Page 25

Next morning, I dress quickly in a tank top and cut-offs and apply some sunscreen, rubbing a little extra into my cheeks, where a few new freckles have appeared.

I head to the dining hall to grab a quick breakfast. Then, with my laptop and water bottle in my backpack, I head down to the Adventure Rentals outbuilding.

‘Thirty-five dollars for twelve hours,’ says the man behind the desk, where bikes, kayaks and paddle boards can be rented by the hour or for the day. I fork over some cash, exit into the muggy morning air with my sky-blue bike, and I’m off.

The road starts off at an incline, climbing from the coast to a rocky plateau before dipping into the rainforest. I’m sweating within minutes.

Honestly, it feels good to sweat from effort rather than boiling in the lifeguard’s chair, unable to move. I’m not one for predictions, but this is going to be a good day. A productive day. I’m going to make my plans and figure out what the hell to do about Daniel.

It doesn’t take too long for the Riovan to disappear behind me.

There’s a whippy little wind for a while, and I have to move to the shoulder of the road as a Riovan shuttle bus passes me, but soon the rainforest looms, a deep, saturated emerald.

Here, the road splits. The paved road leads to the airport, and the dirt road leads to Brisebleue.

It seems telling. The paved road towards departure, as if the road itself is trying to remind me how much easier it would be just to leave. The rougher road is for staying.

The coffee and steel-cut oats from my hurried breakfast slosh in my stomach as I bump down the rutted incline that takes me off the main road.

A moped chugs by, Riovan-bound, shared by two cleaning ladies, as evidenced by their uniforms. They give me a friendly wave.

The one behind is holding the driver around the middle, and the driver is laughing.

Even though they’re only in my field of vision for a few seconds, I can feel the warmth between them like the sun on my neck.

The comfort, the security of their friendship.

A little curl of envy moves through me. I used to have that…

and for a few hours, I thought I could have it again with Daniel.

And now I have to consider how I could kill him.

Unfair. It’s very tempting to feel sorry for myself.

I flick these feelings away. A good day, remember?

A few other mopeds pass me, then a battered-looking Jeep with four guys in maintenance jumpsuits, and a few people on dilapidated bicycles– more workers headed to the Riovan.

How do the locals feel about the resort?

It provides employment, sure, but it also privatized most of the nice beaches for the tourists to enjoy.

What if I had got my way? What if, at twenty-four, I had succeeded in shutting the Riovan down? Would the locals have been cheering, or pissed that their jobs were gone?

Either way, I know I was naive to even think it was possible. But I was reeling from losing Jessica, and I wanted to see the place burn, no matter the consequences.

I seriously must have solicited every news outlet, starting with the New York Times and the Atlantic and going down the list from there.

Surely, someone would want to run the story of two lovers who went away to a wellness resort and came back the opposite of well.

Ruined. My strategy was top-down. First, the big publications.

By the time I made it to the Tampa Advertiser Monthly , something in me had hardened.

I can’t even call it disappointment. It was…

well, no one gave a shit. The worst thing in the world had happened to Jess, to me, and no one cared; no one but me– and Jess’s family, of course.

Maybe the subject wasn’t serious enough for the New York Times or clickbaity enough for the Tampa Advertiser , or maybe no one was interested in trash-talking the powerful conglomerate that owns the Riovan.

Whatever the cause, my efforts were dead in the water.

I had to let it go, but I had no idea how to do that.

I wasn’t new to death. Mom had already died– but cancer isn’t personal. Jessica’s downfall? It was absolutely personal. Toxic people fanned the flames of her normal insecurities into the raging bonfire that ultimately consumed her.

I booked a ticket to the Riovan for what I thought was my final visit, to scatter the metaphorical ashes, to face the place that had taken Jessica from me. I wanted closure, a way forward.

And though I certainly didn’t find closure, a way forward did open.

A final moped buzzes past, its engine wheezing as though it’s on its last legs.

The young woman riding it waves at me, and I wave back.

Then, as if that was rush hour and now it’s over, the road gets really quiet, except for the protesting rattle of my own bike, my breathing, and the birdsong in the trees– so bright and clear it almost sounds artificial.

Even this early in the morning, it feels hotter in the rainforest– humid and close, cloying.

There’s the distant roar of a waterfall, and if I didn’t have to get shit done today, I’d be tempted to park my bike and see if I could find it.

That would have been a fun adventure to have with Jess.

I press on.

*

When I taste salt in the air again and a cool breeze licks my face, I know I’m almost there.

The edge of the rainforest comes suddenly, and I’m shooting out of the green back into open air, going down a little incline.

Ahead is Brisebleue, a scattering of buildings on a flat area that, when it rains, becomes a mud-fest. Beyond, the ocean, huge, gleaming, bigger and bolder on the northern side of the island than it looks from the Riovan, as if we only get the diluted version down there.

This isn’t a place of gentle bathing and lounging; here, the ocean challenges the shore, lashing it with determined violence.

Soon, my bike is hopping over the rutted dirt road that becomes Brisebleue’s main street. I have to swerve to avoid a pair of wild chickens, and a fruit vendor throws a half-hearted ‘Mangoes, good price,’ at me as I bump past, bike rattling like a jar of teeth.

The town is mostly shacks, as if someone dumped the leftovers of a construction project in a pile and everyone grabbed what they could.

There’s the salt-bleached motel, called simply ‘Motel’, with a reputation for bed bugs, a grocery store that seems more of a convenience store, and a handful of open-front operations selling clothing, incense, auto parts and pharmaceuticals, each with a rotating postcard rack out front.

Brisebleue may not be traditionally touristy, but it does get its share of backpackers and surfers.

Back in the early 2000s, a surfer named Dino set a Guinness World Record on a wave nicknamed La Mort Bleue– the Blue Death– and surfers have been coming ever since, looking for that killer, once-in-a-lifetime wave…

and willing to stay in questionable accommodation for the chance.

I dismount my bike in front of Island Vibes.

The bar-restaurant features a weary tiki theme, but I respect the attempt to bring some charm.

The owner, Randy, is an American expat who worked for Microsoft, cashed out big on stock options, and retired early.

His wife passed away from ovarian cancer– we connected years ago over our mutual losses– so he figured, what the hell.

He moved to the Caribbean and fulfilled his longtime dream of owning a restaurant in paradise.

That was fifteen years ago, so now at almost seventy, Randy spends most of his time on the beach while Sean from New Zealand runs the day-to-day.

I lean my bike up against the side of the building. The front of the restaurant is open to the elements, with a grass roof awning that provides shade over the outdoor seating. Inside, ceiling fans are running and it’s marginally cooler.

My eyes take a minute to adjust to the dim interior.

A table of men are drinking iced coffees.

A woman eating eggs on toast is speaking earnestly in French into her phone.

I check my watch as I approach the bar– ten o’clock.

Too early for lunch, but that’s OK. I’ll do some research first and order one of their ridiculously sugary Thai iced coffees to tide me over.

‘Lily?’ comes a voice from the shadows behind the bar, and I turn to find Sean standing up with his tousled blond surfer’s hair and permanent case of sunburn.

He’s wearing a tank top that displays muscled arms, and a hemp necklace with a charm dangles from his throat.

He wipes his hands on a dish rag and graces me with a wide, pleased smile that highlights his dimples.

‘Sean!’ I greet him, slipping on to a bar stool. ‘Long time no see.’

‘You’re back, huh?’

‘Every year.’

‘What can I get you?’

‘Iced coffee. I’ll be here for a while, though, so I hope you have something good for lunch.’

The menu is tacked above the bar, but it’s never current.

‘We’ve got a poké bowl you’ll love. The fish is primo. Caught this morning.’

‘Looking forward to it.’ As long as it’s not too chunky and pink.

I lean on the counter as he prepares my iced coffee.

‘How’s business?’ I ask. When you’re in the food trade, you know how up and down it can be.

‘Solid.’ He turns around and hands me the chilly plastic cup, rattly with ice floating through a milky brown-sugar coloured liquid. Damn, my mouth is watering. ‘Actually, I’m buying Randy out.’

‘What? Randy is officially retiring?’

Sean’s forehead furrows. ‘He has prostate cancer.’

I exhale. ‘Is he seeking treatment, or…’

‘It’s metastasized, so… he’s gonna let it run its course.’

Oof. In reality, I barely know Randy. I see him once or twice a summer. Why does this feel like such a blow?

‘Cancer is such a bitch,’ I say.

‘Sure is,’ says Sean. ‘But you know, he misses Brenda. He says he’s ready to go.’