Macy
“On your way to an important meeting?”
Aaron looks down at the pressed, immaculate suit he’s wearing. I’m in a sundress and platform sandals. If the elevator stops to pick up anyone else before we get to the lobby, they’ll probably think we’re perfect strangers going to two different places.
“I’m on my way to take you to dinner, baby.”
Aaron grins what is clearly supposed to be a suave yet wolfish grin, like a hungry hound dog on the prowl or some shit.
And he’s so hilariously ridiculous that I don’t even take him to task for calling me baby.
“You’re wearing that to the beach?”
“You want to have dinner on the beach? Yeah...totally.”
“The private beach cabanas, remember?”
Aaron smile evolves—it gets smaller but more genuine, with no obvious artifice. He points his finger at me.
“Evil.”
“What?”
Aaron’s still fucking pointing at me. His smile looks nice, though.
“Where’d that come from? Evil.”
“Uh, I don’t know. Is that a reference to something?”
Aaron finally puts down his finger as the elevator oddly stops at a floor, doesn’t open its doors, and continues on.
“I thought you would...never mind that, but if you knew you wanted to go to the private cabana, why’d you let me put on this suit?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I thought you’d end up wearing nothing or your underwear if you knew we were going to the beach.”
“Ah, so you are evil. That’s okay, I’m from Hollywood. Means nothing to me.”
The elevator seems to slow down steadily as we descend the last couple of floors.
“I’m from Hollywood. Is that also some kind of quote? Dudes at NYU are always quoting Always Sunny or Rick and Morty or some shit. They’re a bunch of awkward boys, though. Maybe that’s all you are under your layers of manly bravado—an awkward boy.”
The elevator opens to a crowded lobby, which seems like perfect timing to let Aaron absorb that statement in silence.
He, however, has other ideas.
“I have original thoughts, occasionally. Now let’s get to the cabana, evil lady.”
I step into the lobby quickly, Aaron stays right alongside me.
“Still out of fucking nowhere.” I’m actually enjoying the people staring at us as we walk through the lobby. “Even if you happen to be from Hollywood, yourself.”
“Macy, come on.”
“Come on, what? You say that like I’m supposed to know something. Whatever it is, I don’t know it. I certainly don’t know where you’re fucking from.”
It’s weird that we’ve never talked about it. You’d think newlyweds like us would’ve gotten to know each other better, but I still don’t feel curious enough to ask outright.
“You should know, Macy, that I would never live in Hollywood. That’s not the way it works.”
Even though we’re walking in tandem, Aaron somehow swings the door open for me before I notice him doing it, and slides in front of me to hold it back as I walk outside.
“Thank you for holding the door, but you’re making even less sense now, and I don’t have it in me to ask.”
“That’s okay. We can talk about you.”
I’m not sure if I want to do that at the moment, so I change the subject.
“Why don’t they have staff holding doors for people in the main lobby?”
“So recently wed husbands can hold the doors for their wives, and vice versa—hint hint on the way back.”
Another stupid smile starts creeping up, which I have to fight with another hastily considered retort.
“Or husbands for their husbands, or wives for their wives...”
“Or wives for their husbands who just treated them to the best dinner of their lives.”
“That’s quite an assumption…”
“That you’ll hold the door for me?”
“Yes—but also that this is going to be the best dinner of my life.”
Fresh out of the air-conditioned lobby, what felt like a slightly chilly evening earlier now feels like a wonderfully muted version of the usual tropical days on the island, with a pitch-perfect breeze sailing past us as we walk.
“Yes, Miguel, what we talked about earlier.” Aaron’s on the phone, and I remember that we have to give the staff a heads up, although it seems like short notice now. “Five minutes? Great. Oh, and make sure it’s the best dinner my wife has ever had in her life—a lot depends on it. Uh-huh...uh-huh, stupendous, my friend. Thanks so much.”
Aaron repockets his phone and turns back to me with another honest smile. “Miguel said it’ll be the best dinner you’ve ever had, no question about it!”
“It sounds like you’re assuming I’ll hold the door open for you if it is. I never agreed to that.”
I realize that I’ve lost the fight with my facial expressions, and that I’m smiling now. That’s okay, though—I’m looking away from Aaron, and whatever we’re doing now seems much too silly to be considered flirting.
Right?
“After the best dinner of your life, you may feel differently.”
I shake my head as we step on to the sand, Aaron still in his polished wingtips, and turn left.
I don’t answer him, but I’ve seen the way he ‘flirts’. This isn’t it.
This is, for once, somewhat enjoyable.
“I’ll tell you what,” I announce, “after dinner, I’ll tell you what I thought of it.”
“Promise?”
“It’s the only promise I can make.”
The beach seems surprisingly empty tonight—especially for spring break.
“Oh, Mace, you’ve made me the happiest man in Sint Maarten.”
“Hey, you pronounced it the Dutch way.”
“Is that bad?”
“No, just...surprising? I don’t know.”
Aaron’s booming laugh comes out of nowhere, and I struggle not to smile again.
“This is the Dutch part of the island, my dear.”
“Oh, if you want that door held open, you better stop calling me that.”
When we arrive at the cabana, it can’t have been longer than five minutes after Aaron called. Yet the place is decked the fuck out with garlands hanging in the walls, flowers, a fully set table with candles, and a lidded silver platter at the ready.
And a resort employee in a white suit and name tag, standing as still and ready as a Buckingham Palace guard.
I almost jump when he starts talking.
“Good evening, Mr. and Mrs.” He just leaves it at that, which is fine—and he has an accent I can’t quite place. “Welcome to our private cabana dining experience. My name is Sal, I will be your server. I’ve selected an amuse-bouche for the happy couple to start with.”
“Sal, I need to know one thing...”
“Aaron, don’t.” I hustle over to the table to seat myself so Aaron wouldn’t be tempted to get all romantic with any chair-pulling and all that business.
“Is this going to be the best dinner my wife’s ever had?” Aaron strolls casually to the table, not waiting for an answer.
“I guarantee it.”
“Even if I order whatever I want?”
“Whatever you want, madam.” Sal marches confidently over to us, his head held high. “It will be the best dinner you’ve ever had.”
“Hmm. Steak? Lobster? Sushi? Anything?”
“Anything, madam. You could order McDonald’s, and I will bring it to you, and somehow, it will be the best thing you’ve ever had.”
Sal lifts the lid on the platter.
“Look at that,” he remarks, “your amuse-bouche just happens to be a selection of fresh sushi—tuna and avocado roll with artisan wasabi.”
“Artisan wasabi?” I ask skeptically while grabbing a provided set of chopsticks from the platter. “I don’t know if it’ll beat the sushi from Food Emporium.”
With Sal and Aaron watching, I dip an avocado roll in wasabi and pop the whole thing in my mouth.
“Buhhhh what?” I start yelling nonsensically as soon as the tastes hits my taste buds—it’s the intensity that hits me first, like I’m being pulled in multiple directions by flavors I sort of recognize, but are wondrously new and overwhelming.
As I chew, my eyes widen in shock, those disparate flavors start circling around the gravity of the wasabi’s horseradish, like a delicious solar system centered around the sizzling stellar light of spiciness.
As I swallow, I look up at Sal, who gives me a hilariously stoic nod, his face unchanging.
“Couldn’t even wait for poor Sal to leave, could ya, Mace?”
“If I may, sir, the young lady was simply testing my word. I wouldn’t make such lofty claims without an amuse-bouche to back it up.”
Aaron looks at me, and I summon every drop of self-control I have to start devouring the rest of the sushi.
“Did he pass the test, Macy?”
“I wasn’t expecting to eat sushi here...but, oh yes, I can’t remember tasting anything like this before.”
“Can we have more of this sushi, Sal? And a good Brut champagne?”
“I don’t even know what I want to eat anymore,” I say, “just bring me more stuff like this, Sal, please.”
“More stuff like this is my middle name, madam.”
Sal vanishes with perfect comic timing.
“Glad you’re not holding back, Mace.” Aaron pours me a glass of champagne from a bottle I’m just noticing. He looks so damn comfortable in his suit, I figure this has to be a setup of some kind.
“Did they really set this up in five minutes?”
“I have no idea—but note how I’m courageously owning up to my mistake here—I honestly thought we were going to another spot in the resort. I forgot all about the cabana.”
While Aaron talks, I go through two more sushi rolls, greedily letting the flavors wash over me again before forcing myself to stop.
“Are you holding back, Macy? You promised.”
“It won’t be enjoyable if I overdo it. It’s early—I just want to experience everything as it comes, nice and slow. If I really feel like getting greedy, there’ll be time for that later. That’s what this little appetizer is supposed to be, right? Just a nice little taste to kickstart my appetite.” I point to the last two sushi rolls on the platter. “Don’t you need a little something to get your appetite going?”
Aaron’s face is still. My eloquence must’ve left him speechless.
“Mace lace—is that better?”
“Not even a little.”
“Macy...my friend, my partner in this crazy week that’ll make a great story for both of us one day—my appetite is doing just fine.”
Aaron’s barely spoken his final word before I’ve started in on the rest of the sushi.
“I don’t want to think about the implications of that,” I reply with my mouth full.
“What do you think about, Mace?”
I wash the sushi down with a sip of champagne so my words are clear.
“What do you want me to say? I know there’s a certain answer you’re hoping for, now that I’m being wined and dined.”
“Macy...”
“You want me to talk about how I’m actually thinking sick thoughts about hot, nasty sex all the time...”
“Those wouldn’t be sick thoughts, but...”
“About how I’m always thinking about big, muscular, well-hung men, especially when they prance around hotel suites making me want them oh-so-badly that there are times I might as well go insane. Is that it? Is that the little admission you’re hoping to get from me? Because you won’t.”
Aaron’s boisterous laugh nearly rattles the cabana. I don’t enjoy it this time, but it makes me realize how carried away I’m getting.
“Not unless that’s what you’re really thinking about.” Aaron leans slowly over the candlelit table, his eyes questioning mine.
“No.”
He snaps back from the table like I’d pressed rewind.
“Okay, I’ll start over. Where are you from, originally?”
“New York. We’ve been through this.”
“Originally?”
“The Upper West Side. You know, Nora Ephron’s home turf.”
“You’ve Got Mail!”
“Please. I hate all that shit.”
Sal and another server wheel a champagne bottle and a tray of platters to the table before vanishing instantly.
I should be interested in the food. Instead, I’m interested in where the hell Aaron’s going with this. And he’s looking at nothing else but me.
“I hope you’re not disparaging Tom Hanks. He’s delightful!”
“Absolutely not.” Perish the thought! I take a sip of champagne. “All that romance shit, come on.”
“Want to hear something shocking?”
“Just fucking say it, yeesh.”
“I hate all that shit, too.”
Aaron gives me a look like he just laid down some mind-blowing knowledge.
“Why is that shocking? You seem as cynical as anyone I’ve ever met about this shit, which is honestly fine...”
“Mm-hmm. I’m also Aaron Michaelson.”
“I know. Why are you announcing your own name like you’re in The Wild Thorns—oh…oh shit, you are Aaron Michaelson.”
“Yeah, I produced that.”
“Fuck. How did I not know?’
Aaron Michaelson, Hollywood producer, leans back in his chair and laughs.
“Beats me. Probably because my face isn’t everywhere...”
“But I did see a photo of you on IMDb once. I thought they used a stock photo because you looked too handsome to be a producer.”
“From you, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You’re welcome...and it was on the page for The Wild Thorns. Action’s not usually my thing, but I couldn’t stop thinking about that one for weeks, it fucking disturbed me, but it was great.”
“It was okay. We used horror movie aesthetics for a lot of it, and basically built an entire special effects company to avoid looking like all the other CGI shit.”
“Yes, right.” Looking at a colorful bouquet mounted to the wall, I realize I know more about this producer than I do about most—apart from seeing him naked. “A lot of your other stuff does look like that.”
“Yeah, well, that stuff sucks, at least in my opinion, and apparently yours. And the romance is worse.”
My head almost throws itself back as laughter seizes me. This is the Aaron Michaelson, alright, responsible for one of the best nights of my life, so far.
“Dude! The Thought of the Tears? Holy shit.” Aaron watches me with a blank expression as I let a few more hysterical laughs escape. “I went to a midnight screening at the Angelika last year, with a couple of friends—I swear I almost fucking peed from laughing, we were laughing all the way back to NYU. Was that supposed to be funny?”
“You know it wasn’t, Macy.”
“Thanks for being honest—and yeah, I know it wasn’t. The Thought of the Tears. Fucking hell, dude. Nice one.”
“I figured if romcoms did so well, we could go more serious with it.”
In the afterglow of a good laugh, I realize that I’m in a unique position to clarify a few things. I take a sip of champagne and start the questions.
“Do you care at all about the movies you make?”
“They make a lot of money, that’s what I care about.”
“So, that’s what it’s all about. Just money.”
“That’s what it’s always been about. Don’t fool yourself.” Aaron the movie producer takes a hearty swig of champagne.
“Why did you even choose the film industry?”
Aaron shrugs.
“Fell into it.”
“You fell into being…do you like any movies? Or any of yours?”
Aaron’s eyes drift away from mine, and I can see that I’ve triggered something real. Whatever it is.
“I like a lot of films. Love a lot of them. As for mine, well, I’ve given up on that.” Aaron lifts the lid on one of the platters. “Let’s eat.”
He’s clearly ready to change the subject, but now, I have my own agenda: to figure out what’s really going on with Aaron Michaelson.