Tori
POBRECITO.
I think the poor guy’s embarrassed that he made the little girl cry. I watched the whole exchange, though, and it was kind of cute. Normally, I’d try to coax him out of his shell, but I know what it’s like to be the subject of unwanted attention, and I understand the need to block out the rest of the world.
This trip to Aruba, for instance, is my way of hiding from the aspects of my life that I don’t want to deal with.
Well, one thing specifically: my boyfriend.
Scratch that.
My ex-boyfriend.
The one who announced in a radio interview that he was taking a “breather” from the dating scene—in direct response to a question about whether there was anyone special in his life. Guess who thought she was special? Go ahead. I’ll wait.
I’ve heard about men breaking up with their girlfriends via text messaging, and I’m sure it’s a wretched experience. But trust me, listening to your breakup on a local radio show sucks big balls. Like huevos the size of a tuberous bush cricket—relatively speaking, that is. Stay with me here. You see, while some men walk around like their balls make up 14 percent of their body, this insect’s balls actually do. Nothing like a spirited game of Trivial Pursuit to round out your cultural literacy. And yes, I was tipsy, pero that morsel of uselessness made an impression on me, penetrating my apple martini haze and settling in my brain for eternity.
The pendejo—that’s dumb ass for you non-Spanish speakers—didn’t even have the decency to warn me about his little publicity stunt. And yes, I’m sure that’s what this is. Somehow it benefits Mason, but he’ll try to explain it away. Escaping Philly for a short but much-needed trip ensures that I won’t suffer through Mason’s pitiful attempts to justify his asinine behavior—at least during that critical period when my anger might lead me to inflict bodily harm on him.
No. Take a deep breath, Tori, and focus on the many positives. I won’t have to worry about a local news crew taking pictures of us during the seventh-inning stretch of a Phillies game. And no reporter’s going to corner me at a political fundraising event in a harebrained effort to get me to spill secrets about Councilman Mason King. This is my chance to relax without worrying about whether to filter my language, hide my cleavage, or smile for the occasional camera. I made a vow to enjoy this attachment-free vacation, and I intend to keep it.
As the plane taxis down the runway, I close my eyes, enjoying the rumble of the engine and the vibrations under my feet. Minutes later, the pilot switches off the seat belt sign and gives us the local forecast: no threat of rain for several days—which is perfect since that’s how long I’ll be staying on the island.
The man next to me shifts, but his hat is still sitting atop his face. My gaze falls to the armrest between us. He’s thin, but he’s also tall, and his wrist size suggests that he should be larger than he is. Given the sunken cheeks and wan complexion that accompany his lean frame, I’m guessing he’s sick. I’m hesitant to disrupt his nap, but there’s no one sitting in the window seat, and I could use the extra elbow room.
I tap his hand. “Excuse me, sir.”
He removes the cap and sits up, his movements quicker than I’d expected them to be. “Yeah?”
The man stares at me, his eyes alert, a small smile lifting his lips at the corners. The mouth catches my attention, but the eyes seize it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a pair like his. Ice blue and rimmed in black, they sit in stark contrast to his other features: the raven hair on his head, the dark brows, and the full beard that covers the lower half of his face like a shaggy carpet. If a blond man had eyes like his, I’d probably think nothing of them, but on this guy, the effect is startling.
He doesn’t otherwise look well, though, and I give him a sheepish grin because I feel a hairbreadth’s shy of shitty for disturbing him. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Are you sure about that?”
I drop my head a fraction, acknowledging the insipidness of my own words. “Well, you’re right, I did mean to wake you. Looks like no one’s sitting with us, so I figured we could spread out a bit.”
He spins his head and torso toward the window seat as though he needs to see for himself that, indeed, no one is there. “Yeah, yeah, sure. I’ll move. Not a problem.”
His languid movements make me regret the interruption.
I’m not a nosy soul, but I venture into personal territory anyway. I don’t know why, but I just want to be certain. “Are you feeling okay?”
His eyes widen as he refastens his seat belt. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just exhausted. I mean dead-on-my-feet tired.”
I give him a nod in understanding. I’ve definitely been there. “I won’t bother you anymore, then. Sorry I woke you.”
If he’d waved off my interruption with a friendly salute or smile, I’d have thrown on my earbuds, closed my eyes, and settled in for a short rest. But that’s not what he does. Instead, he turns on his side and stares at me with those piercing eyes, and I swear that we’re not on a plane, but in a bedroom, and he’s staring at me as we lie on a bed facing each other. The vision causes me to shrink back and gasp, and I can tell that he has no idea what’s going on in my head because his thick eyebrows shoot up as though he’s not certain I’m mentally stable. Unfortunately, at the moment, I can’t assure him that I am. Because . . . what the hell was that?
This time he’s the one who’s concerned. “You okay?”
My words trip over themselves. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. I’m exhausted, too. Just feeling a little loopy.” I point at the air around me. “Flying, probably.”
He nods and holds out his hand. “I’m Carter, by the way.”
Our hands meet in an awkward handshake, his confident grip clashing with my delicate finger dance. “Tori.”
“Short for Victoria?”
I get that question often. “No. Just Tori.”
“I have a feeling there’s nothing just about you.”
Oh no. That was awful. But the guy’s had a bad day, and he’s exhausted, so I don’t give him my infamous side-eye. “So what’s taking you to Aruba?”
He nibbles on his bottom lip as he ponders my question. If it’s a calculated move, boo. But if it’s an unstudied mannerism, I dig it. I dig it a lot. I’m watching. He’s nibbling. What am I even doing?
The pause approaches an uncomfortable territory seconds before he answers. “I’ve been banished. I got into it with someone, work-related crap, and I’ve been told to take some time off. So here I am. You?”
“I haven’t taken a vacation in two years. And a situation in my personal life’s gone wonky all of a sudden, so I thought this would be the perfect time for some relaxation and reinvention.”
“Nice,” he says. A sliver of his hair falls forward, the tip of it landing just above his eyebrow. He swats at it with the enthusiasm of someone trying to avoid a mosquito bite.
“So what did the someone do?” I ask.
He frowns. “What?”
“The person you got into it with. The one who caused your banishment. What happened?”
His face relaxes in understanding. “Ah.” But he doesn’t answer my question.
“Sorry, if that’s too personal . . .”
He shakes his head. “No, no. It’s just . . . the person . . . he took advantage of me, and I didn’t expect it.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been blindsided recently, too. But here’s how I see it. Now that whatever happened is out in the open, you can learn from it and move on, right?”
He draws back and squints at me. “Right. It’s as simple as that.”
I know that tone well. It rings with male condescension and ends with a “well, actually.” “Am I detecting a sheen of sarcasm on your skin?”
“Christ,” he says. Then he bursts out laughing. “You’re not defensive at all.” With his head cocked to the side, he holds out his hands. “See there? That’s sarcasm.”
My cheeks blaze under his inspection. And although I don’t want to give him the satisfaction, I laugh anyway. Because he’s not wrong. The debacle with Mason has left me raw. “Did you know the phrase ‘The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog’ uses every letter in the English language?”
He narrows his eyes. “What are you doing?”
Without an ounce of embarrassment, I say, “Changing the subject.”
“In that case, did you know only female mosquitoes sting humans?”
A man who’s willing to engage my love for trivia? Oh my. If I were on the market, I’d be sold. Instead, I mentally swat at the butterfly zipping around in my stomach. We’ll have none of that, thank you. “Well played, Carter. There’s hope for you yet.”
“I was thinking the exact same thing about you,” he says with a grin. “First time in Aruba?”
“Yes. You?”
“Same. Where are you staying?”
Okay. Does he think I’m stupid? I’m a single woman traveling alone. My intended whereabouts shall be guarded like state secrets. Well, given how often government employees divulge confidential info, maybe that’s a bad analogy. But you know what I mean. So what do I do? I fib. “Oh, I’m not even sure yet. A friend is meeting me at the airport. He’s taken care of the arrangements.” I lift my brows and rub my hands together. “A surprise.”
The brightness in his eyes dulls, like a headlight dimming in the black of night. He stares at me, eyes unblinking, for several seconds. “Hope you have a great time,” he finally says. Then he loosens his grip on the armrest. “I’m going to catch some much-needed z’s, so . . .”
Damn, that was abrupt. “Sure, sure. You won’t hear a peep out of me.”
He reclines his seat and places the cap back on his face. “Peep all you want. I’ll be out in a minute.”
My body is still angled in his direction, poised for more conversation. And now I feel kind of silly because he’s tuned me out in less than ten seconds. I gather the existence of my fake boyfriend has relegated me to the unbangable-and-therefore-uninteresting zone. Well, screw him. But then my conscience batters me with guilt, because maybe he is sick and maybe he’s been screwed already.
Well, no matter. His dismissive attitude lights a fire under my freshly ditched ass, bringing the last few days of my life into focus. After one last glance at his sleeping form, I put on my earbuds and close my eyes. I’m going to have fun on this vacation, sure. Dance on a few tables, in fact. But men? They’re off-limits to me. No rebound hookups. No one-night stands. Not even a kiss on the cheek.
I decree it.