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25 | Island Dreams SASHA

Michael is not wrong. The resort is spectacular. And I do love it. It’s so arresting, in fact, that I momentarily almost forget my jumbled feelings. At least I try.

I take three deep breaths, shaking off my startle.

As we approach the beach, bucking along the dirt road, I see ten perfect villas set back from the shore, before a wide-open expanse of sand. Each has its own palm tree and landscaped trim of scraggy brush. Though the roofs are pointed and bear the same heather-gray shingles as the reception house, their silhouettes feel almost Japanese, low and flat with sharp symmetrical lines. The white exterior is in stark contrast to black-tinted windows. A play of dark and light.

I’ve seen the pictures, but, in person, this place is next level. I can’t believe I get to stay here.

Michael brings the golf cart to a stop, helps me out and leads me into the villa via a slatted white door, framed by cacti in porcelain planters. Inside is a burst of energy. It gifts me my own burst of joy, despite my pounding heart. Beneath a lofted ceiling is an enormous open-floor-plan living room and kitchen. Though the fundamentals are neutral—couch, rug, granite side tables and countertops—the accents are unapologetic and lively: electric orange wall prints, French blue–striped throw blankets, yellow Acapulco chairs, Mad Hatter shelves of incongruous heights that are lit from within, illuminating artisan vases and figurines.

Michael points out the fancy espresso machine, the remote-control shades, the giant flat-screen TV, the stainless steel refrigerator stocked with complimentary drinks. A bottle of wine is positioned on the kitchen counter beside a lavish tray of sliced tropical fruit, from papaya to kiwi, chocolate truffles, crackers and cheese.

I am Alice and this is Wonderland. I don’t belong here, but I’ll take it. I will shrink and grow to fit. A wonderfully wrong dream.

Two walls of the villa are entirely windowed so that sunlight falls across the floor. It makes me want to curl up like Larry the cat. Maybe tuck myself in a corner and hide from reality, given the situation with Ethan. I honestly don’t know whether to feel flattered or humiliated. I am vibrating with both. So I try to push my worries aside for the moment.

There are three bedrooms off this main room: one alone by the entrance and two side by side off the far wall. Michael leads me to one of these far ones, opening its door and then stepping aside so that I might be the first to walk in and experience my sanctuary for the coming days.

I can’t help but smile big. Much like the living room, it is bright and airy with mile-high ceilings and transparent shades that filter in a lemony haze. The bed is king-size with an embarrassment of plush pillows. I want to collapse into it and make snow angels. But Michael still has much to show me, and he is serious about his job.

“This room can be adjoining with the one next to it, if guests prefer,” he explains, gesturing toward a closed door beside the closet. “It’s perfect for families with small children.”

“Darn it. I’ve left mine at home,” I joke. “I knew I forgot something.”

“We can supply anything you’ve forgotten,” he says. “Within reason.” He raises his eyebrows. Michael is funny!

He takes me through the lighting system, which looks like a motherboard in a James Bond movie. I know I will never retain any of what I am told about how it works and will instead press every conceivable button and pray.

In the bathroom, the walls are a mosaic of iridescent metallic tiles. It feels fancy . The bath products are scented like lemongrass and basil. And there is a tube of sunblock that I uncap and sniff. It smells like abandon.

He references a sundry drawer, lit from within, which I peek in as he moves on: organic cotton balls, a recyclable shower cap, bamboo Q-tips, aloe after-sun gel, neon pink earplugs, orange blossom and neroli essential oil pillow spray—even the condoms are hipster and fair trade! Some brand called RAW.

I squeal internally, then rush to catch up.

Guiltily, I realize how thrilled I am to have a beautiful space that’s mine and mine alone for a few days. Where no one will leave their dirty socks on the floor or smudges of bubble gum toothpaste on the wall.

“There’s also an outdoor shower shared by all the guests in this villa,” Michael explains, “but the entrance is at the back of the common room.”

“An outdoor shower!” I exclaim, startling the poor man. “My favorite!” I really love an outdoor shower.

“Now, if you have everything you need, I’ll leave you to get settled,” he says. But he demurs when I offer money.

“This is a no-tipping hotel,” he says proudly. “We’re paid full salaries.” The subtext is clear: this is not your mama’s resort. We’re not in Kansas anymore. Or even Saint Thomas.

Unable to show my appreciation in cash, I thank him profusely, probably embarrassingly, as he escapes, leaving me to my bliss.

I close the door to my bedroom behind him and take stock. By some miracle, I use the appropriate remote and raise the shades on the floor-to-ceiling front window. They glide upward to reveal a layer cake of boundless sky, aqua sea, white sand and chlorinated crystal. There is a David Hockney–blue pool, minus the humans, and, beyond it, the ocean, tie-dyed with teal where plant life and coral reefs sway beneath the surface. Below a crisp umbrella, two minimalist loungers are sharply angled, an obligatory invitation.

Nothing is round here. Everything is too beautiful to touch.

On my honeymoon with Cliff, we went to Costa Rica. It still seemed a bit wild in those days. The nicest hotel we stayed at was a former Smithsonian observatory, overlooking an active volcano in the midst of the largest eruption in fifty years. At night, after Cliff passed out, I would lie—propped up by a similar abundance of fluffy white pillows—and watch molten lava race downward in fits of neon orange. I am both reminded of that place and time now and struck by the difference, in the setting but also in me. That was stunning in its unpredictability. Frightening like a dare. It matched our bravado and our rapport—even our attraction. Agitated, frenzied, rushed.

This place is so calming; it feels like the antidote to my current angst. Like what I need. And, of course, there is no Cliff, which is always a win. I am almost afraid to ruin the view with the less precise curves of my human form, but I’ve got to take a closer look to believe it’s real. And I don’t have much time before cocktails and dinner.

When I slip out my door a few minutes later, I am wearing a tank top, jean shorts and my jaunty straw hat. I’m not surprised to see Stephanie lounging on the couch in a Natalie Martin muumuu. Living the bohemian dream. Her bare feet are propped up on the coffee table, and she’s drinking a generous glass of that complimentary wine. This woman isn’t afraid to take up space. I look around for Jackie, likely our third roommate, but she has not yet arrived.

“Oh, hi!” Stephanie says, at once upbeat and lazy. “Where you headed in that cute hat?”

“Just down to the water. Wanna come dip your toes?” I hope she does not want to come dip her toes, but I’m being friendly.

No offense to Stephanie. I actually think she seems fun. I like anyone who’s that enthusiastic about hanging out with me. The more time I spend around her, the more I’m impressed by the way she moves around the world without apology. But I need a second to wrap my mind around my current circumstances. The Demon Dad of it all. I need to walk down to the beach. Feel sand between my toes. Try not to lose my shit.

“Nah,” she yawns. “I think I’ll dip my whole body in the pool instead. Come!”

“I think I don’t have time to swim, then make my hair presentable.”

“Oh, keratin treatment, baby!” She tosses her hair from side to side like a L’Oréal Paris model, and it does look smooth despite the humidity. “Remind me to send you the info. I got a guy.”

I don’t doubt it.

I step out the front—and I’m a bit like Lawrence of Arabia trekking through the desert. The stretch from our villa to the shore is farther than I thought. But the sand is warm and malleable beneath my feet, and it’s been ages since I felt that sensation, that give. I sigh. Whatever else is happening, this is a giant gift.

As I near the water’s edge, I realize that, impossibly, it’s as clear from this vantage point as it was from up above in the plane. There’s barely a ripple on the surface. Definitely no waves. Tiny yellow fish swim by in schools. I give them an A-plus. I test the temperature with my toes, and it is bathtub warm. Suddenly, I’m regretting not wearing my bathing suit. Who cares about my hair?

I wade in to just above my knees. And, for a moment, I stand there, basking in the beauty of my surroundings. For one thing, it is as silent as any place I have ever been. Since the resort hasn’t opened yet, the island’s entire population is comprised of our small crew and the hotel staff. The photographer, Charlie, is arriving late tonight. There are no cruise ships, no sailboats, no rowboats or kayaks. No additional hotels. There are no swimmers, no surfers, no children splashing or collecting shells. There are no cars, no musicians, no playlists playing, no shouts or laughs between friends. This might be the quietest moment of my waking life.

Unfortunately, that means I can hear my thoughts loud and clear. And they come rushing in, anything but subdued. About my mom’s memory, about the kids, about money—or lack thereof.

Most of all, about Ethan.

Just when I was entertaining the idea that he is decent, I am hating him again. I have to ask myself: Why am I so thrown off? Arguably, he did me an enormous favor. He searched me out, gave me a shot, got me hired on this incredible job. And yet, I want to grab him by his tan neck and throttle him.

Part of me knows I am feeling foolish. One-upped. Like my upper hand got handed to me. But there is something else too, insidious and nagging: I thought I earned this job. I thought they chose me on my merit. On my charming disposition. On the really cute, yet responsible, Rachel Comey sample sale sweater I wore to our meeting. Now, I feel like I’m getting a handout. Did he force them to hire me? Do the others believe that? That thought makes me want to hide under my hotel bed in embarrassment. Which is challenging because it’s a platform.

But also, I feel tricked. Why didn’t he mention he was putting me up for a job? Why didn’t he ask me if I was interested before he went ahead and did it? Why did he take ownership over my life without my permission? How dare him! How dare all the men!

I swore, after Cliff, that I would never let a partner shape my world so entirely. No matter how gradually and insidiously he accomplished it. No matter what his apparent intentions. I will not shift into default mode.

But, I realize, my biggest anxiety of all is about the full-time job: now that I know Ethan would be my boss, even if not my direct supervisor, can I still reasonably consider applying? Would they even consider hiring me? If this goes well, can I work for him? Can we work together ?

The word together in reference to anything about me and Ethan makes me deeply uncomfortable and more than a little nauseous. And I am summoning the courage to ask myself the truly terrifying question of why, when I feel a sensation like butterfly wings against my shin.

I’ve been so in my head that I’ve forgotten to even see through my eyes. To remember where I am standing. In this spectacular place. I look down now with alarm to find a small stingray—maybe a baby?—swimming in circles around my legs. I gasp, unsure of what to do. I try not to move for fear of scaring it off. What is this magic? This place of wonder! Am I on the edge of the world? Am I in Moana ?

All my worries of the moment before take a back seat. My first urge is to share this miraculous moment. I turn my head—and only my head—to look for another being, but of course I am alone. And that is a bit of a theme. It doesn’t matter. I have been handed a hefty dose of perspective. How fortunate I am to be on this planet, in this place, in this moment, right now!

My stingray buddy brushes past me three more times, her fins like velvet gliding against my skin. I’m reminded of Larry the cat, brushing up against me to beg for treats, and I stifle a laugh at the thought of his grumpy face.

Too soon, my baby stingray swims away, disappearing into the darkening distance. She is lost forever in the shadows of the coral and seaweed. The sun has begun to set. It turns the bellies of the clouds gray. The sky blushes fiery orange, then blurs to yellow. As the sun dips lower, I watch it transform from an amorphous glow into a true circle, a point of light.

It is suddenly growing quite dark. Gratitude swells inside me. And, if I’m honest, so does fear that the stingray has some shark friends following close behind. With a squeal, I jog out of the water and start up toward the villa.

Up toward the villa . That’s a nice phrase to get to think. This experience—and the opportunity—is too special to let some dude mess it up. The same dude who laid it in my lap. The complications of that swirl inside my brain. I am not evolved enough to untangle it.

So, I land on this: Forget Ethan and all his annoying perfect T-shirts and shoes. His nice hair. His crinkly eyes. His broad shoulders and muscular back. I can be professional. I can be polite. I can have nice hair too! (Well, sort of. The humidity is a challenge.)

I can avoid him and the topic altogether.

I can wow the whole team with my incredible work ethic and superlative skills. I can make it impossible for them not to hire me. And I can enjoy the process while I do it. I can multitask.

After all, I am a woman.

Ethan is, of course, wearing another perfect T-shirt. This one is slate gray, and I don’t notice how nicely it fits his lean frame and highlights his biceps. Because I don’t see hotness. I am a professional .

I am in a good headspace, I tell myself. I’ve got swagger. Because I showered for as long as I wanted, with no kids to interrupt, for what felt like the first time in years. Because my floral nap dress looks cool with my sandals and frosted pink lip (and not in fact “influencer-y” as I feared). Because I texted with Celeste before I left the room and confirmed that my children are alive and thriving. (I will FaceTime with them tomorrow.) And, most of all, because I am now friends with a stingray. Beat that!

Our small team is mingling by a tasteful tiki bar, under a short thatched awning and atop bamboo stools. I seem to be the last to arrive. When I crest the top of the stone steps, Stephanie shouts my name like we’re doing a production of A Streetcar Named Desire . “Sashaaaa!”

Not that I notice because Professional Sasha doesn’t care, but, in my peripheral vision, I see Ethan do a double take when he spots me, and I realize he’s never seen me dressed as an actual person before, only for school drop-off or a park run. His eyes linger on my face, then track down my body, before he remembers himself.

Take that, sucker!

His gaze warms me up like a heat lamp. But I am choosing to ignore that fact for now and feel smug instead. After all, I am triumphant! Remember?

There is a new member of our group who I recognize as the resort’s owner, Martin Bernard. Of course I’ve seen him in a million classic Mafia movies, largely during my film school years. Cliff’s favorites. Or the favorites he claims in interviews now. Oddly, I have never read an article in which he mentions his deep love of Porky’s Revenge!.

Stephanie, who is wearing enormous gold hoop earrings and a heavy cat eye to line her eyelash extensions, grabs me by the hand and drags me over to Martin. He is probably mid-sixties, leathery from sun but still handsome in an imposing way. Instead of smaller and bigheaded like most celebrities, he is larger in life.

“You must meet Martin! Martin, this is Sasha! Escapade ’s brilliant new video producer.” I like being characterized this way. I am in the club and I am brilliant! Stephanie is fast becoming my new favorite person.

Martin turns his penetrative gaze on me. I shift under it.

Taking his time, as if he’s used to people letting him set the pace, Martin lifts his hand and takes mine in his own. His palm is warm and coarse. He opens his mouth so slowly that we all lean in, concerned that he has frozen in place and might never form words again. “A pleasure,” he says finally. “Welcome. To. Paradise.”

I have never heard a human being annunciate so sharply. Those p ’s! Each word is a glass of Riesling with a crisp finish. I’m so entranced by the strange way his mouth moves that I forget to respond. Stephanie elbows me. And I bolt up straight, my power switch flipped back on.

“Th-thank you for having me!” I smile. “What a magical place you’ve created.”

He takes his time, scanning the expanse of the open-air restaurant—with its twinkle lights, intricate stonework, Moroccan tiles and tiki torches—and the surrounding landscape, as if he has not seen it a million times before. As if he never saw the blueprints, green-lit the plans. “It is,” he pronounces finally. “Magical. You’ve chosen the perfect word.”

“This afternoon, I waded into the water and saw a stingray!” I say, then look around at the others for emphasis. “It swam around me in circles!”

There are murmurs of “Oh, really?” and “That’s cool,” but no one seems super enthralled. I am a newbie. Mental note: I must learn to be more chic and jaded.

“There are a multitude of exquisite creatures on the island,” says Martin, landing hard on that final d . “And now… there is one more.” He smiles down at me—apparently an exquisite creature . “That’s one of the many wonders that attracted me here and helped me envision the kind of transcendent destination it could become—with my Midas touch, of course.”

Speaking of his touch, he is still holding my hand in his sausage fingers. And I kind of want it back. I peek as subtly as possible to my left and right for help, but everyone is too busy hanging on his every word to receive my SOS.

On the contrary. “Such incredible vision!” oozes Stephanie, clasping her hands and raising her shoulders in apparent wonder. But Martin’s eyes stay trained on me.

“I’ll show you more wonders tomorrow, as your personal guide,” he says to me. “I can tell you’d especially appreciate them.”

“Oh, um—hmm,” I say. Always with the big words.

I barely know these people. It’s my first day. The last thing I want to do is offend the owner, blow things up and get us all kicked out before work has begun. But I am not loving this exchange. And I’d like my hand back.

Am I overreacting?

“Actually,” says a disembodied low voice to my left, “she’s going to be quite busy working on producing our video content for the website and social tomorrow.”

If Martin hears this, the only indicator is a slight raise of one eyebrow. But I glance over to see Ethan, now standing close by, watching. His face is relaxed, his expression impassive; he takes a casual sip of his drink. But his free hand is balled in a fist.

I’ve got to speak up for myself. Establish boundaries! It’s the only way to subvert this patriarchal mash-up.

“It’s true,” I say. “I expect to be tied up all day.”

Poor choice of words. Martin’s eyes go round. Now he thinks I’m flirting back. If anything, he tightens his vise grip on my hand. “I’d like to see that.” He spits a bit on the final t .

I am no longer confused about his publicist’s silence and sighs.

“Speaking of seeing things: Martin, would you mind showing me around the restaurant before dinner begins?” Ethan presses. “I’d love to get a full understanding of the design process.”

“Maybe later.”

Enough is enough. I don’t want to offend this guy, but did he nap through #metoo? Also, his hands are starting to sweat, and it’s triggering my gag reflex. I’d rather not puke on his mandals.

“Oops!” I say, then drop my clutch. I yank my hand from his grip, as I bend down to pick my bag up. I do it in that order, reacting before I’ve dropped it, which is why Martin is an actor and I am not.

He doesn’t seem to notice. It is inconceivable to him that I would want to escape. He probably thinks that, after his blessed touch, I’ll run off and have my hand bronzed. I’d rather have it fumigated.

“I better go show the big editor in chief around,” he says, nodding his chin at Ethan perhaps in subtle mockery or rather to underline the importance of men’s work to me. “God forbid we risk a poor review.” He laughs. Any unfavorable critique is also inconceivable.

The two men head off together to talk sconces and limestone.

I exhale, then turn to find the bathroom so I can loofah all the skin off my hand.

“Wow, girl,” says Stephanie, before I can leave. She squeezes my forearm, affectionately. “I thought you seemed on the tame side, but look at you scoring the white whale—he’s yours for the taking!”

For a brief irrational second, I think she means Ethan. My cheeks grow hot, and I am about to protest. Though I have to admit, he was the lone person to pick up my signal and try to help me. But then I realize she means Martin, like attracting that man is a win. And I am rendered speechless. I can’t tell if she’s joking. But I am saved by the bell: she looks down at the thawing ice cube in her glass. “I need another drink! Do you need a drink? You do! I’ll go get us some. Their ginger mojito is to die!” Off she runs.

It is novel, I suppose, getting hit on by a movie star, albeit a gross one.

Recently, as a mother, I can barely conceive of myself as a sexual being. That piece of my identity feels twice removed, like a character in a movie I once watched and found both cringey and entertaining. Like most women my age, these days, I often get ignored walking down the street. I am not yet fully invisible but am beginning to disappear like the siblings in the Back to the Future Polaroid. Only in this photo, my tits and ass vanish first.

Actually, in my tiny neighborhood in Brooklyn—populated largely by retired firefighters, plumbers and hairstylists of grandparent age and then distracted parents like me—there is no one to check me out, anyway. But it’s funny to think of someone else seeing me that way—dateable, “exquisite,” even fuckable—when I don’t myself.

When dinner is served and we go to sit down, I am the object of Martin’s attention again. Lord help me.

“Come sit by me.” Martin winks, patting the empty chair to his right. “Seat of honor.”

It occurs to me that he might see me as “age-appropriate” and I am even more deeply offended.

Before I can demur, Derek steps in. “Unfortunately, I think you’re stuck with me instead. I have some boring details to review with you before tomorrow and, sadly, it can’t wait!”

Martin frowns, but he accepts this fate with decorum. “Tomorrow, then,” he says, with a flourish. “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow…” His hopeful tone makes me think he hasn’t done a lot of Shakespeare, unless he’s intentionally lamenting the futility of existence.

As everyone begins to settle in, I whisper to Derek: “Thank you.”

He nods barely perceptibly, as if we’re undercover. “Anytime.”

It is Derek’s job to put out fires. He won’t let his team get burned.

“Sit here!” says Jackie, a much more welcome invitation.

I settle next to her with relief, placing my glass beside the place setting proprietarily.

“Well,” she says, raising her eyebrows.

“Indeed,” I say, matching her look.

That is the extent of our conversation about Martin. Enough said. But I have come away with some fairly obvious intel: famous actor plus bazillionaire equals entitled asshole.

Luckily, there is plenty to distract me from both Martin and Ethan, who I am studiously avoiding for very different reasons: I let myself get lost in the family-style spread of fresh fish tacos with mango slaw and an island hot sauce that is not for the timid. Ignoring the sound of Demon Dad’s laugh behind me, I focus intently on Jackie, who grew up in Alabama as the daughter of a preacher and now lives in Washington Heights. I learn that she just broke up with her long-term girlfriend but has a new short-term boyfriend. That, when she’s not working as a set stylist, she solders her own jewelry for her Etsy store (all of which I want).

Basically, she’s one hundred times more clued in than me.

But then most of this crew is more in-the-know than I am. I’m at least ten years older than both she and Peter (who eats quietly and then excuses himself early, still a bit green from the plane). So, I resist the urge to show them pictures of my kids, though I am tempted. It will only make me seem more ancient. Save that for night two.

After inhaling a tub of Meyer lemon crème br?lée, I am next to excuse myself. I can only keep my back to Ethan for so long.

“I’m sorry to break up the party,” I say, rising from my seat. “I’ve got to get sleep if I want to be functional tomorrow. Early call time!”

“Boo!” jeers Stephanie with a good-natured grin. She has moved to sit by Martin, and they both look toasted. “Have another drink! Drink! Drink!”

I am suddenly reminded of nights out in high school, when, saddled with a stricter curfew than the others, I was always the first to leave. My friends’ heckles and hisses followed me as I receded down the sidewalk or, if it was really late, down the broken white lines that divided traffic, so no one could jump out at me from behind a parked car. I haven’t thought about that in ages. Another lifetime.

“I can’t!” I shrug now. “I’m sorry!”

In the old days, I never apologized. I acted like I was leaving by choice.

“Ms. Sasha.” Michael, always standing by, hands me a miniature lantern, and I’m delighted.

“Really?” I say.

“It’s quite dark,” he says. “No lights at all on the path, to preserve authenticity and avoid interruption to the lizards’ migration path. This will help you find your way.”

Am I finding my way? This place continues to surprise me.

“I’ll walk with you,” says Ethan, pushing his chair back from the table.

“Oh, I’m okay,” I say.

“Well, I need to go anyway. I have work to finish.”

There is no way out. Despite the flutters in my stomach at the thought of being alone with him. Despite the cold shoulder I am trying to give. Unless I want to bicker with Ethan in front of everyone. And Professional Sasha doesn’t do that.

The brief pause before I respond is making Derek squirm. He leans forward in his chair, watching our every move, poised to intervene. He has sussed us out as potential problem children.

“Okay,” I sigh, as if we will be walking to our sure deaths instead of down a secluded beach in paradise. “Let’s go.”

As we start down the steps, I catch a glimpse of the ocean, cast in borrowed glow from the restaurant’s lights. It is almost entirely still, except where small fish bubble below the surface. Hello, baby stingray!

I’m happy, I realize. At least, I would be if I was with almost anyone else. And I am walking what I acknowledge to be bizarrely far away from Ethan.

“Do you want me to carry the lantern?” he asks.

“I’m good,” I say.

Michael wasn’t kidding. It is extremely dark. Without the lantern, we’d be lost.

“Look, Sasha,” Ethan says. “I want—”

“No need,” I stop him, without looking back. “We’re good.” I wish he would quit saying my name. Something about the way he does sends tingles through me—or, I assure myself, maybe it’s just the evening breeze.

“Okay. I’m glad you’re good,” he says. “But I’d really like to expl—”

“That’s all right! You do you!”

“What does that even m—?”

“I’m good. You’re good. We’re good!”

“Oh my God!” he exclaims, stopping on the path, hands on his head. “Will you just let me talk?”

I shoot him a dirty look, but I do stop and turn to face him.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “But you are a maddening human.”

“Is this part of your apology?”

“No?”

I rotate my hand, gesturing for him to get on with it. He steps closer to me. And, suddenly, I’m aware of my dress clinging to my body in the heat.

“I’m sorry that I put you up for a job without telling you. In retrospect, that was a weird thing to do.”

“Yes.” I nod. “It was weird. You’re weird.”

“Okay.” His eyes narrow. “Don’t get carried away.”

My plan had been to avoid talking to Ethan, but, as long as he’s in front of me, I go ahead and ask, “But why did you do it?”

He runs a hand through his hair, so his T-shirt rises just the slightest bit above his perfect cotton slacks, revealing the top of boxer briefs and a strip of tan skin that, horribly, I flash to running my fingers along. He’s close enough for me to touch. A warmth travels through me.

What am I thinking?

I restrain one hand with the other and will my stubborn eyes up back to his face. Luckily, he’s too consumed with his own neurosis to notice. Luckily, it’s pitch dark and I’m holding the lantern, so he can’t see my beet-red face.

I squeeze my thighs together, fusing them shut. Get a grip .

“I think I felt bad about the hoodie thing and the after-school drama,” he’s saying.

“What drama? There was no drama.” I am not at all defensive. And my underwear is not damp.

“No. Like, after-school drama class .”

“Oh. I see.”

“And I wanted to give you something—be helpful—since I had inadvertently taken something away. But I figured if I asked you about the job, you’d say no. You would have said no, right?”

“I would have said no.”

He sweeps his hand to the side like There you go .

Irritation rises in me. “But, Ethan, you don’t get it! If I wanted to say no, that was my prerogative. I should have had that option: the chance to make a decision for myself with all the relevant information available to me.”

I’ve been blind too many times before. I need to make informed decisions. I cannot live by someone else’s will. That’s how I wound up here—solo parenting, with only a semblance of the career I envisioned, no time for myself, being eaten alive by financial worry.

He bites his lip. Slowly nods. I have gotten through to him. Somehow, in the midst of a disagreement, he has heard me. I can tell by the way he hangs his head.

I have to admit, I’m a little impressed. Admitting you’re wrong in the middle of an argument? Now, that’s my idea of sexy.

“Sasha,” he says, sending another wave thrumming through me. “Of course you should have had that right. I thought I was being helpful, but… I totally fucked up.” He takes another step toward me so that he can’t be more than a foot away. He is trying to see my face in the dark when he says, “I’m really sorry.”

I can tell he is. And our eyes are glued to each other when I rasp, “I know.”

There’s a beat as we absorb this.

“For what it’s worth, once you took the job, I really did think you knew I was the editor,” he says hesitantly, swallowing hard. “I thought you knew and were choosing to come… with that knowledge.”

The subtext of what he’s saying hits me like a freight train. He thought I had agreed to come, knowing he’d be here. That we’d be on this island… together. It’s an acknowledgment of something I’ve been studiously ignoring—every time I’ve rationalized trying to catch a glimpse of him at drop-off or revisited Cotton Candy Gate in my head.

Maybe since the hoodie showdown. Maybe since we spoke on the park loop. Definitely since Monster’s Ball.

I might hate this guy, but I also love to hate him.

Now, we stand staring at each other wordlessly, in the dim glow of the lantern light.

I can see his chest rise and fall. So close. I know this is a bad idea, but my mind is at odds with my body—and, currently, my body is in charge. Blame the balmy breeze. Blame the ginger mojitos. Blame my years of sexual sabbatical. But, despite what my mouth has been saying, I’ve got tunnel vision for his full lips—and, before I know it, I’m rising up on my toes, leaning in, closing the gap between us until we are only centimeters apart. I can feel his breath on my skin.

His heavy gaze drops to my lips. He is a statue, still, like he is afraid to startle me away.

He hesitates. Waiting for my whistle to blow.

I give up. I give in .

I lean closer, so a whisper separates us. We’ve come too far to turn back. Time is suspended. The air crackles.

I forge ahead. Close the gap. Press my lips against his as he responds. And, for an electric instant, heat sears through me in a way that shocks me senseless, melting any remaining resolve to syrup. Place and propriety are no longer a thing. There is just his mouth and mine as we fall deeper.

But then, just as quickly, a sharp sound startles us from our shared stupor. Stephanie’s throaty laugh, carried on the breeze.

We break apart. I take a step back. Disoriented. Bring a hand to my lips.

What the hell am I doing?

My whole body is tingling. With embarrassment, with possibility, with… him. It’s been a while since I had a first kiss, but I remember enough to know they don’t usually feel like that. And we’d barely even gotten started.

Which is going to make everything harder.

Damn .

“W-we should go to bed,” I say, looking anywhere else.

Why am I incapable of phrasing anything in a benign way? And why can’t I stick to my own rules with this man?

“I mean I should get to bed,” I mumble, starting down the path again in front of him and away from what almost happened. “You can do whatever you want in your bed. I mean, obviously.”

I am dying on the vine.

“I’d like to go to bed,” Ethan says. “But I’m all tied up.”

Ugh! I storm ahead. “Funny!”

“I thought so.”

“Look,” I say, whipping around to face him as we arrive at my villa’s front door. I take a step back so we’re far apart enough for me to trust myself. “I’m trying to be professional! This job… it’s actually an important opportunity for me.”

After a beat, he nods, reorganizing his face into a serious expression. “Fair enough. You’re right. Of course. I promise to respect that. It’s important to me too.”

“Good.” I turn to bolt inside.

“Hey, one thing,” he says.

I pause and force myself to look back at him, though I can barely make eye contact.

“Did you really see a stingray? While you were just standing out there?”

“Oh.” I exhale. “Yeah. I did.”

“That sounds incredible.”

If this is designed to disarm me, it works.

“It was the most amazing thing.”

“I bet.” There’s not a drop of cynicism in his voice.

A moment of silence.

“It’s so beautiful here,” I say finally.

“It is,” he agrees. But he is looking at me.

“Hey,” I say, holding out the lantern. “Don’t you need this to get to your villa?”

His brow furrows; he parts his lips—the ones I just had my mouth on.

But then “Boo!” Stephanie appears out of the darkness, making me jump. “Hi, guys!”

My hand comes to rest on my pounding chest. I have reached my quota for surprises today. “What happened to drinks?” I manage.

“Eh, everyone wanted to be ‘responsible,’ and Martin was too pickled to continue, so… here I am with my two roomies.”

“Two roomies?” I say, realization beginning to dawn.

“Yeah!” she says. “The three of us are sharing the villa!” She slips past me, scans her key card and pushes the door open.

“Oh,” I say, struck dumb again. “I thought we were with Jackie.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “I organized the room assignments. This is the fun house! They can be all tidy and proper over there!”

My eyes slide to Ethan’s. He holds his hands up like it’s a stickup. It wasn’t me .

Stephanie crosses to the counter and pours herself another glass of wine. I follow her inside, and Ethan trails behind me. There is no way I can look at his face now. He’ll see too much in mine.

Without passing go, I cross to my room and rest my hand on the doorknob, desperate to disappear. To be polite and “normal,” I turn back, posture proper. “Good night!” I chirp, too brightly. Stephanie waves, mid sip.

Ethan is standing just feet from me, his hand on the doorknob of the room next to mine. My adjoining room. I cannot even think about the interior door that separates us. What is with me?

Trying to be brave, I meet his eyes and, honestly, I’m too jumbled up myself to read his expression.

“Good night,” he coughs, as he enters his suite.

“Sleep tight!” I reply. And die of embarrassment.