Page 30

30 | Indecent Potatoes SASHA

With the door safely closed again, I dial Celeste. And when she takes shape on the screen, she looks a bit harried. At least by Celeste standards. She is standing at the kitchen counter, the phone propped up, while she chops cucumbers for dinner. The universal symbol for vegetable a child will eat. Her hair is piled atop her head and, not that she ever needs a lot of makeup, but she’s wearing none. Her Joan Jett T-shirt has a bloodred stain down the front.

“Celeste. Hi!”

“Hi, Sash!”

“How are things?”

“Good, good. Everything is good.”

That was one too many goods to be true. I tilt my head like maybe a new perspective will give me better insight.

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“It is… good!”

“Okay, then. Good.”

We eye each other for a moment. Who will break first?

It’s me! Of course, it’s me.

“Celeste! Be honest: Are my kids being horrible? You can tell me.”

“Oh God, no. Not at all. Imagine having a child who does homework without being told!”

Nettie. She is good that way. I can take no credit. She arrived with batteries included. I want to be her when I grow up.

“I think she’s actually having a good influence on Henry!”

“How about Bart?”

“He’s having the time of his life. He discovered Henry’s old stash of Jurassic Park LEGOs. He may never leave.”

“Is he eating food?”

“Do pretzels count as food?”

“While I’m away? Sure!”

“Then yes! He is packed with food.”

“And you’re okay, otherwise?” I ask. I’m no dummy. I can tell when my bestie is off her game.

“I’m okay.” She lets her smile drop.

I narrow my eyes, silently asking what’s up.

“I’ll tell you all about it when you get home.”

This is mom code for the kids can hear me and/or this is a longer story than I can squeeze in right now and/or, finally, if I tell you now, I will lose it, and I can’t afford to lose it, so can I tell you and lose it at a designated future time? Whatever is going on, Celeste can’t go there right now.

“Got it.” Message received.

In her defense, I’m not sharing the details of my dicey situation either.

“Is that my mom?” I hear a little voice say off-screen.

“It is!” says Celeste. “Here, Bart, let me set you up with my phone in your bedroom, okay? So you can talk to her!”

“Which one is my bedroom again?” he asks. Classic. I drop my head in my hands, cracking up.

“Nettie! Nettie! Mommy’s on the phone!” he calls.

“Oh, okay. One second,” comes the much more distracted disembodied voice of my eight-year-old.

I am treated to some trippy visuals as the phone is carried into Celeste’s guest room and propped against what I imagine is a stack of books atop the side table. Bart’s face comes into view. Or at least a section of it does.

“Mommy!”

“Hi, Bonk!” I say. I want to eat him. “How are you?”

“Good,” he says, settling down on the bed across from the phone. He’s already wearing his favorite wild-animal pajamas. He grabs Elmo and cuddles the raggedy red thing.

“How was school today? Did you do anything special?”

“Um, I forget.” He looks at the ceiling while he thinks. “Oh, I played zombie fighters with Chris and Palmetto!”

“Palmetto? Who is Palmetto?”

“Mom! You know! In my class. He sits at the red table.”

“There’s a kid in your class named Palmetto?”

How have I missed this deeply Brooklyn detail?

“Yeah. At least, I think that’s his name.”

“I’m sure it is.”

This mom version of me, I can do. This me, I understand.

From afar, I see Nettie walk in and close the door behind her. She’s wearing a black sweater and bell-bottom jeans we just bought a few weeks ago. Is it possible she looks older and more beautiful than two days before?

“Hi, Mom!” She grins.

“Are you having fun, Net?”

“Totally. It’s a blast!”

“Getting along with Henry?”

“Oh, totally. Also, remember I told you about that small-moments writing unit we started? Guess who got theirs read aloud by the teacher?!”

“Nettie did!” Bart exclaims.

“Ugh, Bart!” she growls, turning to him. “I was trying to tell Mommy. That was my news to share!”

Bart shrugs. “Oops.”

She rolls her eyes. “Anyway. As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted…”

Until I had Bart, I never understood when parents complained that they could never get their kids to share about their school days. Nettie has always shared every detail. And I mean—Every. Single. Detail. Which is to say that she spends the next ten minutes delivering a monologue about the poor behavior of the boys in her class, the kickball game she rocked at recess and the drama between two of her girlfriends over jobs for a babysitters club they’re starting (not that they have any clients). She is about to tell me the entire plot of the animated otter movie she, Bart and Henry just watched when Celeste pops her head in and tells the kids dinner is ready.

“We should go!” says Nettie, already getting up. “C’mon, Bart.”

“Wait, one thing,” I say. “Have you gotten to do any of the fun things on your list? Have you had Jamie’s famous popcorn?”

“No, actually,” says Nettie, frowning. “We haven’t seen Jamie at all since he picked us up on the first day. I guess he’s away or something.” Then she leans down toward the phone, makes her eyes wide and whispers, “It’s a bit weird.”

Alarm bells are going off in my head, but I’ve got to respect Celeste’s boundaries. At least for today.

“Okay,” I say. “Hey, Nettie. Be easy with Celeste, okay?”

“Of course, Mom! I know how hard it is,” she says, shrugging.

“How hard what is?”

“To be a woman alone!” she says. “Love you!”

With that mic drop, she goes off to find Henry, leaving Bart behind. He smiles at me and lumbers toward the phone, mischief in his eyes. I know that look. He is aching to press the red button (a.k.a. hang up on me).

“I love you, Bart!” I say, before he cuts me off.

“Love you, too, Mommy! Oh,” he says, his finger hovering above the button. “I forgot to ask—”

“Yes?”

“Are you having a good trip?”

I melt. I am a puddle. It’s too much cuteness to bear. It occurs to me that I have underestimated my children. In fact, for the past few years, I have not been so entirely alone.

I get off the phone and text Celeste.

I love you. Thank you. I hope you have a wipe nearby to clean Bart’s grimy fingerprints off your phone. Who knows where they’ve been. And, when you’re ready to share, I’m here to talk.

All I get is a thumbs-up.

That will have to be enough for now.

When I get up the courage and emerge from my room, the food has already arrived. I am hungry like the wolf. Ethan—well, more likely Michael, who has come and gone—has spread our dinner out elegantly on the patio table.

“I thought it might be nice to eat outside.” Ethan gestures toward the setup.

“Very nice,” I say.

Too nice , I think.

There are twinkle lights and sea breezes. The lingering smell of sunscreen. Island flora abounds. We are literally eating under a palm frond. Once I sit down, I kick my shoes off and bury my toes in the now cool sand. I’m just waiting for a cartoon iguana to pop its head out and serenade us.

It is, in a word, romantic .

Luckily, if anyone knows how to destroy a mood, it’s me.

“They sent a pitcher of rum punch,” Ethan says, as he sits down. “Do you want some?”

“Yes,” I say. “No,” I say. “Yes,” I say again.

It seems like a bad idea. So bad, it’s good.

“You’re going to have to translate that response.”

“Yes. Thank you. I would love some rum punch.”

As he pours the red stuff into my glass, ice clinking cheerfully against the sides, I take the metal lid off my room service dish. The burger is enormous, thank God, but it comes with a salad. Salad? I wilt like day-old lettuce. Ethan reads me instantly.

“I got us a side of fries to share too.” He uncovers another metal dish at center to reveal enough french fries for an army—or just me. Voilà!

My hero.

I figure he’ll be eating something heart-healthy like wild-caught salmon and ready myself for a lecture on the environmental impact of greenhouse emissions from beef, not to mention the clogging of essential arteries, but he has actually ordered the same thing.

“The way you’re looking at that burger kind of scares me,” Ethan says. “But also brings me joy.”

“Pleasure and pain. Two sides of the same coin.”

I take a large sip of my rum punch. It is not weak.

“Do you mind if I…?” I say, crouched at the starting line ready to dig in.

“Not at all.”

And we’re off! The next few minutes are depraved and borderline indecent. I eat the fuck out of that burger.

When I come up for air, Ethan is watching me, smirking. “Wow.”

“What?”

“Nothing. I’m just impressed, that’s all.”

“Don’t shame me!”

“I wouldn’t dare! I just know the real deal when I see it.”

“Oh, please,” I scoff, waving his comment away with my hand. “You haven’t even seen me attack the french fries yet.”

“I look forward to it.”

“As do I.”

I drink some more rum punch. And some more. This stuff is dangerous. It’s sweet but strong. Like me, I think, and crack myself up. This is the first sign that I am in trouble.

“How was your daughter?” I ask, semi-soberly.

Should I be asking? My buzz is making me reckless. I’ve literally never asked him a single question about his kid. Not her class. Not her name. And, though it’s been an unconscious choice, I realize suddenly it’s because I want to keep things separate. Our time here. Our complicated lives at home. As soon as I know details, I can’t unknow them.

“Fine.” Ethan smiles easily, the twinkle lights illuminating the dreamy angles of his face. It’s a really nice face. “I talk to her every day when I’m away.”

“Do you travel a lot?” See how I switch gears? Rum makes me crafty. I’m workshopping that theory.

“Less now. I used to travel all the time. And have work events most evenings.”

“You had to slow down or you chose to slow down?”

“I think both,” he says, staring at his hands. “I just never said no to a flashy party or trip back in the day.”

“I bet your wife loved that. Out every night.” I point a finger at him. “I bet you never did pick-up.”

“I still never do pick-up. But at least now I do drop-off.” He frowns sheepishly. “If I’m honest, in retrospect, I think I may have been trying to escape my marriage. Now that things have shifted and I’m around more, I realize how unbalanced it was. And what I was missing.”

“So much mac and cheese.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s what you were missing. Primarily. At least, that’s what my ex-husband misses at our house.” I am trying to lighten the mood, but it is interesting to hear his perspective—a reformed workaholic dad.

“I like mac and cheese,” he says.

“You know,” I say, “for what it’s worth, we all think we don’t have it as parents sometimes. We all feel like we’re doing it wrong.”

“I think that all the time,” he says, nodding. “But then I remember that my friend Bruiser from college has kids and I think: How bad can I be? ”

I laugh. We smile at each other. And, looking across the table at him, I have to admit to myself that, yes, he’s hot as hell. But it’s not just that. I kind of love talking to him. It’s so comfortable, but also entertaining.

“In all seriousness,” I say, “it’s hard to give up your freedom. To stop going out and having those kinds of adventures.”

“It is. But I’ve become more of a homebody in my old age.”

The same is true for me. And yet I can’t help but think about the difference between me and Ethan, despite the apparent similarities in our circumstances and in our worldview. I realize—even as we chat easily about the challenges of being away from our kids, about the way that having a kid changes you, even as he nods in understanding—that he has no real idea what I mean. Whether or not he travels is a choice; it’s not a circumstance. I gave up my “freedom” the moment Nettie was born. He had to get there. And getting there is “growth.” I can tell his career always took precedence in his household by the way he talks about opting to stay home more often.

Even now, his ex-wife—cheater or no—takes his kid when he goes away. His daughter’s biggest disruption while he’s gone is her parents switching custodial days. She sleeps in her regular bed, among her own things, eats her broccoli prepared per usual and the usual array of snacks. Ethan likely is not responsible for organizing anything at all before he leaves—no childcare, no meals, no reminders or schedules for school assignments. No procuring socks for major events like Silly Sock Day. Even divorced, he has someone to carry the bulk of his mental load. This is a gender thing, but it’s also the chasm created by my particular deadbeat-ex predicament.

As if in hallelujah, my phone bings with a text. I look down and, with a start, realize it’s from Cliff, of all people. His ears must be burning! His stupid oversize ears. Twice in one week. To what do I owe this glorious gift?

“Ugh!” I groan more loudly and obviously than I would have before all the rum punch.

“What is it?” Ethan asks.

“My ex…”

“What does he want?”

“What doesn’t he want?”

“To parent?” says Ethan, who is also clearly a little tipsy.

“So true! Shall I read it aloud?”

“Please do.”

“?‘Sash! Baby!’?” I read, as I mime gagging. “?‘Are you per chance on some Caribbean island with Martin Bernard?’?”

“Ugh. How does he know?” I ask Ethan.

He shrugs. Beats him. “Does he talk to any of your friends… per chance?”

I shake my head, giggling. I got the friends in the divorce. The good ones, anyway.

I am indeed on an island. How did you know?

The dots appear instantly. He is a greyhound on the star-fucking scent. Cliff doesn’t miss a chance to “network.”

I follow ESCAPADE on IG. They posted a pic from there and you’re in it. How come?

I’m producing some content for them.

Wow. Sash. So cool! We’re actually thinking of casting Martin Bernard in the Ryan Reynolds project. He’s looking to resurrect his career and…

I look up at Ethan, who is waiting patiently. “I actually need to put this away before I throw my phone into the ocean.”

“Fair enough,” he says. “I’ll put mine away too.”

We both set our devices in the middle of the table, face down. Like it’s a poker bet. I take a moment to appreciate where I am. I tip my head back. The warm wind feels like a new start on my skin.

When was the last time I felt this relaxed?

“Your ex-husband seems like a piece of”—Ethan hesitates—“work.” He almost says shit . That would have been more accurate.

“Oh, he is! He sucks.” I nod, throwing up my hands. “He’s a no good, irresponsible, cheesy cheater. But you know how that is.”

I don’t realize the faux pas until it has slipped from my lips. Damn you, rum! I clap a hand over my mouth, though we both know it’s too late.

“Aha!” says Ethan, rising out of his seat to point at me. “I knew they told you more!”

I shrug sheepishly. “Are you mad?”

“Nah.” He shakes his head, sitting back down.

I can tell he’s not.

It occurs to me that he is objectively adorable, in a total way. His eyes, heavier now. His smile crooked with our inside jokes, his single dimple showing. Not that Professional Sasha cares. Although Professional Sasha just drank a gallon of liquor. She is out-of-office. Apologies for the delay in her responses. For urgent matters, please contact anyone else.

Shit . I think maybe I really like him. Do I? The fact that I’ve almost kissed him twice seems like a possible indicator. But whatever, I mean, everyone likes him. It doesn’t have to mean anything.

“For what it’s worth, they really seem to like working for you,” I say.

“This job is by far the best one I’ve ever had.” Ethan smiles, but then his forehead creases with worry. “And it’s a big step in my career. I just hope I get to keep it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” he says, rubbing at his forehead.

“It seems like something.” Before I can think, I reach out and touch his other hand, as it sits palm down on the table. I want to bring relaxed Ethan back. “Tell me what’s up.”

He looks slowly from my face to my hand, which I yank back. There is a moment of silence as we eye each other. Like it or not, there’s a fireworks show ricocheting through me.

Does he feel the same?

“You were saying?”

“Right,” he says, clearing his throat. “The magazine has just been bought out by a new publisher, and corporate is making decisions in the coming weeks about who stays and who goes. I feel pretty confident that my staff will remain regardless, though I still want to make sure and protect them, but my job is less secure. I’m still relatively new, and they have to like the direction I’m taking things.”

Ahh. So much makes sense now. Derek’s anxiety. Ethan’s stress. “So it’s contingent on…?”

“This feature and shoot potentially. I mean, everything is a factor, but this is the lead story, and I get the sense that they’re waiting to see what we come up with here. And if we can pull in readers.”

“Which is why you came on the shoot. To oversee. Even though you’ve been traveling less lately.”

“Well”—he swivels his head to look at the surroundings and then levels his gaze, hot and heavy, on me—“in part.”

I shift in my seat, his look like a laser shooting through me, reducing me to flickering embers. I take this in, consider how much hangs in the balance for him. And yet he still took a chance on me.

Why? What are we doing here? By design, I’m now too tipsy to truly dissect that, so I take a sip of my punch instead. Opt to remain squarely in the fuzzy zone.

“Anyway, none of this explains why my people dished all my dirt to you.” Ethan rolls his eyes.

“If it’s any consolation, they made you sound like the injured party.”

“Well, that’s kind. But, as you said in the schoolyard, it’s complicated. A million reasons why marriages don’t work out.”

Huh. I had forgotten that I said that. But he hadn’t.

“Okay,” I say, staring him down. “Name one.”

“What?”

“Name one. What was one reason your marriage failed?”

“Damn,” he says. “ Failed seems like a harsh word.”

“Okay,” I say, leaning in. “Name one reason why your marriage amicably combusted.”

“Way better,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair.

I do not notice the way his bicep flexes ’cause I care about his words. What was he saying again?

“You really want to talk about this?” he says. “They always say not to talk about this.”

“Who is they? And when? And to whom?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t ever talk about this?”

“I try not to burden people.”

“Uh-huh.” I rest my chin in my hand. “And by ‘burden people’ you mean talk about your feelings?”

“Tomato, tom a to.”

“I mean, I guess you’re not meant to talk about divorce on first dates,” I ramble. “But this isn’t a first date! It’s not a date at all.”

He looks at me, long and hard. Shakes his head. Then sighs again. “Right. Okay. One reason, then.” He shifts in his seat, taking a beat to consider. “I think she felt like I wasn’t interested in her anymore. And she was right. I don’t mean, like, physically. I mean fundamentally. We didn’t care about the same things—or like the same things. When I found out that she was cheating on me, I was pissed because it felt disrespectful—not just to me, but to our kid, our whole life together. But I didn’t really care . That’s when I knew.”

“That’s when you knew what?”

“That it was over.”

We sit with that for a minute. Let the immensity of it settle.

“When did you know it was over for you?” he asks.

“When he stopped coming home.”

Ethan presses his lips together; I shrug. Then we bust out laughing—hard.

“Pretty decisive!” I say, through tears.

“Um, yes,” he snorts.

And it feels good to laugh about it with someone, my dumpster fire of a marriage. It beats the eggshells people usually walk on.

Eventually, our outburst stems to a trickle and a wheeze. I wipe my cheeks with the back of my hand—my misery so very amusing.

“What did he like so much about LA, anyway?” Ethan asks, like he does not like LA to the same degree.

“Oh, he said the weather, the sushi, the In-N-Out, the canyon hikes.”

“Can’t blame him for the In-N-Out.”

“No. You can’t. Though he claims their french fries are decent. And they’re really not.”

“They’re indecent?”

“Indecent potatoes. They’re an affront to root vegetables everywhere.”

Crickets—or some such island insects—have begun chirping in the background. I am reminded that we’re outside. It’s gotten too dark to see beyond the pool.

“Strong words,” Ethan is saying, “about a starch.”

“I really like potatoes. I will defend them to the death.”

“Clearly.” He nudges my toe with his under the table, sending another wave of heat through me. And something else: maybe affection? Damn. I have definitely had too much punch.

“Seriously: Why do you think he really liked it?” Ethan asks. “LA. Not the fries.”

I take a breath, trying not to react to the intimate way his foot grazes mine. “Because he didn’t have to be a parent.”

Ethan sits back and lets out a low whistle. “Damn. I mean, I get that it’s challenging, but…”

“I mean, it wasn’t just that. He liked feeling successful. He liked the borrowed power from being in the orbit of stars. In Hollywood, he found his people. His fellow opportunists and immoralists. He found a scene where he looked like a comparatively decent human being. Where he didn’t have to feel bad about bailing on us or putting himself first because he was ‘living his truth.’?”

I watch Ethan turn that over in his head. “I get that to an extent. I used to care about those things too, I guess. But then you grow up, produce a few shoots and realize stars are overrated.” Suddenly, his eyes go wide. He leans in. “Wait! Speaking of, I have a genius idea!”

“Speaking of poor ethics and bad taste?”

“No! Speaking of stars! Let’s take our lantern down to the water and go look at some constellations. The sky is spectacular here, and we haven’t even checked it out!” He is puppy-dog adorable when he’s excited. It’s contagious. There is no saying no. I have no no .

Plus, I do love a night sky.

We have killed the pitcher of punch. I take a final watery sip from my glass of melted ice, then stand and throw my hands up. “Let’s do it!”

Ethan runs inside and turns off the villa lights before we go. There is something touching about his need to do this—a sense of responsibility, of care, of age-old dadness. I endure only a short lecture about wasting electricity.

A minute later, barefoot, with the lantern in tow, we make our way down toward the water. It is dark. Not like city dark or suburban dark or even rural-road dark, where there are still occasional streetlights or passing high beams to guide you. It is dark like a blackout. Black like our windowless upstairs bathroom at home, where Nettie and Bart go behind closed doors to see their phosphorescent toys glow. Blind like the middle of the night.

The moon is a slim crescent. A sliver off a wheel of cheese. The farther we get from the villa, the inkier the night becomes. Soon, I can sense more than see Ethan next to me, plodding through the sand, telling our story in footprints. I can smell his grassy cologne and it ignites something deep inside me. Something that I’d rather not name. The dark protects me from seeing it. From him seeing me see it. I wonder if he’s thinking the same.

“Ow!” he yelps. “Dammit!”

Apparently not.

“Are you okay?” I ask in his general direction.

“Yeah, fine. I think I tripped on a rock and then stepped on a shell.”

“You should keep your hands up when you walk,” I say. “To protect yourself. In case you eat it.”

“Good point. See? Some people can take constructive criticism.”

“Yes. People who need it.”

He doesn’t respond, but I know he’s shooting daggers at me.

“Want to turn on that lantern until we get to the water, so we don’t kill ourselves?”

“Oh, sure,” I say. “If you need it.”

I switch on the light. It radiates only a soft glow. I hold it up toward our faces. Ethan is indeed rolling his eyes at me. “Do you want to look at your foot to see if there’s a cut? I think I have a Frozen 2 Band-Aid in my bag back at the room.”

“No. We’ve come this far. If there’s a cut, I’ll just risk sepsis.”

“Wow. True heroism.”

I hold the lantern low and in front of us to avoid further mishaps. We are so busy watching our step that when we reach the edge of the water, our destination, we’re both surprised. The tide laps at my feet.

“This is it, I guess.”

“Wait!” Ethan says, grabbing my forearm. The flesh to flesh contact sparks its own celestial event in my body. “Don’t look up yet.”

In the lantern light, it’s like we’re telling fireside ghost stories. And Ethan has a good one.

“Why?”

“Because we need to turn off the lantern first to get the full effect. And then we need to look up at the exact same time. To maximize impact.”

He is dead serious. This game is no game. I sense I am seeing a glimpse of him as a kid and I am positive he is an older brother. No younger child was ever that bossy.

“Fine,” I agree, as he drops his hand. I fight the urge to grab his palm and put it back on my arm. “Ready?”

“Born ready.”

I switch off the lantern, and we are invisible to each other again. Somewhere not too far off, a frog croaks. I am tempted to remind it to say “Excuse me,” but I can tell Ethan will not be amused if I ruin his moment.

“Okay,” he says. “Should we sit?”

“Sure?”

We make our way down onto the drier sand. At least I do and I assume he does. I hear him moving.

“Are you looking up?” he checks.

“No.”

“Are you lying?”

“Oh my God! You’re like the stargazing nazi!”

“Okay, okay. But are you? Be honest.”

“No!”

Then, suddenly, I can feel him settle in next to me and it’s like we’re seated side by side at the planetarium. The edge of his T-shirt sleeve brushes my bare arm, his elbow bumps my knee, and a shiver pulses through me despite the warm air. Is there such a thing as a warm chill? Maybe that idea about one sense being heightened in the absence of others is real. ’Cause I can feel everything .

“Sorry,” he says.

“It’s fine,” I squeak, the words catching in my throat, then tripping out.

“Okay. On the count of three. Look up. One, two—”

I am tempted to make a joke, but when I look up on three, I am rendered speechless. I hear a sigh escape his lips.

I like the sound of it.

But I can’t dwell because I have never seen so many stars. Clusters of them and lone wolves. Planets like freckles on the face of the galaxy.

The sound of the ocean feels magnified. The smell of the sea. Or is it the sky?

“This is even better than I expected,” Ethan says finally.

I have no words.

“Are you still with us?”

“Oh, yeah,” I say. “I am definitely with you.”

I can’t even be self-conscious about how that sounds.

I expect him to tell me about the various constellations, and I am all ready to share my theory about how their names could double for sexual positions—the Big Dipper, Ursa Major, the Plow—but he stays silent, just taking it in. So, I do too.

Settling in, I rest my palm down in the soft sand between us, accidentally overlapping Ethan’s hand. A shot of electricity courses through me. “Sorry,” I say, moving an inch away.

“I don’t mind,” he says, his voice lower by an octave. “Now I know where you are.” He shifts his hand, so it is pressing up against mine.

I hold my breath.

For a full moment, I am in bliss. I shine as bright as the stars. Joy rises in me like its own high tide. This place, with its strange beasts and empty spaces, has uncorked something inside of me. Away from the chaos of home, I am becoming someone new. Someone I might actually like… sitting beside someone I might like too. Not that I want to admit it. That I haven’t liked someone like this in eons. And with that recognition, slowly, surely, the worries creep into the quiet as litter. First one, then two, then a garbage truck’s worth of anxieties. All dumped on my shore.

I’m drunk. He’s drunk. We work together. We have an early morning. Someone might see us. Someone might think things. There’s a job at stake. A job I need. A job he needs well done. A job my kids need. What am I doing?

Who is this guy anyway? How do I know he’s not just another Cliff, putting his best foot forward before revealing his true nature?

Anyway, I’m an old lady! Not some sexy young thing. This part of me has long been on layaway, payments delinquent and gone to collections.

And yet things are changing. I’m changing. I can feel it. And I am powerless to stop it. Where are the brakes on this thing?

“What time is it?” I say finally. My heart is racing.

We have left our cell phones face down on the table, forgotten. The last time I did that was likely a different decade. I have no clue how much time has passed.

Ethan groans. “Probably time to pack it in, sadly.” He moves his hand away.

“Totally,” I say, all casual, as if I’m not freaking the fuck out. As if I don’t miss the pressure of his hand. “Morning waits for no man. Woman. Person. Whatever.”

“You are truly so weird.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“So, are we going?” he says.

I hear him rustle to standing, brushing sand from the back of his shorts.

If I search my soul, I’m sad. Though I have instigated it, I don’t want to leave. Worries aside, I’m having fun.

“Yup,” I say. “Let’s go.”

Then we both wait. I am stymied by ambivalence.

“Sasha,” he says softly. “The lantern.”

Or maybe we are stymied by me.

“Oh, right!” At that precise point, I realize I have misplaced the lantern.

“What are you doing?” he asks, as I bend down and begin feeling around in the sand.

“Nothing, nothing!”

Like so many unread tea leaves, the grains tell me nothing. My hands find something like the root of a plant. Then I realize it’s Ethan’s toe.

“Oops.”

“Sasha. Seriously. What is happening?”

I exhale. “I kind of… dropped the lantern.”

“What?”

“When I saw the stars, I think I was just overcome and… I sort of forgot about it. I let it go.”

This is what happens when I stop being vigilant. I bite my lip and wait for him to be mad. Instead, he chuckles. “Always on top of things…”

“And now we’re screwed.”

“Nah, nothing as bad as that. It has to be here somewhere.”

Now we are both on hands and knees feeling blindly, disrupting sand crabs from their slumber.

“This is actually a really strange experience,” I say.

“It’s like on Halloween when they blindfold you, put your hands in a bowl of spaghetti and tell you it’s brains.”

“Um. Who does that?”

“Um, everyone.”

“Maybe if you grew up in a cult.”

“No! It’s a thing,” he insists. “My family did it every year at our annual Halloween party when I was a kid. Spaghetti as brains. And grapes are eyeballs.”

“In my family, we just ate our grapes.”

“Oh, I think I got—No. Just a rock. Oh God. I hope it’s a rock. It sort of feels like it’s moving.”

This strikes me as hilarious, and I begin to giggle. Maybe I’m overtired. Maybe the temporary disaster has disengaged me from my paralyzing fears. Maybe the rum is still working its magic.

“Oh, that’s funny? That I maybe just squashed a hermit crab?!”

Now, I’m laughing even harder. “S-sorry!” I sputter, as I crawl around. “I feel like I’m playing some horrible improv theater game.”

“Yes and…?” Ethan starts to snicker too. “This is quite the move, by the way—ditching the lantern. If you wanted to spend the night on the beach with me, you could have just said so.”

What? This will not be pinned on me!

“You’re the one who dragged us down here to gaze at the stars! What’s next? Pi?a coladas and getting caught in the rain?”

“In my defense, I didn’t realize you’d lose our one light source. Dim lights are romantic. A total blackout is apocalyptic.”

“Well, welcome to the end of the world!” I say cheerfully.

“Happy to be here!”

In that moment, I come into contact with something hard. And, gratefully, made of metal.

“I got it!” I exclaim, holding the lantern over my head. “Victory!”

After some fumbling, I switch on the light. And I am caught by surprise. We both are. Because as it turns out, we are sitting face-to-face on our knees, only inches from each other.

Our laughter stops dead.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” I say. After a beat, I add: “So, that’s your face.”

“Keen observation.”

“It’s not so bad,” I murmur, my gaze dropping to his lips, then locking on his eyes.

“A ringing endorsement.”

As we watch each other, his eyes turn molten. “Charlie was right,” he says finally.

“About what?”

“About you being great. About me thinking you’re great.”

A warmth swells in my chest. I smile, look up at him through my lashes. “You think I’m great?”

“I do.”

“Me? Not just my work?”

“Nope. Not just your work. You.”

And I know in that moment, I really like him too. Damn .

There is a heavy pause.

“What now?” I ask.

I watch as if in a trance as he lifts his hand to my face, runs a thumb along my jawline, leaving trails in its wake. “We’re screwed, remember?”

I set the lantern down. The air between us sparks and sizzles. We both lean in. Our lips are millimeters apart. There is no space for thoughts. He smells like sea and that damn cologne. The sounds of the ocean and his breath sync up in my head.

I decide to give in. Why fight it? It’s just a kiss. Our lips, parted, brush each other. A tease. A drive-by. It leaves me hungry for more. Every inch of me lit up.

He circles back for a lengthier visit. His lips press against mine, softly at first, and then harder—and it’s like a feverish release. Like I’ve been waiting all my life. I nip his bottom lip, pull away slightly to let him chase for more. Run a hand down the bicep I wasn’t eyeing before. His skin is warm, firm. He pulls me close, his fingers lacing through my hair at the back of my neck. I grind into him, heat rising to the surface as he drags his hand slowly down my side, all the way to my waist. He kisses me deeper.

“Sasha,” he says, pulling back for a moment. “Damn.”

I know what he means.

I’m seeing stars, but now they’re behind my lids. I slip my arms around his neck and pull him back in for another kiss. He tastes like rum punch and promise, and everything in my body needs this. My worries from before have been subsumed into a tornado of want. I am lost in him. Nothing else matters.

Is sex on the beach as sandy as it sounds?

I’m ready to find out.

As he nuzzles my neck, I feel Ethan’s fingers creep up my thigh, and I am here for it.

Works for me.

I glance down for a visual. His big hand on my bare thigh. But it’s not Ethan’s palm on my skin. Instead, I see a giant iguana mounting my leg like a jungle gym.

I scream at the top of my lungs. We all jump a mile.

“What the hell!”

Darkness.

My heart is thumping. I am breathless. I can’t be sure why. There are so many possibilities.

Afterward, I will wonder if the intruder was my iguana friend. The one I met at the restaurant banquette. Arriving on the scene to save me from myself.

Regardless, he has broken the spell. The tsunami of real life has rushed in.

The iguana scampers away. Ethan—disoriented, with his hair and T-shirt ruffled adorably—is looking at me for a cue. I am on my ass in the sand.

“I guess we should go,” I manage.

He parts his lips, then closes them again.

Once I grab the lantern again, Ethan and I plod back to the villa in silence. I want to speak, to fall back into our comfortable banter, but I can’t think of what to say. I am too haunted by the push of his pillowy lips against mine, his hand grazing my side-boob, to think straight about anything else.

It keeps almost happening. Maybe it’s not meant to be.

When we reach the villa, he feels around on the wall for the outdoor light switch. It turns on like a floodlight, that dreaded reality check when the bar is closed. Sighing, he picks both our phones up off the table, still strewn with the remnants of our debauched dinner, and hands me mine. Real life rears its scaly head. I’m reminded of the dumb text from Cliff, asking me to put in a good word with Martin. So many levels of fat chance.

There’s a new text from my mom. A picture of both my parents at their literacy conference, holding up copies of banned books with glee. But I’m slammed with a wave of worry. Does she remember where I am? That I’m not in Brooklyn?

There is no colder shower.

Once inside, I head straight toward my room, as Ethan crosses to the kitchen to pour a sensible glass of water. I want one too, but I can’t face him.

I know the grown-up thing would be to talk. But I am not feeling my most evolved.

“Goodnight,” I say, as I open my door.

“Night,” he says.

Then, I turn back around. “Hey, in all seriousness, should we be worried about Stephanie? She hasn’t come back from Martin’s. And he really does seem like a creep.”

Ethan shakes his head. “I checked in with her a few hours ago. The interview went fine. He behaved himself. I’m sure she’s grabbing drinks with the others.”

I nod. I’m glad he made sure she was safe. And that he did it of his own volition. But does he share my misgivings about bolstering this man’s image? And, if so, is the new job too important to risk? For him and for me? So many thoughts ping-ponging inside my rum-soaked head.

“Okay, well,” I say. “Later, dude.” I do not sound casual. I sound deranged.

Even with my back turned, I can feel him shake his head. “Sasha,” he says softly, like he knows what it does to me. “Sleep well.”

As if I’ll be able to sleep.