Broken Enagement

by Gage Grayson

“The very same.”

  As we walk toward the beach together, the air’s swimming with distinct aromas: saltwater, sand, subtle yet unmistakable hints of palm trees, oleander, and vetiver.

  How did I not notice any of these scents yesterday, or on the beach here before now?

  “The sun? Really?”

  We walk away from the sea and make a left turn toward the hotel.

  “Great natural light and navigation—that’s all I want in a star. And I’m sure it does other shit, too.”

  The scents of the sea and nearby plants are now mingling with the traces of Aaron’s usual fragrance. In the morning quiet, the sounds of gentle waves and birds greeting the dawn take precedence.

  “It does all kinds of things, good and bad,” I respond to Aaron. “It brings people to the tropics.”

  That’s what I decide to say, instead of quietly letting the ambiance wash over me.

  I’m not even sure what I mean by it. I thought I was saying that I’m glad I’m here, but judging by Aaron’s silence, it maybe wasn’t clear.

  So, I let nature’s soundtrack take over, and so does Aaron. I don’t look at him, but I can feel his warmth near me as we walk together.

  The sky’s turning a gorgeous vivid shade of blue, like somebody’s slowly turning up a dimmer switch or gradually adjusting the tone and contrast, fine-tuning as perfection draws nearer and nearer.

  It’s quite a show, but I know it means that the quiet of dawn’s ending, and life’s about to begin again.

  Spring breakers, honeymooners, and wealthy families from all over the world are about to take over the landscape and the soundscape.

  Obviously, it’s still nothing like Manhattan, though the early morning can be surprisingly serene there, too—especially in a spot that’s on the water, like Battery Park or the Seaport. Sometimes you can hear your own footsteps, and a few seagulls, and nothing else.

  But there, just like here, the world has to begin eventually. In New York, it’ll be the sound of a delivery truck stopping and idling nearby that’ll break the spell.

  And, speak of the devil, the sonic splendor of St. Maarten’s now being destroyed by something that sounds like a truck nearby. There’s a road running parallel to where we’re walking on the beach, and the vehicle’s getting closer, loud and irritating, and finally passes us on its way to the hotel.

  I can see that it’s not a truck but a shuttle like the one I took from the airport.

  And so the day begins.

  And Aaron’s being silent.

  I would’ve welcomed that a couple of days ago, but now I feel like we were just starting to get into it.

  Into talking to each other, learning how to enjoy each other.

  Even before I lost my virginity to him.

  A stiff breeze whips us as we walk—one that I’m not dressed for.

  And holy fuck, that was something. Actually having sex, I mean.

  Without a word, without looking at each other, we both turn toward the road at the same time.

  As another, longer, breeze blasts by us, I get a horrible inkling of suspicion.

  Fortunately, it’s gone with the breeze when I realize that earlier this morning, well after we did the deed last night, Aaron was as happy to talk to me as ever.

  I can’t even assume he’s freezing on me now, either, just because we stopped talking for a couple of minutes. Being tired is probably part of it, at least for me, and that’s probably also the reason I’m overanxious and starting to read into everything.

  I don’t think I’m in a state to figure out much right now, so worrying’s not going to help.

  Another shuttle passes by, and the hotel’s visible.

  Shower first, then sleep, then I’ll figure it out from there.

  As I feel some of my nervous energy drain away, I turn my head to finally look at Aaron.

  And he’s looking at me already and smiling. There’s some wistfulness there, like his smile after docking the boat.

  Seeing him smile at me at all fills me with a sense of warmth and a sense of relief. Which is a lot of power I’ve given him, emotionally.

  And that’s something else I need to think about later.

  26

  Aaron

  The sky’s already a deeper shade of blue than I’m used to seeing in LA, but the air feels colder, and it’s getting worse.

  It’s not the discomfort—I can handle that shit, and it’s not even that fucking cold right now. It’s the disparity between the brilliant, tropical blue sky and these random gusts of chill that’s starting to fucking get to me.

  Which I know is ridiculous. But I think there’s something about it that’s making me act all aloof and surly, which isn’t something I want to do right now.

  Also, part of me is disappointed we couldn’t stay on that island a bit longer, as if that were the real vacation, and we just cut it short.

  Which is even more fucking ridiculous, but it’s all getting to me more than it should right now.

  When I’m just about to reach for my shades to mute the sky’s brilliance, I decide it’s a better idea to look over at the fucking phenomenal woman who just happens to be walking just next to me.

  Looking away from the hotel down the road, I swivel my head to see Macy—to see how she is and how she’s holding up and if she’s pissed that I’m ignoring her…or if it seems like she’s thinking about last night.

  I know that’s something I’ll be thinking about for a while.

  After I turn my head, Macy’s focused on the road, outwardly pretending that I’m not even there. But almost instantly, she turns her head and returns my look.

  Her expression’s blank. The only thing I can read about it is that she’s lost in thought about something.

  Whatever it is, it probably has nothing to do with St. Maarten or any of the shit that’s going on this week. Why would it?

  But I don’t want her to let any of that shit—whatever it is—bear down on her in the middle of an amazing fucking vacation that’s expressly designed for escaping all that garbage.

  And, fuck, just seeing her face makes me feel a million times better.

  Which is not a “vacation fling” kind of thought to have.

  Fuck, I hate being fucking confused, but maybe I’m losing my touch, because that seems to be happening more and more.

  And Macy’s looking right at me, and I smile.

  It’s meant to be warm, reassuring, a tiny bit mischievous, devastatingly handsome, and swoon-worthy. . .

  You know, the usual.

  But I have a sinking feeling that none of those comes across. And I’m sure that sinking feeling isn’t helping, either.

  Fuck, I’m not dressed for this fucking wind. I guess even tropical weather can’t always live up to expectations.

  Although, I don’t know what the fuck’s expected of me right now. Even from myself—where’s the line of getting too carried away with this? I’m usually not even in danger of getting close to it.

  The wind stops, and a descending, forbidding sound fades in from the distance.

  It’s coming from the sky, and both of us keep walking as it grows louder. As horrible and fucking loud the sound is, it’s just another commercial airliner coming in for a landing.

  Inside the hotel—the rooms, especially—everything seems well-insulated from the sound of giant Boeings and Airbuses approaching Princess Juliana International Airport.

  But the resort’s close to Maho Beach, which is next to one of the airport’s runways. On Maho Beach, the sound is deafening when a jet passes just a few feet overhead.

  And on the outskirts of the resort, it’s still fucking deafening.

  It’s now impossible to ignore the approaching plane, but we try, walking toward the hotel entrance without so much as a glance upwards.

  I mean, that shit’s nothing more than an annoyance to both of us. Why should we give it any attention?

  I knew where the resort was and what I was getting into when I arrived
in one of those planes myself.

  But it’s just another little annoyance that’s making me miss that island even more.

  The sound fades by the time we get to the main path leading up to the hotel. When it disappears, Macy and I finally acknowledge it with a look at each other.

  “Did you hear that?” she asks, smirking.

  Okay, maybe the vacation’s not over after all.

  “What?” I punctuate the question by slipping on my aviator shades, looking comically oblivious.

  “Oh, you’re too cool to care about sounds now?”

  I smile, much more easily this time, and stop in my path. Macy stops alongside me, not matching my smile but maintaining her smirk.

  Macy’s smile grows the tiniest bit as I take off my sunglasses and put them on her, but I swear I can see her roll her eyes when she’s wearing them.

  “Now, you’re cool.”

  “Cooler,” she corrects me, and we restart our walk to the hotel in a much better mood.

  “Aaron! I’ve been looking for you! Aaron! Over here!”

  So much for a much better mood.

  “Are you fucking serious?” I grumble. “Just ignore him,” I tell Macy.

  Todd Myers, the Variety reporter who’s been waiting for me on this empty path for fuck knows how long, is known for wearing trilbies.

  “Aaron! How do you respond to the rumors about the Anna Bell project? Mr. Michaelson?”

  Even dressed in a T-shirt, cargo shorts, and sandals, Todd fucking Myers is still wearing a black trilby.

  We walk past him into the entrance, and I need to stop for a second.

  Macy stops with me, ready for an explanation. She’s taken off my sunglasses and holds it in her hand.

  “Was that paparazzi?” she asks.

  “I can’t fucking believe…” After grinding my jaw a couple times, I take a deep breath and calm down to talk to Macy. “Although he doesn’t take pictures, which is one good thing I’ll say about him, I still consider him paparazzi, or a paparazzo because it’s always just him. Fuck!”

  To channel some of this stupid, frustrated energy Todd Myers inspired, I start walking to the elevator—and Macy keeps up with me.

  “Who was that?”

  “He’s this guy who likes to follow me around sometimes. He works for Variety, because no one else cares this much about behind-the-scenes shit. But I don’t blame the publication. He’s his own fucking animal that gets his stories from hounding people.”

  There are more questions in Macy’s eyes, but I can tell she doesn’t know where to start. So, all she does is hand me back my aviator shades as we walk.

  Frankly, I don’t know where to start, either.

  27

  Macy

  We quickly walk to the elevator together, and Aaron smashes the button to take us back up to our suite.

  For a few seconds there, I thought he might lose it to that guy. He doesn’t seem to handle that whole thing very well, considering his profession.

  He still looks super pissed.

  Fuck. I’m just plain relieved.

  The bathing suit I’ve been wearing since yesterday has sand inside it, and my hair feels like a tangled mess. It’s going to take some serious conditioner to recover from the last twenty-four hours.

  Bouncing on my toes, I pray for the elevator.

  Come on. Come on.

  I can’t wait to get back to the room.

  The suite, I mean.

  I hope some of that with the paparazzo outside wasn’t because he’s embarrassed of me,

  It could be some superficial Hollywood bullshit I don’t understand.

  It could be that, despite all appearances and apparent attitudes, he’s actually attached to someone.

  Or it could be some weird mix of all the above and then some.

  There’s still so much about him I don’t know.

  But I can’t help but wonder what was up with him showing up and waiting at that weird hour alone. That was really weird.

  He was really interested in talking to Aaron, though.

  What’s even up with that? It’s not like he’s an on-screen star.

  That I could understand.

  And I don’t think it was my imagination, but when he was asked about that actress, he got even more pissed. Now he’s super distant.

  Peeking a sideways look, yep. Brow furrowed, frowning—he looks almost comically mad.

  He could be involved with Anna fucking Bell, for all I know. Maybe they’ve hidden it from the tabloids, but her star-power’s making them dig in.

  That wasn’t a tabloid, though. Variety doesn’t report on shit like that, which makes the whole thing even weirder.

  And if he’s involved with anyone, why is he here alone? He was obviously on the fucking prowl when he got here.

  The elevator dings, and the doors open. As early as it is, we wait for a small group of hungover college kids to get off before stepping inside.

  Honestly, he could be here alone for any number of reasons, but the whole situation suddenly seems so...sordid.

  At least we have the elevator to ourselves. I’m so tempted to ask him about it.

  Go on. Do it.

  No, I think we’re both feeling the effects of our night out on the beach. I know I am.

  Nothing a hot shower, some moisturizer, and some fresh clothes won’t fix.

  It’s already silent in the elevator, and if I ask Aaron about the reporter, I’m sure he’ll just stonewall me.

  But on the flipside, I’d rather just get it out there. I was with him, after all.

  I think I’m entitled to some kind of explanation.

  The elevator door dings. It opens on our floor.

  “Aaron, what’s up with him tracking you down all the way here, though?” I blurt it out before I overthink it any more.

  The doors slide open as Aaron makes a very convincing growling sound under his breath.

  Taking the lead, he walks in front of me, leaving the elevator.

  “I don’t fucking know.” Head down, he grinds out his answer.

  Well, shit. I called that one right.

  His long legs eat up the floor, putting distance between us quickly.

  I feel burnt, too. I’m not functioning at top speed, so it doesn’t take long for him to leave me behind.

  Whatever. I’m too beat to deal with this shit.

  Stopping at our door, Aaron hesitates and looks back at me.

  Turning back to the door, instead of inserting the key card, he leans against it and lightly bangs his head on it.

  He spins toward me, and I cover the last couple feet and stop beside him.

  This seems a little dramatic to me, but we’ve had a long day.

  I’m also not the one that’s been dealing with their shit for the longest time.

  It’s hard for me to relate.

  Turning to face me, he looks deflated. “I’m really sorry. I just hate the press around this industry sometimes…at least parts of it.”

  Running his hand across his head and through his hair, he seems to contemplate the floor before looking at me. “This is what he knows. I really don’t like it, but this is how he’s used to operating. He found out where I am somehow, and, I’m thinking, he probably saw a nice vacation in it for himself.”

  He pulls his key card out of his back pocket and turns and looks at me again seriously.

  “The most important thing right now for me—for us—is that it doesn’t ruin our honeymoon.”

  Turning away from me, he inserts the key card and walks into the room.

  Fuck, he said that. And there’s no way I misheard him.

  He actually sounded completely serious when he called it that.

  He’s holding the door, so I walk past him automatically, trying my best to keep a blank face.

  I’m so relieved that we made it back; I’m temporarily sidetracked because of Aaron’s statement.

  “I call dibs on the shower,” he calls from the bathroom where
I can hear him peeing. He must’ve really had to go.

  It makes sense to let him shower first, considering he’ll be way quicker than me. I can’t wait to soak and shave.

  “Sure, that sounds fine. But I need to pee first.”

  Unpacking my bag that I had taken for the excursion the day before, I hear the shower start and wonder if Aaron heard me.

  That question’s answered when Aaron walks out of the bathroom a couple seconds later.

  Surprise, surprise. He’s naked. Not that I’m complaining.

  “I just turned it on to heat up while you go.”

  “Oh, thanks.” Quickly, I leave what I’m doing and head into the bathroom.

  I don’t want to mess up the tentative friendship that we seem to have worked out at this point.

  Even though I’m seriously weirded out by the random reporter in the middle of fucking St. Maarten, I’m not going to bring it up again.

  We’re both tired, and we haven’t had a decent meal. With our personalities, just the combination of lack of food and sleep is enough for us to be at each other’s throats.

  I like our...thing, whatever it is, the way it is now, even with its limits and unknowns.

  There’s no reason to push any further.

  That’s what leads to trouble, anyway. There’s no way I need any of that in my life, and I’m sure Aaron doesn’t, either.

  Washing my hands, I can’t believe how bad I look. I splash some water on my face and try to remove the basic grit so I can leave him to his shower.

  He opens the door, and he’s right there. With both arms spread, he leans against the door casing, looking as casually fucking self-possessed as usual.

  “You aren’t naked?” He winks. “I thought maybe you might want to take a shower with me?”

  That sounds like an amazing idea, but I want to wait until I can fully appreciate it—when I’m not so gross and tired.

  “I might need a shower before that shower.”

  After a moment of looking at each other purposefully, we both step into the bathroom in tandem. And like magic, I’m suddenly in his arms.

  He nuzzles my neck, sniffing loudly. “You do need a shower. I could wash your back.”