THIRTEEN

 

A Week in Un-Paradise

 

Libby

 

 

Have you ever been so confused and befuddled emotionally that up seems like down, and right is left, and wrong is right (even though you know it’s really wrong but it feels so right that you start to believe it actually is right)?

Yeah, that’s me right now.

I’m supposed to be here on my unhoneymoon/business trip, proving I can do this job just as well as Alan-the-Arsechitect and figuring out a way to get back the love of my life, who is definitely still Richard even though he left me at the altar. Right? Yes. Definitely. We have a perfect future together back home, and I must not forget all the good things, even though he did abandon me on the most important day of my life.

Oh, God. This is just so terribly confusing, isn’t it? What I should be doing and what I am doing are wildly different. I’ve been letting myself get totally carried away by a certain sculpted resort owner, which is a huge no-no. That’s why I made the comment about wanting to take Richard parasailing — to firmly apply the brakes on whatever is not happening between Harrison and me. And it may be wishful thinking, because my self-esteem is so badly in need of a boost right now, but I could have sworn he looked disappointed when I said that. Hurt, even.

But he couldn’t be hurt.

The truth is, we’re both just using each other. He needs me to like him, so he’s being all, “I’ll take care of you. You’re beautiful, Libby.” Okay, he hasn’t said that bit about me being beautiful, but the way he looks at me could turn a rock into lava. I mean, seriously, it’s like he wants to devour me with those gorgeous hazel eyes of his. And part of me, the very naughty part, wants to let him. (Naughty me really wants to let him. Badly.)

But, no. That would be an enormous disaster, both personally and professionally. I’d be throwing away my career and my future marriage in one long, lusty afternoon. Or night. Or an afternoon that would stretch into an all-nighter, because, let’s be honest, Harrison does seem like the type to have stamina to spare. Plus, he’s an insomniac, so the chances of him falling straight to sleep after he orgasms are pretty much nil. In fact, I’d probably have trouble keeping up with him, what with all his running and swimming and doing all that sweaty active work every day.

So, now I’m walking back to my room, getting my land legs back after a day at sea. I have to say, things were so much more fun before I brought up Richard’s name. After that, Harrison got very busy with hosting duties the rest of the afternoon. He didn’t even sit with me at lunch, but opted to eat with Justin and Fidel, which left me awkwardly alone with my mind racing. Which it’s obviously still doing.

As soon as I push the door open to my room, I drop my bag and get straight in the shower, turning the water as cool as I can stand it. I can’t go with hot or even slightly tepid water on account of needing to cool down my raging hormones. I shampoo quickly and get out as fast as possible, deciding to get right to work on my assessment. I have a lot of data to put into my spreadsheets, which is terrific. It’ll keep me busy all evening and keep my mind off you-know-who.

My phone buzzes and I see I have a new like on my Instagram account. It’s Richard. Huh. What’s he doing up at this hour looking at my IG pics?

Now I’m very glad I posted all those shots this afternoon at the beach and of me parasailing with Harrison. My plan could be starting to work. Maybe Richard will see I’m turning into Unpredictable, Super-Fun Libby, and he’ll change his mind about us. Plus, he’s bound to be wondering who that very attractive man is in two of my pics. If this doesn’t lead him to get on the next plane here and sweep me up in his arms, nothing will.

But between you and me, I like my chances…

 

***

 

Five Days Later

 

Did I actually say I liked my chances? Because if I was really that cocky, I have to tell you, I was wrong with a capital WRONG.

In the past several days, I’ve posted an obnoxious number of photos on Instagram, trying to make it look like I’m having the time of my life. Photos of me at each restaurant (where I was actually doing inventory and making process observations), at the beach, on my balcony, at the pool (where I walked in up to my waist, took a few selfies, then went back to my room to get changed and get back to my laptop, which is where I am right now).

I know it’s pathetic, but I even went so far as to pose for a few activities I didn’t do — like paddleboarding. That was a production, let me tell you. First, I had to get into my bikini and do my hair and makeup, then I had to walk all the way over to the beach from my room, and by the time I did that, I was all sweaty, so I had to find a bathroom and freshen up. Then I had to ask the paddleboard rental guy if he could help me out by coming down to the shoreline to take a picture. I had to set up the shot to make it look like I was out on the water (which involved some serious camera trickery), then stand on the board (which was still firmly attached to the beach), and make an open-mouthed, ‘wow this is awesome fun and kind of hard at the same time’ face.

After making sure he got a good shot, I told the rental guy I changed my mind and didn’t want to paddleboard after all. He was not impressed, by the way. And, now that I think about it, I could have totally just Photoshopped something, which would have been much less time-consuming, not to mention less humiliating.

The worst part is, all that effort hasn’t yielded any results on the Richard front.

Not one little like.

Not a phone call.

Not him showing up here, desperate to find me and rushing down the beach (because of course I’ll be at the beach in a lovely sundress staring pensively at the setting sun over the sea). He’ll lift me into his arms and pledge his undying devotion, then out of thin air, a minister will appear and two witnesses (probably Alice and Jack, who he begged to come with him) …and we’ll be married immediately and live happily ever, our relationship becoming a legendary love story like Romeo and Juliet (except without the double suicide ending).

Instead, nothing has happened. Well, except for Richard liking a video Alice posted of Maisie in her Jolly Jumper, as well as one of his brother Tom’s posts, giving a thumbs-up while holding an empty pint glass. I mean, Maisie is adorable and she’s laughing her head off while she jumps, so that deserves a like. But Tom celebrating the fact that he’s just had a beer? Really, Richard? That gets a like, but me suspending myself thousands of feet in the air with nothing but a harness to prevent my death gets nada?

I’m starting to think it’s over, and I’m sure to you that sounds insane, because like Greta from Germany, and Lolita the barmaid, and Alice, you probably thought Richard and I were through the moment he sent that text. But, honestly, how can I throw away the six years I’ve invested in a man who is normally a very stable and terrific partner?

Just because he ditched me on our wedding day like a total coward?

Just because he basically said being with me was as exciting as being with an eighty-year-old retired librarian?

Well, the joke’s on you, Richard, because I can be a total thrill-seeker! At least I can make it look like I am, anyway, which is basically the same thing in the end, isn’t it? I mean, really, don’t most people do crazy, adrenaline-rush-inducing things just so they can say they did it? Nobody really likes to ‘live on the edge.’ Not even Richard, whose middle name isn’t exactly Danger. The most thrilling thing he’s done in the last few years is to order a curried chicken with a three-hot-pepper rating on the menu at Tandoori Tavern. And he couldn’t even finish it, he was sweating so much. I mean, honestly, it wasn’t even that hot. I had a bite, and at best, it was White People Spicy. Hypocrite.

I pull out my mobile and dial Alice, who is probably cleaning up from dinner at the moment. As soon as she picks up, I say, “You know, I’m not even sure I want Richard back.”

“Hello to you too. How’s paradise?”

“Hot and worky,” I say. “It just really hit me that Richard’s sort of a hypocrite for calling me dull when he can’t even handle spicy food.”

“Hold on…let me change rooms.” In the background, I can hear the firetruck Alice’s older brother bought Colby as a revenge gift for the drum set she and Jack bought his daughter. Alice covers the phone, and I hear her muffled voice telling Jack to watch the kids for a few minutes. I can’t hear his response, but I hear her say, “She needs me right now.”

A minute later, silence fills the line, then Alice comes on. “Sorry about that. Just finishing up the after-dinner dishes. Okay, first, let me say, thank God you got past the denial phase of this. I’ve been wondering how long it would take.”

“I haven’t been in denial. I was just completely positive we’d get back together.” I take a deep breath, then say, “Oh, shit. That’s denial, isn’t it? And now I’m angry. Does that mean…”

“You’re grieving, yes. But don’t think of it as a bad thing. It’s a healthy, normal process.”

“Right. I guess so. I just thought that maybe…”

“…He’d see all those fun Instagram photos and come running, only to find you looking gorgeous on the beach for an ultra-romantic reunion?”

“Maybe.”

“Yeah, thought so. Did you even go paddleboarding?”

“Did I actually stand on the board with a paddle in my hands? Yes. Was I on the water? Not as much as the photo makes it look.”

“Oh, wow. So, Denial River runs deep in you.”

“Not my proudest moment, but I was a woman on a mission.” I stand and walk to the balcony door, slide it open, and step outside into the hot afternoon air.

“Oh, hon. You’re definitely going through the grieving process. Denial, anger, bargaining, and closure. Wait — is that right? Closure?”

I gaze out at the property, secretly disappointed not to see Harrison, whom I haven’t set eyes on for days. “That doesn’t sound right.”

“But it is denial first, and I think anger is next,” Alice answers.

I nod to myself. “I should Google that. So, if I am grieving, does it mean my relationship with Richard is really over?”

Alice’s tone is gentle, like she’s afraid if she speaks too loud, I might break. “Yeah. I think it’s safe to say it is.”

“Oh God. What do I do now?”

“Start with that hottie resort owner. Do him first. Then move on to whoever you fancy next — but use protection. The last thing you need is a rebound baby. You’re going to have enough on your plate with needing to find a new place to live and all.”

“Right. Solid advice, Alice. Thanks,” I say sarcastically.

“You’re welcome, Libs,” she says, clearly ignoring my tone.

I roll my eyes. “I’m not sleeping with Harrison. Or anyone else for that matter.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because I’m a professional. And not that kind of professional, so don’t even say it.”

The sound of a wailing child gets louder. “Christ, they found me,” Alice says. “Gotta run.”

She hangs up and I flop myself down into a chair in the shade, then Google ‘stages of grief.’

Might as well know what’s coming, right?