at least I’m not alone. Christmas with a friend could be a nice change of pace.
My heart catches on the word friend. Weird. I’ve never made one so fast, but that’s already the way I see him.
I lay my head on his shoulder as an idea takes shape. But before it has a chance to fully form, I feel myself drift.
* * *
I was wrong; it is awful. We’ve made our way to the only restaurant around, and people are packed against chairs like cans of tuna in a supermarket. Children sit on parent’s laps. Couples share seats. Men perch on seat backs so their weary partners can sit more comfortably while they wait out whatever nightmare we’re all facing. Plates are propped in laps; some people eat off napkins, the scent of cooked eggs and burned toast is almost overpowering.
It’s mass chaos everywhere I look.
People are holding up worthless cell phones—service hasn’t existed for hours. Some are trying to sleep, one women is applying lipstick while the man across from her swipes on deodorant, thank goodness. It smells like dirty human in here. The line to the bathroom stretches ten feet into the hallway. Children race through the area as though they haven’t a care in the world. This, at least, makes me feel a little better.
I spent all night complaining about the size of our bed, and it looks like these people don’t even have one.
“Jeffery, get back here!”
The same frazzled man from the line yesterday chases after his son while his wife stands back nervously to watch. He catches him, spins him around, and gives him two hard whacks on the behind that shoots him forward and onto his knees. Maybe it’s stress or maybe it’s the start of a bigger problem, there’s no way to know. But within a single breath, the kid starts to wail.
I feel like crying too.
Some aren’t handling this well, case in point. And right now, home feels like nothing but a distant dream. As for the holiday, I have a feeling I’ll never forget this one despite a sudden strong desire to do that very thing. I look at Colt, hoping he’ll bring some of my middle-of-the-night optimism back.
“Hey man,” Colt says, helping the little boy off the floor. “Everyone’s feeling the stress, and word is we have a long time to wait.” He glances over his shoulder toward me, giving me a help me out? look. Feeling clueless about what in the world Colt expects, I walk toward him. My optimism is gone.
“Mind if my friend and I play a little game with your kids?” he says. “Distract them for a few minutes to give you a break while you try to eat something?” He pulls on my arm to bring me closer. I just stare at him while fighting the desire to run. If this is his idea of spreading Christmas cheer, I’d rather channel Scrooge. This is not what I had in mind when he asked me how I like to celebrate. The last time I remember spending any time around kids was two Thanksgivings ago at a Nashville Cracker Barrel when a fellow model and I had no plans and decided to head there last-minute.
That restaurant is a magnet of disaster for the poorly behaved.
Since that day, I’m no longer sure I like kids at all.
This experience is only strengthening my belief.
“A game? Like, what game?” I’m aware that my voice sounds like I just asked, “A disease? Like, what horribly disfiguring disease?” but I can’t help it. My personality fits with kids about as well as peanut butter fits with melted cheese. Something tells me even that nasty combination might be better.
Colt rolls his eyes, his fascination with me clearly at an all-time low. And I’ve only known the guy a handful of hours. And now it doesn’t seem to make a difference that he held me half the night. Thunder rumbles outside the window as giant pellets of rain slap the windows.
“I don’t know. Red Rover, maybe?” He gives me another eye roll followed by a dragged-out sigh. Both of them last long enough to tick me off.
Good thing I know how to dish out the insults. “Red Rover? Here? Around all these people? They’re trying to eat. Could you possibly have a worse idea?”
Colt holds up his hands. “If you’ve got a better idea, hit me with it.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
The threat falls short at the way he and the dad and the little boy all stare at me, expectation lining their features like they planned it that way.
So I scramble to think of an idea.
And then come up with one.
Chapter 10
Colt
At first I thought only a chick would pick a game this lame game, but four other boys and two little girls have joined us so I guess it isn’t that ridiculous. Not any more stupid than me running around in circles like a kid in preschool who lifted up a little girl’s dress and has to dart away to avoid getting sent to the principal’s office.
Lifting up Rory’s skirt might be fun. Too bad she’s wearing yoga pants.
On second thought, it’s not too bad. She looks good in them. Darn good.
For a minute my mind drifts to what she felt like in my arms last night.
“Goose!” Rory yells, then takes off shrieking around our group of seven…eight since a little girl with pigtails just plopped down outside the circle. I smile to myself as the child slowly scoots forward as if trying to gauge if she’ll be included or instructed by a parent to leave. This game might be mind-numbingly stupid, but it’s keeping the kids entertained, we’re all stuck here when we’d rather be anywhere else, and it’s the day before Christmas.
The day before Christmas.
Time to put away petty resentments and pointless grudges. After all, laughing kids is a whole lot better than crying ones, and I’ll do anything to avoid hearing that sound. Although I wouldn’t mind having a few kids of my own someday, crying or not.
Since when do I think about kids? Startled by thoughts I don’t even recognize, I snap out of it just as Rory plops down next to me. Her knee bumps against mine and stays there, pressing in little tighter as everyone maneuvers to make room for two additional kids. Pretty sure we’ll be running a freaking daycare before this hour is up, but if it means I get to spend the day next to this hot specimen of a supermodel, I’ll let every kid here join our game. Maybe even lead them all in a cheesy rendition of We Are the World, We Are the Children. I could sing Michael Jackson’s part; Rory could be Diana Ross.
And if someone could please rip open my head and take out my idiotic brain, that would be just great.
An elbow jabs me in the side.
“Colt, get up and run. John tagged you!”
And this is the thing about Rory—in the ten minutes since we began this game she’s memorized every child’s age, name, and face and practically given them nicknames. And then there’s me. I can’t even remember to notice when a half-sized human whacks me on the head.
I let out a yell and take off.
I’m halfway around the circle when it happens.
Lightning hits.
Thunder crashes.
Metal slams against the window and shatters.
People scream.
And everything goes black.
I can’t see anything but the glowing light of an exit sign.
The storm just got worse.
Within seconds, these previously well-behaved kids are in public meltdown mode complete with spit, snot, trembling lips, and wildly spinn
ing limbs. Only a child can switch moods that instantaneously and not be accused of multi-personality disorder.
On second thought, maybe I don’t want any of these pint-sized monsters after all.
“Colt, what’s going on?”
I feel Rory’s hand slide into mine, and my panic fizzles. I know she’s scared. I know she’s worried. But any excuse to feel her skin pressed against mine is one I can live with, even a violent storm that may or may not flatten this building before the danger passes.
“I’m not sure. But I have a feeling this storm is just getting started.” A man carrying a high-beam flashlight and wearing a brown apron walks out of the dimly lit kitchen, talking on a cell phone as he breezes past without looking anyone in the eye. If worry took on human form, this is what it might look like. “And if that guy is indication, it’s worse than we know.
Five minutes and three lightning strikes later, my fear is confirmed.
* * *
The power is out all over the island, but that isn’t the worst news.
“Three more days? What are we supposed to do for three more days?”
That’s the worst news.
Even if this stupid hurricane lets up, we can’t go anywhere. At least not until power is restored. According to local chatter it could take three days. The news keeps getting better and better.
We’re back in our room because we were instructed to go here and stay. On the way up, we passed a vending machine in the hallway that contained one package of powdered donuts, three bags of Doritos, and a pack of Doublemint gum. I shook the machine until a few things fell out. I’ve turned into a kleptomaniac like Rory, but whatever. I refuse to feel guilty. Besides, we left one package of Doritos, and I’m currently living through the torture of watching Rory lick her white, sugar-covered fingertips one by one. It’s what I get for stealing things.
My eyes get stuck on the movement for a moment, but then I roll them and focus on her question. It’s only the millionth time she’s asked it in a handful of minutes, and each time I give the same darn answer.