Page 8 of Here for a Good Time

FOUR

Antonio had been waiting for us with a sign with our names on it and the resort’s logo in the top-right corner, but had not noticed that the sign was held upside down, probably because he was finishing off what looked like a cornetto.

When we’d walked up to him, necks craned at an angle because we wanted to make sure those were indeed our names, he stuffed the whole remaining bottom quarter of the cone in his mouth like he’d been caught with drugs and didn’t know how else to get rid of them.

The professionalism of his resort-branded navy polo shirt was offset by his neon pink shorts and green flip-flops.

He waved and said something that got lost in between vanilla ice cream and chocolate waffle cone.

When we cocked our heads in confusion, he held up a finger, and the three of us stood there, waiting for him to finish chewing.

“Hi,” he said on his last swallow. “I’m Antonio.

” He put out his hand, but right when I was going to take it, retrieved it.

“Actually, maybe not. It’s a bit sticky with ice cream,” he said and laughed.

When he glanced down and realized that he’d been holding the sign upside down the whole time, he laughed again, not a trace of embarrassment to be found.

I got the sense that Antonio wasn’t the type of person who got embarrassed easily, if at all.

Now, after exchanging names and confirming our identification and hotel booking, he takes our suitcases. He doesn’t move, however, instead tilting his head and studying our faces.

“Is everything okay?” I ask.

“No offense, but you two look terrible.” He gestures with a finger at my upper face. “Ms. Poe, as soon as we get to the resort, I’m going to book you in for a facial to get rid of those bags under your eyes.”

Zwe lets out a snicker when Antonio turns his attention to him.

Making a cutting motion with two fingers, he gestures at Zwe’s hair.

“Mr. Zwe, you should’ve gotten a haircut months ago.

Not to worry, we have a barber at the resort as well.

And not just any barber, I guarantee you it’ll be the best haircut you’ve had in your life . ”

“I—” Zwe begins.

But Antonio removes his white cap and musses up his hair, turning his head left, right, and down to give us the full 360. “See? He cut my hair just a few weeks ago. It helped me get a date the same night.” He grins, perhaps waiting for one of us to say something like I don’t doubt you, tiger .

Zwe’s mouth opens and contorts into a dozen different positions before he finally lets out a succinct “Oh.”

I try to come up with a better, actual compliment for fear that we’ve hurt Antonio’s feelings, but before I can think of one, he’s getting on with business, wheeling our two suitcases toward the airport exit.

Flashing an unfaltering grin at the throng of people that fill up the arrivals hall, Antonio snakes his way through as he yells out, “Excuse me! Thank you!” while Zwe and I power walk to keep up with him.

“Did the first staff member we just met insult us to our faces?” Zwe asks. Despite our pace, we’re struggling to keep up, and Antonio doesn’t so much as glance backward to check.

“I like to think of it more as helpful criticism,” I reply. “Look, you’re getting a free haircut out of it.” I tiptoe so I can ruffle his hair, which is tough given our power-walking situation, but I just about manage it.

Zwe glares down at me. “Since when don’t you like my hair?”

“I didn’t say I don’t like your hair. If it makes you feel better, I can get a haircut, too.”

“Why would you do that?” His brows pinch. “Your hair looks great. Apart from that time you tried bangs. Let’s not take another ride on that roller coaster.”

“Fuck you,” I say, tucking my hair behind my ears, one side of my mouth still ticking up into an involuntary half smile.

Before we’ve even left the airport grounds, we learn that Antonio basically grew up at the resort.

He’s twenty-four now, but he’s been there since he was a kid.

Both of his parents were employees before retiring—they now live in Java—but his grandfather still works there as the person in charge of the on-site organic garden.

Another fun fact we find out is that he is an avid bird-watcher.

During the thirty-minute Jeep ride to the harbor, he provides a name and fun fact for every bird he sees, already jumping to the next one before we can ask any follow-up questions.

I realize that the first human to come up with the term “wacky” probably did so after encountering their own Antonio.

When we reach our destination, I get out of the car and stretch my arms as high as they’ll go, basking in the glorious sunshine after a cumulative eight and a half hours in a metal tube in the sky.

I’m a city girl at heart, but even I have to admit that the wind, water, earth all seem different here—they smell better, feel purer, like this is how nature is supposed to be.

Already, I can sense all of my muscles start to relax, the human equivalent to when a dog shakes out their whole body.

This is exactly what I wanted. What I needed.

The boat is about a foot lower than the harbor’s edge, and there’s only a thin wooden plank connecting the two that Antonio promises is secure, despite its general very not-secure appearance.

Zwe offers to help with loading the luggage onto the boat, but Antonio smirks and shakes his head.

“No offense, Mr. Zwe, but you’re a city man.

The last time a city man tried to help me put his suitcase on the boat, I ended up having to fish him out of the water. ”

“We are so tipping him well,” I whisper as Antonio balances along the plank while carrying my yellow case with an effortlessness that makes you think, That doesn’t look that difficult .

“I want to adopt him as my little brother,” Zwe whispers back. “I don’t think Nyan will mind us having a third brother.”

We’re instructed to put on life jackets before we’re even allowed on the plank. Zwe goes first, then me.

It’s a wooden cabin cruiser, which is apparently the usual favorite boat among guests thanks to its large open cockpit, but to be honest, it’s precisely the large open cockpit that’s making my palms sweaty in spite of the cool, fast wind.

Even before we set off, I can tell that Antonio is the kind of person who takes advantage of the fact that there are no speed limits out on the water (I turn out to be right).

“Wanna try steering?” he shouts over, beckoning at the wheel.

“No thanks!” I reply. I can feel the blood draining from my knuckles as I grab tighter onto the edge of my seat.

“I’m good!” Zwe adds.

Antonio chuckles and shakes his head. “City people!” he yells, and throws in a wink to soften the insult.

I sit in the covered part of the boat on the cushioned bench on one side of the wheel while Zwe is taking in the breeze down the far end of the opposite bench, head tilted back, eyes closed, ocean air tousling his black strands.

The top two buttons of his sand-colored linen shirt are undone, and his chest hair peeks through.

This is one of those moments where I think, Where did the time go?

I’ve known this boy since he was ten, and it’s like I blinked and now we’re almost thirty and he has fucking chest hair and we live in our own apartment and we pay bills and occasionally unclog our toilet and do other Very Adult things.

Everything has changed, and also nothing has.

I still love books and he still loves numbers (I always know when he’s wrapped up the month’s accounting for the bookstore because he comes home looking like a kid who just came back from meeting his favorite star athlete) and if I’m going to be on a secluded island for two weeks, there’s no one else I’d rather drag along with me.

“How long have you two been together?” Antonio’s yell startles me.

I look to see if Zwe heard him, even though between the wind and the water, I barely heard him. “We’re not together!” I yell back.

“Are you sure?!”

“Pretty sure!”

Antonio smirks a smirk that is best described as “devilish” before yelling, “So then why were you looking at him like that?”

There is a surge of heat in my cheeks that spreads across my face, as though the wind has punched a hole in the roof and there’s no longer anything between me and the sun’s rays. “I–”

“Don’t worry!” Antonio cuts in. Another cheeky wink. “I won’t say anything!”

Zwe and I take a few photos on the boat, including a selfie where, in the background, Antonio’s turned around to smile at the camera—a move that had me yelling, “Antonio! The wheel!” to which he’d chuckled and yelled back, “It’s okay, Ms. Poe!

I know this boat better than I know my own body!

” which doesn’t seem like an actual phrase, but maybe it’s an “island person” saying that I, a city person, has never heard of.

We slow down as the resort comes into view, three staff members already awaiting our arrival on the long bamboo bridge that juts out from the beach.

“Do you think they’re all this… eccentric?” I mumble to Zwe as Antonio steers us toward a long piece of rope that will, presumably, tether us to the bridge.

“God, I hope so,” Zwe replies.

Antonio and the man who was waiting help us off the boat.

“Mr. Zwe, Ms. Poe,” says a woman wearing a white linen pantsuit.

She takes one step forward with the confidence of someone who is single-handedly in charge of a five-star island resort.

“Welcome to the island of Sertulu, and on behalf of all of us, welcome to the Cerulean. My name is Sandra, I’m the manager of the resort. I hope you had a good journey here?”