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The plane touches down at Saint Lisieux’s small airport.

Passengers are yawning and stretching in their seats as we bump and roll down the runway.

I stretch too, arching my back until it cracks.

I did finally manage to fall asleep with the hood of my sweatshirt pulled up.

I push the hood back down and rework my ponytail as we pull up to the gate.

I sense Kyle’s movements next to me, stuffing his headphones in his backpack, rattling a tin of breath mints, but I don’t engage, visually or otherwise.

The morning sun slices through the row of oval windows, casting my side of the plane in furious light, and I drink in the green of the palm trees beyond the runway as they slide past, a shade of emerald so intense, I can hardly take my eyes off the sight.

Bright flashes of ocean jab through the gaps in the trees.

The plane comes to a shuddering stop. The seatbelt sign turns off. Everyone shoots up, but not me. I let them go first. Why get caught in a crush of people– or smashed against Kyle– just to gain a thirty-second advantage?

I watch Kyle as he pops open the luggage compartment and muscles down his Tumi roller bag. As he thumps it down, he catches the eye of a woman across the aisle.

‘I hate these red-eyes, don’t you?’ he says, and she laughs politely. It’s impossible to miss how the two of them take each other in with one swift, evaluative glance. Both seem pleased with what they see. ‘I’m Kyle, by the way.’

‘Serena,’ she says.

‘Here for business or pleasure?’

Ah. He’s one of those guys who has a single pickup line.

‘Definitely business,’ she says, standing up and showing off a trim, muscular body in Lululemon leggings and a strappy crop top. She’s petite, so as she reaches for her own roller bag overhead, Kyle says, ‘Let me,’ and takes it down for her.

‘Thank you, that’s so sweet,’ she says.

I wait until the last few people are struggling with their bags down the narrow aisle, then edge my way out of my seat and grab mine.

‘Thanks for flying with us,’ says the pilot, an older woman with a silver bob, as I reach the door. I’m the very last person to leave the plane. ‘Enjoy your stay.’

‘Thanks,’ I say.

The second I step over the threshold of the airplane, a wave of Caribbean heat hits me.

I pause at the top of the steep metal stairway that leads straight down to the tarmac, pull my sunglasses from my oversized purse, and slide them on.

My roller bag bangs against my ankles as I descend.

At the bottom of the stairs, I stop for a second to breathe the island air.

Every year it’s the same; the smell brings the memories.

It smells so different here– densely alive, with a sweet and salty edge that lingers in your mouth and nostrils.

The smell is objectively lovely, but it’s also sending me back five years to the first time I set foot on this island at twenty-four years old, with two bikinis, a couple of battered paperbacks and a heart full of dreams. That Lily had nothing– but she had everything.

I don’t know if it’s the mostly sleepless night or the vodka, but I walk in a slight daze down the demarcated path towards the terminal, dragging the roller bag behind me, its rattle filling my brain with noise, feeling the heat press down, feeling the memories press down.

For a second, I could almost be that twenty-four-year-old girl again right now.

I could probably even fit into the same bikinis, if I’d held on to them…

Whoosh.

The sliding doors open before me and I’m in the terminal.

I’ve done this often enough that my feet automatically take me to the line for Immigration, which is moving slowly in corridored zig-zags, with only two officials to handle the planeload of people.

I can spot Kyle down the line, absorbed in his phone, shaved head gleaming in the overhead lights, and I have to suppress an eye roll.

I take my place at the end of the line. The air conditioning crawls in chilly tracks over my skin, and I shiver. Forget the bikini. I’d kill for a sweater now.

Hot and cold. Twenty-four and twenty-nine. The Lily with her whole future ahead and the Lily with her future behind… All of a sudden, my heart starts racing. I have an extra hair elastic around my wrist; I snap it against my skin. One thing that’s not helpful at all? Getting in my own head.

The line shuffles forward. I rub the goosebumps off my arms.

Why do you keep going back to that place? my friend Nate asked at Murphy’s two nights ago, my last hangout with the gang before leaving Cincinnati. Isn’t the pay shit? You’re missing peak summer fun! All the singles mingles…

‘You’re forgetting all the rich resort singles I’m going to meet,’ I said with a grin, and my friend Phoebe laughed, slinging her arm around me.

‘Now we’re getting to the bottom of this weird-ass summer job you’re so obsessed with!’

I sipped my drink and played coy as they tossed around jokes about trophy wives and gold diggers, and tried to convince me to catch up with the podcast they’re all obsessed with.

They’re not a bad crew, Nate and Phoebe and the rest. They’re doing their best to navigate the world they live in, swiping left and right, expecting with a kind of sweet naivete that things will be different with their next match.

Listening to true crime podcasts to add excitement to their doldrum days.

Hoping for that next promotion at the shit company they don’t even want to work at; dreaming of that bigger apartment, that next vacation…

Coasting on all the mediocre wins that drive their lives forward.

Wow. Harsh much?

They’re doing their best, I remind myself quickly.

It’s not like I think I’m better than them.

But we are different at a really fundamental level, and it’s impossible for me to spend time with them and not feel that difference.

They’re still walking through life in a kind of daze; nothing that bad has happened to any of them, whereas—

‘Purpose of your visit?’

I jolt my head up.

Speaking of walking in a daze, I don’t know how long I was in la-la land, but I’m now at the immigration booth, face to face with a man with bags under his eyes and an excitable-looking moustache. His accent sounds mildly French.

‘Oh, um– the resort. The Riovan.’

‘So you’re a guest there? How long will you be staying?’

My heart chooses this moment to start drumming so hard it’s like someone is playing techno against my chest. I snap the hair tie against my skin. The drumbeat slows.

‘Sorry– no. I’m working there. Four weeks.

Lifeguarding. I have a visa…’ I indicate the passport, which he’s paging through.

The temporary visa is affixed inside somewhere.

I’ve done this every year, but still, the person behind the desk holds the power of the stamp.

I’m acutely aware they could deny me entry for some obscure, official-sounding reason.

The official frowns. Frowns deeper. A little fizz of adrenaline worms through me. Maybe turning around and going home wouldn’t be so bad…

‘Ah. Here we are.’ He’s found the visa. He gives a brisk nod and stamps my passport with all the enthusiasm of an executioner. I’d like to say my shoulders loosen, but they don’t. ‘Enjoy your stay, Miss Lennox.’

OK, it is not a good sign that, one, I’m traitorously wanting to go back home, and two, that I’m freaking out about a basic immigration question I get asked every year. But the way he said purpose … like he knew…

‘Stop,’ I mutter, making myself walk briskly, purposefully , towards the baggage carousel area, where many of my fellow passengers are waiting for the big conveyor belt to spit out their luggage.

I didn’t check a bag– I’m a light traveller– but I do have to stop at a little kiosk to fill out the customs form stating I’m not bringing agricultural products or large amounts of cash with me.

‘So you said you were here for business…’ says a male voice, startling me so badly I have to bite back a yelp.

Kyle. Unbelievable. I’m about to spin around and say something truly cutting that I haven’t come up with yet but I’m sure will come to me in time, when I realize he’s not talking to me.

He’s a few steps away, facing the baggage carousel with his back to me, talking to the petite brunette in leggings from the plane– Serena.

My pen freezes above the box where I was about to check ‘no’ for disease agents, cell cultures, snails. Also… snails?

‘Yes!’ beams Serena.

‘Sorry, remind me of your name…’ says Kyle.

‘Serena Victoria.’ She lays a hand on her chest. ‘I’m actually the new VP of Branding for the Riovan Resort. Well– new- ish . I’ve been here… four months? I was just in New York for a wedding, and now it’s back to the old grind!’

‘VP, OK, impressive.’

She laughs. ‘It’s really not as fancy as it sounds. Basically my focus is digital content growth and customer outreach, and let’s just say their last VP of Branding had no idea TikTok even existed, which…’ She makes a cringing face and they laugh together.

The carousel beeps, then begins to move. The first piece of luggage comes tumbling down.

‘That’s mine!’ squeals Serena. ‘It’s a sign, right? My luggage never comes out first. Like, someone up there must be looking out for this girl.’

‘Let me,’ says Kyle, muscling her massive bag off the moving belt.

‘Thank you, that’s soooo gentlemanly of you,’ she says, helping Kyle right the suitcase before snapping up the handle.

‘No problem. I’m one of your guests.’

‘Oh, that’s awesome! Are you doing the four-week intensive?’

‘I am indeed.’