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33 | Wake-Up Call SASHA

The morning is a double rum punch to the gut. In every way.

I wake up hungover—physically and existentially—and to multiple texts from Celeste. Apparently, today Nettie’s class has a big field trip to the Museum of the City of New York and I never signed her permission slip. Of course, I didn’t. Her teacher emailed both me and Celeste in a tizzy this morning. If the office doesn’t have the form by 8:30 a.m., when school begins, Nettie will have to stay back and miss the excursion.

My mouth is dry and my head is dryer as I wrap my mind around that potential disaster. I swear I never received a paper permission form in Nettie’s folder. I never received a reminder email. I can just feel the school administrators’ evil eye on me from afar.

By some miracle, the teacher manages to email me the form, I manage to sign it digitally and Celeste manages to print it for me at her house. Just having a printer work on the first try seems like divine intervention. Toner cartridges firing on all cylinders! Thank goodness for these other women. I am broken at the thought of Nettie sitting in that administrative office alone again, eating a sad doughnut while her friends are playing rock, paper, scissors on the bus.

I feel like I’ve already waded through a day’s worth of adrenaline by 8:00 a.m.—and pre-coffee!

I run my rain shower, step underneath the stream and lather myself in coconut milk soap. The water pelts me like a tap on the shoulder, a nudge. The metallic walls glitter and shine. Like stars.

So, of course, my mind wanders to Ethan from last night. To his lips on my lips. His lips on my ear, my neck, my collarbone, the places they never got to tour. The water is suddenly warmer on my naked skin, the steam thick. I am wide awake and borderline desperate.

Why did I walk away again?

No! I won’t go there! I will chalk up the incredible kiss to rum punch and constellations, my lack of willpower to latent libido. A vagina too long under wraps. After all, everyone looks like a good idea in the right lighting. Once upon a time, I thought Cliff was the beginning and the end. Lust is not my friend. I strap on a mental chastity belt, pushing—no, shoving!—men of all stripes from my mind.

My phone’s trill penetrates my shower haze. At least something is getting action. And, because of the morning’s Nettie debacle (and, okay, my primed flight response), I jump to attention, scurrying out and jogging naked to the bedside table to grab the call. I press the green button without thinking, afraid I might otherwise be too late.

It’s my Mom. On FaceTime.

“Oh Lord!” I shriek at the sight of my naked self in the video window, then toss the phone onto the unmade bed and run to grab a towel. For fuck’s sake . Once it’s wrapped around me, I return, heart maxing out, and pick the phone up. My hair is soaking wet, dripping in cold rivulets down my back.

She is back on the couch in her reading glasses, which means they flew home from the conference last night, but this time she’s got some dense theory book sitting next to her and she’s wearing sweatpants. Sweatpants? My mother? That’s new.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Why are you naked?”

“Well, for one thing, I don’t usually shower in clothing.”

“What?”

“I was in the shower.”

I try not to watch myself in the FaceTime window. My bedraggled hair like a wet dog’s. I am all too aware of the gray cast to my skin, from last night, and the way my jawline is losing elasticity, from life.

“Oh,” she says, furrowing her brow. “You shouldn’t answer video calls without clothing on.”

I press my lips together, practicing patience. “Sage advice.”

She looks at her watch, which she has worn my whole life. It’s gold and belonged to my grandmother. The fanciest thing she owns, since she’s not a believer in flashy objects or superficial people. In retrospect, that’s one reason she never liked Cliff. The human embodiment of an overdetermined watch—that needs a new battery. The Rolex of social climbers. “Isn’t it a bit late?” she’s saying. “Don’t the kids need to get to school?”

I am at first annoyed and then something else. Something worse. Nausea descends. Does she really not know where I am? After all of our conversations about my trip?

“Mom,” I say. “I’m in Turks and Caicos. For work. Remember?”

I study her for signs—of what, I don’t know.

“Oh. Oh, okay,” she says. But, heartbreakingly, I’m not sure if she does.

My stomach flips. Belly flops. Lands on its face.

“Hey, Mom, are you okay? You’re wearing… sweatpants.”

“They’re performance joggers,” she sighs. “My other pants felt too tight.”

I decide to be honest. “I’ve told you I was coming here multiple times. Do you really… not remember?”

“Maybe I do, vaguely,” she says, toggling her head. “I actually wanted to call you while your father was out, so we could talk about this exact issue.”

I don’t have a ton of time. I am running late for call time. And I have a sinking feeling. But this is too important to rush. I settle on the edge of the bed. On the edge, full stop.

“What’s going on?”

“I feel like I’m forgetting things.” She frowns, bringing a hand to her head like she might hold the thoughts inside. “It’s like, I can’t hang on to an idea. It’s not just normal signs of aging, ‘senior moments’ like walking into a room and not knowing why I’m there—”

“Yeah, I think that’s normal. Even I do that all the time. It’s the stuff of multitasking.”

“Right. It’s more than that. It’s like I’m getting confused .” She blinks.

This is a woman who has run entire institutions. Testified about literacy before Congress. A rock.

My insides are agitating like a washing machine on heavy duty, but, outwardly, I am intent on standing my ground. I will not heighten her anxiety with my own free fall. But I won’t pretend it’s not happening either. “Have you talked to Dad?”

“A little bit, but I think he’d rather not acknowledge the issue. It makes him panicked too.”

I nod. “Well, it sounds like you should call your doctor. Maybe set up some cognitive tests? An MRI or brain scan? I’m not sure what they do. But, that way, you don’t have to guess at what’s happening or figure this out alone. If something really is wrong, I’m sure there’s medicine you can take at least to slow down the progression.”

She shakes her head. Like she can’t believe we’re having this conversation. I can’t either. At least she’s wearing clothing. Some of us are in the nude. “Right. I should do that. I’ll do it today. You’re right. I’m writing it down.”

I exhale, bring a hand to my forehead. I realize it is likely a mannerism inherited from my mom, a mirror of what I watched her do minutes before. I need to hold it together. That is priority number one. Everything feels so high stakes, the dial turned up. I am suddenly nostalgic for my peaceful rut of the past years. A safe space baseline of low-grade depression and ambivalence instead of ping-ponging between panic and hope.

“Mom,” I say, “how are you feeling otherwise?”

She brightens a little at this question. “Actually, I’m on this new neck medicine, and I think it’s working really well. I barely feel pain anymore.”

“Good news!” I exclaim. It turns out this is a relative term. “Listen, I’m home tomorrow evening. Are you guys grabbing the kids from Celeste in the afternoon, as planned?” I hold my breath. Does she remember?

“Yes! We’re so looking forward to it. Your father got the kids those rainbow cookies they like.”

“Okay, great,” I nod. “Once the kids have gone to bed, let’s talk more and make a plan for figuring this out. Who knows: maybe it’s just stress?”

“Maybe,” she says. “I am stressed. But that’s because I can’t remember anything.”

“Vicious circle,” I say.

“Life,” she says, putting her reading glasses back on. She’s still beautiful, my mom. “Let’s plan to talk then. Have a wonderful time! And take pictures!”

“I will, Mom. Although there will be professional pictures too.”

“Not the same.”

“Right.”

“One last thing, sweetie,” she says, as I stand to cross back into the bathroom. “There’s a man standing behind you.”

I gasp, then slowly twist to peer over my shoulder. I have accidentally left the shades up. Michael is standing on the other side of the glass with his back to me, like he is guarding my room and my reputation.

“Thanks, Mom.”

We hang up. I close the shades. And I am gutted.

Despite my semi-horrible headspace, I function fine for the first half of the day. I manage to avoid running into Ethan in the morning. Instead, when I emerge, I find Stephanie in the living room in her requisite dark glasses. Her hair is in an unbrushed ponytail and she’s wearing her sundress from yesterday. Wait. Did she really sleep with Martin? It’s not that I judge her. To each her own. It’s just that Stephanie is pretty amazing. She could do a lot better than that giant rawhide poof of a human being.

“Morning,” I say.

She shoots me a peace sign. Otherwise keeps her body still. I know that feeling. Trying not to upset the balance—or puke.

“Rough night?”

“You could say that. Rough in all the right ways. You?”

I choose my words carefully. “It was quiet.” That’s true!

She pushes her sunglasses on top of her head, then fixes me with an appraising look. I think I detect a glimmer in her eye, about what I am unsure. Then, she stretches her arms above her head and yawns with gusto. “Okay. I gotta motivate.”

“Sounds good. I’m heading out.”

“Ethan just left for a jog,” she says, crossing to her room. “I can’t believe he went running again this morning. Except I can.”

“Except of course he did.” I laugh. Knowing what I do, I’m even more surprised (and not surprised) than Stephanie. I didn’t take down that pitcher of rum punch alone.

Last night, when I climbed into my fluffy cloud bed, I hadn’t come down so easily from the night. And I’m not just talking about the fact that I was peeing every fifteen minutes. That’s simply what you do when you’ve had two children and two liters of alcohol. No. I’m talking about something much more insidious: images of Ethan flashing through my head, spiraling me into equal parts embarrassment and longing. His finger tracing my jaw. Trailing down my neck. The roughness of his five-o’clock shadow against my cheeks. His muscles flexing under my palms, giving new meaning to the term dad bod . His other hand encircling my waist with untempered urgency, tugging me toward him, before the iguana made its untoward advances up my thigh.

Whether I wanted to admit it or not, drunk me obviously wanted to sex him up. I couldn’t think about his lips searching mine, the taste of punch on his tongue, without dying a little. But, first of all, that didn’t mean a tryst—even what promised to be a great one—was worth complicating the job opportunity. And, second of all, maybe more important, if I’m honest with myself, what happened last night didn’t mean he was all in either. Maybe he had his own reservations. Once the iguana interrupted, it’s not like he made a move to resume or tried to convince me to stay. He didn’t invite me into his room when we got back to the house or even kiss me goodnight. Instead, he got really quiet.

Yes, so he was clearly attracted to me in that brief moment on the beach. He said I was great—when he was drunk. But the reality of a deserted island is that there’s not a lot of competition. How would he see the idea of “us” in the real world? Was he currently lying in his own bed on the other side of the wall, spiraling with regret?

Plus, this shoot is important for him, too. His job hangs in the balance. Maybe, like me, he has misgivings about getting distracted from the task at hand.

By the time I fell asleep, I was convinced that we were both under the influence of vacation goggles. Once we got home to our kids and his ex and school drop-offs and pick-ups, this would all fade away into something otherworldly, a moment in the recesses of our minds colored by a sense of escape. When we got home, the way he wore his perfect T-shirts, the way they rode up, offering a glimpse of tanned skin that made me wonder what lay beyond, would be just like seeing any other neutered Brooklyn dad with his Park Slope Food Coop tote bag and slumped shoulders. (Tote bags are a real libido killer.)

Today, we’re shooting outdoors. I plod over to the set holding my sandals in my hand. I am soaking up every sensation, all too aware that tomorrow I head back to reality. So soon? Peter, Jackie and Derek are already at the yoga pavilion, which sits on a short rocky cliff jutting out over the water. And it is arresting. The sky is almost indiscernible from the water at present, a mass of blue and green with a clarity I could only dream of possessing.

Since Charlie hasn’t yet arrived and we are basically set up, Jackie and I decide to put the branded mats to good use and do some sun salutations before we get started. It feels amazing to stretch. We are in mountain pose; we reach for the sky; we hang down to the ground; we are in plank, in up dog. And all the time, the water glistens against the horizon. Another magic moment. A “rose” in our day as Bart and Nettie would call it.

It’s not until I’m upside down, in downward-facing dog, that I spot Ethan between my legs. He and Charlie have walked up together, bathed in sunshine, a couple of J.Crew models with matching sustainable water bottles out for a stroll. And, for all intents and purposes, I am currently sticking my ass in their faces.

Today’s T-shirt is white. Fuck . It is my kryptonite. I know it the moment I see it. Salted caramel sauce, books that make you laugh, TV shows about teen love, last-minute tickets to any play, a hot dog with mustard at a sporting event, candy at a movie, chips and salsa after a day at the beach, any cocktail with foam, well-built men in perfect white T-shirts. These are the things I cannot resist. I will spend the day trying to look anywhere else.

I break my pose and come down to my knees. “Oh, good! Charlie’s here,” I say, intent on diverting my own attention. “We can start!”

He waves, crossing to check in with his assistant.

I stretch my neck from side to side.

“You injure yourself?” Ethan asks.

“No,” I say, giving myself permission to glance at him. Just for a second, I swear. “I’ve got a kink.”

As I hear it come out of my mouth, I realize I’ve done it again.

“A kink,” he says, eyeing me. “Good to know.”

Jackie giggles.

I glance around, worried that the others might suspect something happened between us. But it’s business as usual. Because he’s casual, relaxed. A hand in his pocket. Like last night never happened. Or like it happened and he’s good with it. No big deal.

Fine. I too can feign chill.

“Okay, people,” Derek intervenes, always on task. It’s a lucky reminder to stop staring. “Are we ready to start?”

“Peter,” I say, standing up from my mat. Professional Sasha is back. “Who did we choose to shoot for this location? For the yoga sequence?”

He shrugs. “I already got you and Jackie, and it looks great.”

My face flushes hot. “Me? But I wasn’t supposed to be featured!”

“You guys did make it look good,” says Derek. “Against the horizon, it’s like—infinity yoga.”

“Ooh,” says Jackie. “Good term.”

“But I’m not even Escapade staff!” I protest.

Jackie nudges me. “Not yet .”

But I’m too distressed to fully appreciate what she’s implying. I am strictly behind the camera.

“Can you crop me out and just use Jackie?”

Peter shakes his head. It’s all or nothing. “Just come see.”

As Peter and I huddle together to watch the playback, Ethan comes up behind us to check it out too. I hold my breath and try to ignore what his proximity does to me. The heat I can sense coming off his body like I’m a snake and he’s my prey. I am so aware of him that my body practically vibrates. The way my bottom is nearly pressed up against his front. The way his cheek, when he leans in to see, is inches from my own. I am unraveling.

And dammit, the footage does look good.

“But I’m not wearing yoga clothes!” It’s my last attempt to avoid being featured. I look down at my black tank top and jean shorts with doubt. “Do you think it matters?”

Quietly, from behind me, Ethan says, “I think you look great.”

His words—low and loaded—travel through me like contrast dye before an MRI, coursing down tributaries, marking territory, before pooling into a bubbling geyser. I can feel his breath on my neck. I shudder.

And I am undone. I want to lie down and die.

Or turn around and jump him.

What is wrong with me today? My defenses are down, I reason. I’m upset about my mom. Stressed about my kids and the snafus I somehow can’t stop from interrupting their experiences at school. The way that it feels like failing. Away from home and everything that anchors me. I am not actually invested in Ethan. I don’t have actual feelings. It’s only a little natural chemistry. And I am just more susceptible to him than usual. I have an Ethan predisposition, but that doesn’t mean my feelings ever have to become full-blown.

Full-blown . Now everything sounds dirty.

I just need to keep my distance.

Only that will prove hard. Because, after Charlie’s shoot wraps up at the pavilion, we are breaking for lunch, changing into bathing suits and shipping out to a small sandbar, a “baby cay” as they call the tiny islands here, for the final shoot of the day. Via the hotel, I have chartered a small boat for this purpose and, of course, a captain to helm. And, now that Stephanie has arrived on the scene and watched the yoga footage, she wants it to feature Ethan… and me.

“It’ll look amazing!” she says. She is drinking murky green juice.

“You look like you recovered quickly.” I smile at her.

“Oh, yeah,” she says, toasting the air with her drink. “Hair of the dog.”

Just the idea of a splash of vodka in her spinach, kale and ginger juice brings my own hangover back. I try not to gag.

At lunch, I am seated at the same delightful table under the umbrella with Derek, Jackie, Stephanie and Charlie. Today, Charlie ambles up with a robust plate of food.

“Hungry?” asks Stephanie, arching her brow.

“Oh, yeah.” Charlie grins. “Today, I’ve worked up an appetite.”

He digs into his hearts of palm salad and plantains, caramelized to perfection. I need to go back to the buffet and grab some of my own.

Derek shifts in his seat, uncomfortable, and keeps checking his phone like it’s a tick. I wish I knew why. He seems to pick up on everything, and I pick up on nothing.

“Steph,” says Jackie. “How was the interview with Martin yesterday?”

“Oh, perfect.” says Stephanie. “It could not have gone better. The whole night was a win.”

“He said all the things?”

“He said all the things!”

“He did all the things?”

“He did all the things!” She winks.

Gross . “But he’s kind of a pig,” I say before I think. All eyes are on me, as I immediately regret my outburst. “No?”

“Completely.” Steph grins.

I guess that’s how she likes them. Smarmy and leathery. As long as she’s happy.

I already know she slept at his villa. I recognize a walk of shame (without shame) when I see one. And I saw one this morning.

I’m dying to ask the rest of them if they have any reservations about running this story, knowing that Martin is so terrible. But I’m still weighing the pros and cons carefully before I do. Does protecting job security for the people employed at this property take precedence? Does my need for this job—and Ethan’s need for this shoot to turn out well to keep his staff safe—trump the rest?

Derek’s phone vibrates, and he quickly responds. “Sorry, guys. I know. No phones at the table.”

“This is work,” says Stephanie. “You don’t need to follow Eric rules.”

Eric is Derek’s husband. Eric and Derek. “And, yes. I know it rhymes,” he said when he revealed this during a Zoom meeting before we left.

“What are ‘Eric rules’?” I ask.

“We don’t need to—” Derek starts.

But Stephanie bulldozes over him. “What aren’t Eric rules? Eric is so high-strung, he makes Derek seem chill.”

I look at Derek, who smiles sheepishly. If Eric is uptight, Derek doesn’t mind. “He just believes in creating boundaries. Something that some of us don’t have.”

“ Boundary is just another word for ‘wall,’?” says Stephanie. “And I don’t believe in limitations.”

“And she means any ,” Jackie giggles.

From there, the conversation turns to marriage. Jackie is not ready to settle down with anyone and is curious about ethical nonmonogamy. Stephanie hasn’t found the right guy. Charlie just got out of a three-year relationship. Only Derek has tied the knot, and his marriage sounds like a kind of nuptial bliss.

“Well,” I say, “it sounds like we represent the spectrum. And only Derek knows the secret to lasting love.”

We all look at him expectantly.

“What?” he says, looking up from his Pellegrino.

“We’re waiting on your wisdom,” says Charlie. “So we can get wise.”

“Oh, I don’t have any wisdom.” He laughs. “What am I going to say? All the clichés? Don’t go to bed angry? Never stop laughing? Whatever other trite things they say in wedding speeches? I mean, it’s pretty basic: the most important thing is making each other feel heard and seen. Keeping the other person’s priorities on the same level with your own. Feeling invisible is the kiss of death. But I think Sasha knows—actually all of you know from past relationships—that none of those things matter unless the rest works.”

“The rest?” says Jackie, leaning in.

“The rest. Compatibility. It’s just right or it’s not right,” he says, shrugging. “But it’s never convenient.”

Derek may think he has no wisdom, but he has just schooled us.

We all sit with that for a moment, as a breeze worries the napkins under our tumblers. Jackie gazes down at her food. Charlie nods. Stephanie bites her lip. I exhale.

“Well, that’s enough truth for one day, I think,” says Stephanie, tossing her napkin on top of her plate, and we all smile. She pulls out her lipstick to reapply.

“Where did you meet Eric, by the way?” I ask Derek.

“At work.” He smiles but then frowns. “But don’t anyone get any ideas.”

I am dressed in a sarong. It’s not mine. It’s Stephanie’s. Because I am not the kind of person who owns sarongs. But I am also not the kind of person who is willing to appear on video in only a bathing suit.

Thank goodness, no one has glitched on my black one-piece underneath. A bikini was a nonstarter. These are the only bathing suits I wear. Because they have actual cups for your boobs, boy-short bottoms, and 007 ruching to disguise the rest. Basically, I am an optical illusion.

While we were getting changed after lunch, Stephanie asked me again about what I did last night. I’m not sure what she’s getting at—surely she didn’t see me and Ethan together on the beach? We could barely see each other! The truth is, there was mostly nothing to see, anyway. Unless she can see inside my head. But, if anyone can do that, my money is on Derek.

Demon Dad (who I no longer think of as such) is, of course, in his perfect white T-shirt with perfect slate-gray board shorts. His sunglasses are old-school Wayfarers. So are mine.

“Twins!” Stephanie giggles, and I hope my hat shades my shade.

He looks me up and down, languidly, from behind his glasses. “Not exactly.”

I still can’t get a read on how he feels about what happened on the beach last night. Indifferent maybe? He’s been friendly enough but has kept his distance. Up until this moment, he has been Professional Ethan.

And that’s good. That’s what I asked him to be.

Only, if I’m honest—which I have no interest in being—I’m fiending for more.

What’s going on in that stupidly handsome head of his?

Even if we’re a bad idea, I still want him to want me. That’s twisted, but it’s reality. Feigning boredom, I reach up over my head and rest my hands on the top of my hat, stick my chest out a bit. Strike a pose.

In my peripheral vision, I see him swallow, hard. I can’t even see his eyes, but I feel them boring into me. Interesting .

Professional Sasha does not feel lit up. Professional Sasha is not trying to get his attention.

In the nick of time, Michael motions to us that the boat is ready, so I turn toward the dock.

“Sasha! Wait up!” I swivel back around at the sound of my name, stupidly hopeful. But it’s not Ethan. It’s Charlie calling me.

I wait as he jogs up the beach toward me.

“Hey.” He shoots me a smile too wide not to be calculated. I have too much experience with cute manipulators to be fooled. My antenna is up. He wants something.

“So, before we get on the boat, can we quickly try something?”

“Something like?”

“Let me show you.”

Minutes later, we’re standing with the rest of the crew staring at a hammock suspended between two palm trees down toward the ocean.

“I just feel like it screams ‘desert paradise,’?” he is saying. “And I don’t want us to miss having a shot of it.”

He’s not wrong. It’s dreamy as hell.

“Okay,” I say. “As long as you think we can be quick, so we don’t lose light, it’s fine with me.”

“Great!” Charlie says. But he doesn’t exhale.

Okay. Out with it. “Charlie, what’s the catch?”

“So, since you’re already dressed for the other shoot, I’d like this to feature—you.”

This is not my favorite development, but I begin to wrap my mind around it, when, gaze focused anywhere but on me, he mumbles, “And Ethan.”

My eyes surely bug out of my head. I am a Beanie Boo. And, before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “Together?!”

I say it and I say it loud.

Now everyone is staring at me. Especially Ethan, who has removed his sunglasses and looks either mortified, hurt or ready to commit me to an institution. Maybe all three.

“Um,” says Charlie. “Yes? I know it’s a bit unorthodox.”

He locks eyes momentarily with Stephanie. She nods ever so slightly. And now I suspect she’s behind this subterfuge.

But why?

I can contemplate the answer and her demise later. Right now, I need to pick my chin up off the floor and act like a big girl.

I force my face into what I’m sure is a terrifying fake smile. “Okay! Great! Let’s do it! Can’t wait!”

The rest of the team remains where they’re standing, looking at me like they’re unsure whether to approach. Like I’m a rabid skunk.

“Now!”

Everyone jumps into action, setting up quick-and-dirty reflectors and styling the hammock just so. Brushing sand and dust from surrounding rocks and fronds.

Charlie wants to get a wide shot, to create the effect of us floating above the water, so he will shoot from a distance away. But, first, he walks down the beach to the hammock itself and gestures me and Ethan over. I approach like the condemned. I’m trying to keep my cool, but it is long gone. It’s bad enough that I’m having confusing feelings about Ethan, bad enough that we kissed last night and haven’t even acknowledged it, but now we have to get up close and personal in front of an audience.

“So, I want it to feel like you guys are a real couple on vacation together,” Charlie is saying. “Like just super relaxed. No need for posing or smiling at camera. I just want you guys to climb in and chill—like you’re blissfully alone at the farthest recesses of the world.”

Ethan nods, studiously listening—and maybe avoiding my eyes. At least that’s what he projects. He is the good pupil; I am the troublemaker.

“Chill! Perfect! Sounds good!” I say too abruptly. Like a drill sergeant on amphetamines.

Ethan and Charlie glance at me like I’ve lost it. They exchange a look I can’t read.

“We’ll get into position,” says Ethan, ignoring me. Charlie takes this cue to walk back up the beach and check in with Jackie. As usual, we’ve cleared the area.

Ethan takes a step toward me and dips his face close to mine, so I am shielded from prying eyes. He is trying to give us privacy, but it ratchets my stress up a level. He is sharing my personal space. Part of me wants to take a step toward him. The other part wants to run away. But staying where I am feels like torture.

“Are you okay?” he whispers. “If you feel uncomfortable, you don’t have to do this.”

“I’m good!” I try.

“Sasha,” he says. “C’mon.”

This diffuses me. I exhale, gathering myself. I was surprised by the request, but I can handle this. I can be close to Ethan and not fall apart. Even with his breath on my neck.

“No, it’s okay,” I say. “I’m okay.”

“Okay. Well, then we should…” He gestures toward the hammock. “I’ll get in first, so I can steady it for you.”

He falls effortless against the ropes, his tan forearms flexing as he shifts his body to make space on the near side for me. He lies back. And he is a vision. As sparkly as the sun. Lightly rocking, he puts his hands behind his head in full relaxation and sighs. “This is actually amazing.”

There are shadows of palm fronds playing across his handsome face. His hair is adorably shaggy, like the vacation has won. He looks up at me and offers a genuine, almost vulnerable smile—a little crooked in the best way. One-thousand watts and counting. “You coming?”

I am. I am coming. If I can just catch my breath. I grasp the rough hammock in one hand and, for a second, I’m distracted by the mechanics of climbing in without displacing the sarong around my waist and my bathing suit top. There is no graceful version of this—at least not for me. I opt to go butt first and, by the grace of God, I’m able to shimmy on and into position, so that we are head to foot, my knees bent so that my feet are in line with his thighs.

But my bliss at having succeeded is short-lived.

Ethan lifts his head, peering at me curiously from the other end. “Um. I think Charlie intended for us to be lying in the same direction.”

“What? No! Why?”

“Well, because we’re supposed to be a couple on a honeymoon, not two twelve-year-old Boy Scouts sharing a tent.”

I see his point. Of course, I do. If I’m honest, I saw it from the outset. I was just hoping no one would notice I was nowhere near him.

I try for one last out: “How do you know that’s what he wants?”

We both look up the beach to where Stephanie is gesturing wildly in circular motions for me to switch positions. Damn .

“Ugh. I just got on successfully. Now I have to move?”

Ethan doesn’t even speak. He just looks at me with one eyebrow cocked like, Are you kidding me?

“Fine, fine.” I begin my struggle to get up so I can reapproach from the other side.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says. “Just climb over.”

Climb? I mean, this is getting worse by the minute. But what choice do I have? He’s right. This is the easier way. I flip around onto all fours, so now I’m facing Demon Dad cleavage first, crawling toward him like a chick from some eighties metal video.

I will not fall off. That is my one promise to myself. I don’t care if I have to cling for dear life upside down, if the thing flips. I will not, under any circumstances, hit the ground.

I begin to crawl unsteadily toward the other end, where Ethan is now propped up on his elbows watching me inch closer. And I’m doing just fine until I get cocky and speed up. I’m too close to the outer edge, and the hammock begins to teeter and tip, threatening to spill me onto the sand. Not on my watch!

To steady myself, I throw a hand toward the middle, making contact not with rope as intended but with something hard and warm. Ethan and I both turn toward my hand, which is resting on his substantial upper thigh. In a panic, I draw my palm back sharply, causing the whole apparatus to sway perilously.

“No!” I yelp.

“I got you,” Ethan says, grabbing my hand and pulling me up toward him so I won’t fall off the side. I don’t. But the momentum, and the feel of his hand on mine, throws off my balance in the other direction, and I land flat on top of him, chest to chest, hips on hips.

Instinctively, his hands come up around my rib cage, protecting me, as the hammock reverberates. And, for a stunned moment, we are frozen in that position. Him holding me against him. Fuck . He fits just right under me. Like the world’s most sinewy Tempur-Pedic mattress. And all my body wants is to snuggle in closer. My hands are itching to run their way over whatever bare skin they can reach. Luckily, my brain has the sense to flee.

When the hammock slows, I roll off of Ethan and lie, humiliated—but also buzzing—beside him. Sardines in a can.

“Well,” he says after a beat. “That was…”

“Graceful?”

“Hey, guys!” Stephanie shouts from the upper beach. “We’re just about ready, but we’re low on time. Can you get into a workable position? Ethan, maybe an arm around her? Sasha, put your head on his shoulder! Remember: you’re in love !”

Ethan turns to me. We’re so close that we’re practically nose to nose. I can’t help but notice his lips, remember how they felt last night. It would be so easy to lean over and kiss them again.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

I nod. I truly am. I am a grown woman. I can put whatever messy feelings aside for the sake of everyone involved. For the sake of their jobs and mine. This is Ethan. And, even though I haven’t known him long, I know I’m safe.

I raise my head, as he slides his arm under me, careful not to pull my hair. And I turn my head into him. Because that’s what I’m supposed to do. I’m acting! I am most certainly not soaking in the scent of his hyper manly deodorant mixed with the smell of… well, him. He brings his hand to rest on my outer arm and squeezes lightly, affectionately. And I really can for a moment almost imagine that we’re that couple, on vacation without a care in the world.

“Great!” Charlie calls, cupping his hands like a megaphone so we’ll hear him. “But Sasha, can you turn your body so that you’re half facing him? I want the body language to feel intimate.”

Intimate . Right. I shift my body toward Ethan, so I’m facing him on my side. Then, throwing caution to the wind, I rest my hand on his chest and inch my thigh over his. Because that’s what someone in a couple would do. And also, now that I’ve had a quick taste, I’m curious about how the rest of his body feels. I want another taste.

“Sasha,” he sighs.

Ending me as always. I snuggle in closer, sigh back at him. His grip on my arm gets a little firmer.

“Perfect!” Charlie says. “Just like that.”

Now, I’m really in character. My heart is racing as I apply a little more pressure, moving my thigh farther onto his hip, toward his groin. Now that I suspect he’s a boob man, I let my arm fall against my chest, emphasizing my cleavage.

“Sasha,” he whispers, stealing a glimpse down at me. “We should stop.”

But I don’t. ’Cause I don’t wanna. I slide my stomach and chest all the way flush against him, my thigh all the way across his body. His hip presses firmly between my legs.

“Sasha, seriously,” he pleads. “I can’t take it. Not here.”

“Oh! You want me to move?” I tease, moving my leg against him. And that’s when I feel him get hard against my inner thigh.

“Oh. OH!” I say.

He throws his free hand over his eyes. “Fuck. I’m so sorry.”

But I’m not. I mean, I am. ’Cause if he can’t think of something distracting, this is going to be embarrassing and it’s definitely my fault. I should have taken him seriously. But I’m also a little flattered, if I’m honest. At least now I know he’s definitely attracted to me, even sober. Not that I know what to do with that information.

I am a new kind of mystical creature—half horny, half hesitant.

“It’s okay,” I whisper. “No one can see. They’re far away.” I shift my leg mostly off him and edge backward a bit.“I can fix this! I’ll distract you. Think about benign things. Whatever comes to mind: um, rum punch, hamburgers, stars.”

He looks down at me, humor in his eyes even under the awkward circumstances. “Maybe something that doesn’t remind me of last night.”

“Right! Sorry. That was top of mind.” I rack my brain. “Custody agreements!”

He frowns.

“Did that work?”

“Maybe too well.”

Ten minutes later, when we climb out of the hammock, it should be uncomfortable, but it’s not. It’s like it got so awkward that the tension got diffused. He helps me up like it’s all okay, and then crosses the beach to Charlie to check in on the next location.

I watch him retreat as Stephanie jogs down the beach toward me. “Wait till you see those photos,” she says. “Charlie is a genius. They’re incredible!”

“Oh, I’m glad,” I say. And I am.

But then she fixes me with a wicked grin as we start toward the boat. “You guys looked pretty cozy canoodling in that thing.” She winks, hip-checking me.

And, suddenly, I am once again seeing all of this through other people’s eyes. This job is my chance to show what I’m capable of, and I’m spending it dry humping the person in charge.

Ugh. Why can’t I stay focused on work? What do I think I’m doing? That’s it. I need to exercise some serious willpower.

Only I am obviously not able to behave in Ethan’s presence. So, there’s only one other sure-fire tactic: avoidance.

Which will prove basically impossible.

On the boat ride, I sit at a distance and resist glancing over, though Ethan tries subtly to catch my eye. But even when I look down, his legs are in my view, and I can’t avoid noticing the masterpieces that are his calves. Someone could compose an opera about them. But not me. Because I am Professional Sasha, who doesn’t care about calves. And also I hate opera.

Eventually, I do manage to get distracted. Because this is an incredible ride. The wind is a microfiber blanket against my skin, the sun is a modulated heat lamp, the spray of the water is a mister, the boat rocks like a cradle. It’s heaven. I am lulled into a stupendous stupor. But the truly amazing part is what you can see below the water. As we skim along the surface, fish, stingrays and all manner of coral swirl beneath. Our captain is the pilot, Jimmy, from our small plane—apparently, there is nothing he can’t do. He has traded his captain’s hat for a floppy fisherman’s cap, and he acts as naturalist from under its brim, telling us what we’re seeing all around us. He says we might see sharks! And, with the exception of Jackie, who is dubious, and Peter, who is poised to leap lest our equipment fly out of the boat, we all want to be the A-plus student who sees one first, so our eyes are trained on the water.

No sharks. But, when we pull up to the island, we are all breathless. It is like no place I have ever seen before. It’s literally a sandbar with ellipsis-like archipelagos in the middle of the damn ocean, surrounded on all sides by shallow turquoise.

Our pilot helps us all out and, when I step from the boat and he releases my hand, I turn right around in the sand and absorb the view. We have traveled far enough from Citrine that we can see no other land at all. It is truly like we are marooned.

I feel humble and small.

The only objects breaking up the landscape are giant intact conch shells, the likes of which I have only ever seen shellacked in gift shops. These seem impossibly vibrant, a spiral of textured white and orange. A shock of pink. I walk over, pick one up and hold it to my ear. Sure enough, I am treated to the sounds of the rushing ocean. Only there is no rushing in this sea. Only calm, collected water. This ocean takes its time.

But this is a swanky island resort, not some Gilligan’s Island fantasy (or nightmare). This is a shoot for an important glossy magazine. So someone—multiple someones—have been here first. I picture Michael and his uniformed friends on the staff stealing away back to the hotel before we spotted them.

There are eight bleached-out beach chairs with shaded overhangs immaculately aligned along one edge of the cay. The sharp lines feel alien here.

The boat has a secret compartment—probably secret only to me—out of which our pilot pulls coolers of cold beer, soda, coconut water and more of that lethal rum punch. I eye it like it might attack me. That rum and I cannot be trusted. A second cooler is stocked with sandwiches, fruit and cookies to sustain us while we play castaway.

Charlie is anxious to get started before the tides change dramatically. With the exception of his assistant, armed with a broom to smooth the sand, we all stay silent and out of the way, afraid our presence will blemish its flawless complexion. Even Stephanie goes quiet. Watching Charlie in this environment, with his pants cuffed up to his knees, as he dodges between shadows and tributaries streaming with water, is like witnessing some kind of performance art. He stands tall. Crouches low.

From a distance, Derek and Peter capture snippets of it on camera.

Sensing eyes on me, I turn and catch Ethan watching me watch Charlie. His expression is quizzical. For self-preservation, I quickly look away.

Maybe he’s tense about the shoot going well? Or feels awkward about what happened in the hammock? In this idyllic setting, it’s easy to forget how much is riding on this.

Then the still photoshoot is done and Charlie returns, happily accepting a beer and a beach chair.

“Okay, people!” says Stephanie. “Let’s get the video segment wrapped, so we can hang out and let loose.”

Ethan and I step forward. I’m still trying not to look at him.

“I’m thinking we should have you guys walk way out into the distance to the farthest tip of the sandbar,” Stephanie says. “Sasha, you can stop freaking out about being featured because, that way, it’ll only be your back. And, I think, if Peter and I have worked this out right, it will all be backlit in silhouette.”

“Just to the edge?” I ask.

“Yes,” says Stephanie. “Just the tip.”

Unlike my gaffs, her implication is very intentional. She winks, then stalks back to Peter to discuss logistics. Once again, I envy her brashness.

“Shall we?” says Ethan.

“Sure,” I say, without looking up. For reasons I can’t confront, I am vibrating with nerves. I wish I had a minute to step away and get my head on straight.

“Okay!” says Peter. “Action!”

We start to walk, slowly, out on the narrowing sandbar into the ocean. The strip of island gets slimmer and slimmer, until we can’t help but walk side by side.

“I feel like we should talk,” Ethan says quietly.

“Sure!” I say with too much pep. “Happy to talk.”

“Right. But it feels a little like now you’re avoiding me.”

“Me?”

“No. The other woman on this peninsula, walking as far away from me as possible.”

“Oh, good,” I say. “As long as it’s not me.”

“Sasha.”

Ugh. With the name. My resolve liquefies.

“Ethan,” I say, “I am not avoiding you.” My nose grows.

How can I explain how conflicted I feel when I don’t understand it myself?

We are nearing the end of nature’s runway. And, at the very edge, we will have no choice but to stand directly beside each other, pressed together in order to fit. Of course this is Stephanie’s design—to create a cozy picture of romance for the viewers. Only, we are not a couple. And the hammock was confusing. And so is my brain—and vagina. And my heart is beating faster and faster as my legs move slower and slower, so maybe what Peter will actually capture on film is me having a heart attack.

“Can you at least look at me?”

No. Yes. Fine.

I have no choice. I have no excuse. I slowly turn my gaze up to meet Ethan’s, and the first thing I see are flecks in his eyes that I haven’t noticed before. Fireworks against an amber sky.

The second thing I see is a twinge of hurt that takes me down in a whole other way.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable yesterday or just now in the hammock,” he says.

Oh God . This is the last thing I want him to think. That he is some junior Martin, making unwanted advances. He barely advanced! And nothing was unwanted. If anything, I spurred the hammock incident. I feel awful.

“Ethan, you didn’t make me uncomfortable. Not even a little bit.”

“Okay, because, I had fun with you last night.”

I swallow hard. “I… had fun too.”

“And I don’t mean to complicate things, but I think there’s something—”

But it is in this moment that we reach the narrowest part of the spit, and our bodies are suddenly flush together again, my upper arm to his lower arm, my thigh to his thigh. His skin is warm, solid. I can’t take any more of this push and pull today. And my body is flooded with a jolt of electricity that throws me off course, literally and figuratively.

Before I know what’s happening, I’m catapulting sideways and landing on my ass in the water. Splat.

“… here,” says Ethan, finishing his sentence.

I can see he is trying to hold back laughter, and who can blame him? But I can’t handle all the things happening in my head at this moment and, when he extends his hand to help me up, I turn to flee instead. Like a child, I dunk my head under the water and swim away.

The ocean is not deep here and, even when I swim farther out, I am still able to stand, the water not cresting my shoulders.

“Sasha! Come back!”

I should. I should go back. For all the reasons. This is not Professional Sasha’s most shining moment. And I am about to get my shit together and swim back to the spit, when I realize something vibrant and floral is now floating several feet away, being swept up by the current.

“Shoot!” I yelp. “The sarong!” I swim after Stephanie’s cover-up, trying to grab it, but it keeps slipping farther from my grasp. And just as I clasp it in my hands, I see an unidentifiable sea creature venture near me. This one is not my friend. I know it right away. It looks at me like I’m an intruder in its house. Within moments, searing pain radiates from my thigh as I yelp at the top of my lungs. And all the while I’m thinking, this is not how I wanted this to go. Not at all.

In a split second, Ethan is next to me, scooping me and the sarong up and carrying us both to the shore. All in a single bound.

Even the pain and shock can’t obscure the heat I feel with his hands on my wet body, palms pressed to my upper arm and thigh. Even the mushroom cloud of embarrassment gets pushed to the back burner with his abs against my side. His strong arms encircling my ribs, inches below my chest. There is so much bare skin against skin. I’m lucky there are other people around to stop whatever wild impulses might take over.

He lies me down on the sand.

His perfect white T-shirt is now soaking wet and clinging to his body. He’s got supermarket rain hair. This spells true disaster for me. I am a goner. Either from the poisonous bite or from his hotness. Whatever kills me first. I am a chalk outline waiting to happen.

“Where does it hurt?” he asks.

Nowhere. Everywhere. Only the actual bite is on my inner thigh, and I can’t even show him without feeling like I’m giving him a money shot.

I level him with a look. His eyes track down my body to where a big pink welt is forming inches below my bikini line.

He opens his mouth to speak. Closes it again.

He is saved by the bell, as Jimmy rushes up. “Are you okay, miss?”

“I think I just got stung by something,” I manage.

“Yes,” he says. “I suspect you have met one of our minor predators, the thimble jellyfish. They usually come in groups, but I’ve not seen one here for many months. Quite an unusual sighting.”

He says this like perhaps I will be thrilled. Take a photo of my contusion. Put it in a scrapbook.

“Okay,” I say, breathing as the stinging sensation worsens. “What now?”

“Unfortunately, miss, we’ll need to get you back to Citrine. It’s not serious, but you do need some medicine and should have the doctor look at it.” He turns to Ethan. “Perhaps some ointment?”

Is there a less sexy word than ointment ?

“It’s not far,” Jimmy continues. “I can take you back and give the others time to relax here, then return for them.”

Stephanie and Jackie rush up, and now I’ve drawn a crowd. “Are you okay?” Jackie asks. “Was it a lizard? I don’t trust those motherfuckers.”

“Jackie!” Stephanie rolls her eyes. “WTF! The lizards are harmless. And not in the middle of the ocean! What is your deal? Were you attacked by a dinosaur in a past life?”

“Maybe!”

As Stephanie and Jackie squabble, Ethan and Jimmy help me to standing and, as best as I can, I limp toward the boat. With absolutely no grace, I climb in. Ethan follows behind, taking a seat beside me.

“What are you doing?” I ask him, too shrilly.

“I’m coming with you.”

“What? Why? No! You should stay here and enjoy the rest of the afternoon.”

“No way.” He shakes his head. “I’m not sending you back alone. Anyway, it’s a liability. I can’t have you die on us. The magazine might get sued.”

“I’m not planning to expire.”

“Best-laid plans…”

He’s joking, but I realize he’s not going to budge. There’s legit concern in his eyes. For me, I think. Not the magazine. I have other concerns.

“But—”

“No buts,” he says. “Even if that’s your kink.”

I drop my head in my hands. Oy. I will never live this down. Any of it.

For the record, I am not a clumsy person. This man just throws me off-balance.

The boat’s engine sputters then purrs. As we’re pulling away, I turn back to the beach. “Stephanie!” I shout. “I’m sorry I got your sarong wet!”

“No worries,” she shouts back. “I think you put it to good use, ya damsel.”

I pull my hat down to obscure my red face.

On the boat ride back, Ethan asks if I’m okay so many times that eventually Jimmy lays a gentle hand on his shoulder and says, “Mr. Ethan. This is not a life-threatening injury.”

In truth, though the site of the bite is throbbing, the pain isn’t extreme. Jimmy has given me an ice pack from the boat’s first aid kit, which is slumping on my upper thigh (let’s just say crotch and call a spade a spade). As long as I lean back, keep my thighs apart and my leg outstretched like a cowboy in a saloon, it’s really okay. I try not to consider the visual.

It’s really the humiliation of the past hour that’s searing an irrevocable hole in my being. What is wrong with me? I am an adult woman. I have two children. A career. Friends. People who trust and respect my opinion. Yet, even now, with a giant welt swelling on my thigh, I am distracted by this man’s proximity to me like some hormonal teenager. By the memory of how it felt to snuggle in close to his shoulder and side. By the way he runs a hand through his hair when he’s stressed. By the way he’s looking at me now with full brown eyes.

Was I ever this infatuated with Cliff? If so, I can’t remember.

Oh no. I am infatuated .

To be clear, Ethan is not gazing at me with lust or affection. It’s more like I’m his dumbest and most pathetic child. Like he’s wondering, is she okay? And, also, how does she get herself into these messes? And, lastly, will she still be living in my basement when I’m retired?

When we reach the shores of Citrine, Jimmy anchors and ties off the boat, then helps ease me up onto the small wooden dock. Ethan is either too wise to me, afraid of me or horrified by me to be my crutch on the way to the villa, so I lean on our captain as I limp to the door.

“I’ll be back with medical!” says Jimmy, once we’re inside. Like this is Baywatch and I have almost drowned in my own hotness. Only if this were Baywatch , my hair would be blown out in perfect beach waves instead of knotted into a rat’s nest from the wind. He hurries outside to the golf cart and jumps in like it goes more than fifteen miles per hour.

Gingerly, I lie down on the couch, a throw pillow under my head, and continue to ice my wound.

Ethan brings me a glass of water and sets it down on the table. Of course he uses a coaster. Damn . This man is perfection.

I’ll raise you one ex-wife who says different.

The warring sides of my brain. I am reminded to be wary.

“So,” says Ethan.

“So,” I respond.

“That was…”

“I think the word you’re looking for is exciting. ”

“That’s definitely not the word I had in mind.”

“You’re the editor,” I say with a shrug. I rest my forearm over my eyes. If I can’t see him, will I also turn invisible?

This makes me think of Bart, who subscribed wholeheartedly to this belief when he was a toddler. “Oh, damn!” I curse, sitting up. “I was hoping to grab conch shells for my kids! And I forgot to take pictures!”

“Do you want a picture now?”

“Of me lying on the couch? With an ice pack on my…? No, thank you. I would not like to memorialize this moment.”

Ugh. The outing was an epic fail on every level.

“Is that even environmentally sound?” Ethan says, eyes narrowed in thought. “Taking the conch shells out of their ecosystem? I think they might be endangered.”

I lift up just high enough on my elbows to shoot him a dirty look, then plop back down.

“I don’t know why you’re annoyed with me. It feels like I’m the one who should be mad.”

My heart plummets along with my full-time job prospects. “Because I ruined the video shoot?”

“No, I’m not worried about that.” Ethan shakes his adorable head. “If someone (and by ‘someone’ I mean me) leaks the footage, it will definitely go viral. One for the blooper reel. That fall was digital gold.”

I snatch the pillow from behind my head and whip it at his face. It misses him by a mile. I really need to work on my aim. He watches it arc and hit a bookshelf. Ball four.

Unfortunately, now I have no pillow for my head, so my neck is contorted in an awkward position against the ridge of the sofa. I adjust. Readjust. Then readjust again.

“For the love of God!” Ethan exclaims. He grabs a throw pillow from an armchair beside him and hands it to me. I tuck it behind my neck, haughty with what little self-respect I have left.

It occurs to me that maybe Professional Sasha has personnel problems beyond being attracted to her would-be employer. Like throwing foreign objects at him.

“Why should you be mad, then?” I ask. “It’s not like you got stung by a jellyfish. You don’t look injured!”

On the contrary. He looks A-plus. Of course. The boat ride has dried us a bit, but his T-shirt is still damp and fused to his chest and shoulders. Shoulders so broad they have no business belonging to a magazine editor.

“Actually, my ego is pretty bruised,” he says, his arms raised to the sides with palms up, as if to present himself. “I can’t say I’ve ever had a woman jump into jellyfish-infested waters to avoid talking to me before.”

“I was saving the sarong!” I protest.

“How heroic. You’ll be a top contender for the Medal of Honor. Save the Sarong!”

“Sarong rights are human rights,” I deadpan.

He groans. Collapses into a chair. Buries his head in his hands in frustration.

I am torn. On one hand, I am impressed by my own ability to drive other humans, especially this one, bonkers. On the other, the man is only trying to help. I nearly humiliated him on the hammock—and then I was in fact avoiding him. And yet he just gave up a dreamy, perhaps once-in-a-lifetime afternoon on a deserted sandbar with free-flowing food, booze and good company to come back here and watch me ice my loins.

When was the last time someone did something like that for me? Took care of me? Prioritized me?

“Ethan,” I say softly.

He deigns to look up at me, peering from above his hands.

“Thank you for coming back with me. For caring how I’m feeling. And for making sure that I’m okay.”

He drops his hands. Shoots me a small shy smile, more killer even than his higher-watt ones. Then looks down, pleased. I have given him at least a taste of what he wants.

“You’re welcome,” he says. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

He drags his eyes back up, finding mine. My heart flips, the newest cast member of Cirque du Soleil. The Vegas show. And all that implies.

“Look,” he says, “can we have an actual honest conversation, or are you going to throw yourself headfirst into the coffee table?”

He is overestimating my maturity. Just saying an earnest thank-you was my idea of a big step. I can’t let him say the thing, whatever it is. Because I can’t handle it. Because I’m worried it won’t work out. Because I’m worried it will work out. Because, the truth is, I want him badly. Because I actually like him. Because I’ve been here before and it didn’t end well. Because I really need this job and I can’t let this crush cannibalize it.

I’m about to ask for a rain check or pretend to pass out from pain, when there’s a knock at the door.

Jimmy is back with the doctor, an older woman in a lab coat and daisy sundress who he introduces as Dr. Marie—and, surprisingly, his cousin. “Twice removed,” he explains.

She smiles warmly, then presses the back of her hand to my forehead with authority. I realize in that moment how much I want my mommy. But it’s not the sting making me feel vulnerable.

Why can’t I handle my life?

Jimmy leaves to make sure the abandoned film crew on the sandbar hasn’t been eaten by an eight-eyed sea monster, and Ethan slips on his flip-flops too.

“It looks like you’re in good hands.” He smiles at me and Dr. Marie, though there’s a kind of resignation in his eyes. “I’m going to go grab some food since I missed lunch and take care of a few work things, let you rest. I’ll be back later to check in. Do you want anything?”

I have too many answers, so I shake my head. “Just rest.”

And, with a sigh, he leaves.

Despite my misgivings, I realize I’m sad he’s gone. I like him around me as much as I fear my own impulses. In truth, I want him to sit down on the couch, so I can rest my head in his lap. My imagination is straying into dangerous hammock territory again, so I pinch my own leg to snap myself out of it.

“He’s handsome,” says Dr. Marie as soon as the door clicks shut. “Maybe he wants to meet my daughter.”

“Maybe,” I say. “Does she like to run?”

“Run? From what?”

“No, I mean like jog,” I say, miming with my hands.

“Oh! Like exercise? No. Not unless Costco on Provo is having a sale.”

Dr. Marie gives me an antihistamine to quell the swelling and Advil for the pain. Then, she swabs the red area with white vinegar. “It’s the best remedy to mitigate the venom.”

She leaves me with hydrocortisone cream to apply morning and night for the next few days.

Once she’s gone, I plod into my bedroom and lie down under a throw blanket for a few minutes while the medicine takes effect. I FaceTime Celeste to say hi to Nettie and Bart—there’s early dismissal today, so I figure I might reach them. But they’re at the Prospect Park Zoo—ambitious plan—and the sea lion show is about to begin. They wave to me though.

“We can’t wait to see you tomorrow!” Nettie says.

“It’s almost Halloween!” Bart tells me.

This I know. And I can’t wait to see them too. Tomorrow morning, we have one final outdoor shoot and then I’ll fly home in the early evening. I’ll have the following morning back in Brooklyn to decompress and shop for last-minute costume elements and treats for our small gathering, before the trick-or-treating begins.

Still, once we’ve hung up the phone, even the memory of my kids’ faces can’t distract me from my current obsession. The pain of the sting is basically gone. But adrenaline courses through me at the thought of what Ethan was about to say before Jimmy returned with the doctor. The can of worms he was about to open. What might have wriggled out.

There won’t always be a Dr. Marie to interrupt us. So, I just have to stay the course for one more night. Because I can’t sacrifice my plans for a guy—not again.

At home back in Brooklyn, Ethan can go back to being someone I nod to or chat briefly with at drop-off. Or, in an ideal world, if I get this job, maybe he’ll become my coworker, who I pass in the halls when I’m not working remotely. Who I see mostly at large meetings with the rest of the staff.

And, yet, I know delusion when I see it. Even my own. Because how am I ever going to stand in close proximity to that man and not feel tempted to run a hand down his chest? To graze his stubble with my fingertips? To stand on tiptoe and press my lips against his? Basically, I will always want to hump him.

Ugh! Lying here without other stimulation is not helping my cause. The book I’m reading can’t hold my focus. I can’t concentrate on the word games on my phone. I open my email, but there’s not even pressing work to steal my attention. Just a text from Jackie making sure I’m okay.

“I’m all better!” I write. But it’s a lie. I am far from fine.

What I need is a cold shower.

And that’s when I have an epiphany. I’m leaving tomorrow and have yet to use—or even see—the outdoor shower. No one loves an outdoor shower like I do. Brilliant!

I grab a towel and shiver through the too-air-conditioned living room en route to the back entrance. Outside, on the periphery of the house, I spot what looks like a tall wooden slatted fence, painted white, with its own door. Behind it, what I discover is even better than I imagined! It is transformative. I might have been on a nice work trip before, I might have been stressing, but now, for these minutes, I am on vacation—from all the things.

I feel like I can breathe again!

The top and bottom are open like the world’s poshest outdoor bathroom stall, larger than my bedroom at home. The walls that aren’t wooden are sporadically decorated in oversize green tea and cream-colored Moroccan tiles. The floor is a masterpiece of stonework in various gradations from white to gray, small smooth rocks embedded in plaster. In the far corner is a collection of large green potted plants in white ceramic planters, seemingly in conversation with each other. Perhaps chatting about how dope this place is.

It’s hot today. Steamier than it’s been. The air has a kind of weight to it, a density. Like I’m swimming through it. And, in light of that, this shower feels like the most ingenious idea I have ever had. This is the thing I need. To wash away my troubles. And also the sand that worked its way into unspeakable crevices during the jellyfish-versus-sarong battle.

I step inside the stall and close the door behind me, slipping off my plastic Birkenstocks and hanging my towel on a hook. Then I pad in my bathing suit over to the shower fixtures. A rain shower like this one, with all its handheld attachments and settings, is above my pay grade. There’s no planet on which I will figure out how to use this properly. So, I just mess with the nobs until water shoots from the overhead nozzle. I find the perfect temperature, the perfect pressure.

Perfect . I sigh.

The water unlocks something. The scent of the frangipani flowers, like a Caribbean honeysuckle, rises with the steam, intensifying into something intoxicating. An iridescent hummingbird flits in through the gap at the top and flits back out. I am in full Cinderella mode! Communing with animals! I hum “Whistle While You Work” and “A Dream Is a Wish Your Heart Makes”—a medley!—as I step under the stream, close my eyes and moan. It’s heaven. And I have almost— almost —forgotten about Ethan.

But just thinking about forgetting him sends a flash of hot and bothered through me, radiating all the way down my chest, stomach, arms and legs to my bare fingertips and toes. They seem to alight with extra sensation. I am a live wire.

I try to push him out of mind, as I untie the halter top from around my neck and peel it down to my waist, let the water cascade over me. Prickles hit my skin like tiny wake-up calls. It is frankly not helping to distract me.

“Oh, shit!” says a voice from behind me, startling me from my compulsion. It takes me a split second to realize it’s not in my head.

I whip around, hands flying to cover up my chest on instinct. And there he is in the flesh. Standing in the doorway, wearing only a towel around his waist. Like I manifested him.

Ethan .

Adrenaline thrums through me. This really isn’t helping.

I am not naked. Not fully. Each of my hands covers one of my boobs. But I sure feel exposed, standing under that stream of water with my straps dangling from my waist, tickling my thighs as they sway.

A breeze passes over the fence, and through its cracks, whispering past my skin. Every nerve ending is open for business.

And the problem is, I like it.

Ethan is staring pointedly down at the ground. But he has not left. And if I thought the white T-shirt would be my undoing, his bare upper body has officially ended me.

He is chiseled but lean—not bulky. A jagged scar down one arm adds an unexpected bad-boy dimension. And reason has left the building. Professional Sasha is hogtied in a basement somewhere. I just don’t give a fuck anymore.

It will be just this once , I tell myself. Or just this trip. Or whatever it needs to be. But I am done fighting it. I want this. Behind my hands, my body has a mind of its own.

“Sorry,” Ethan is saying to the ground. “I didn’t know you were in here.”

“I’m in here,” I say. “And, now, so are you.”

“What happened to resting?”

“I couldn’t rest. I’m rest less .”

He runs a hand through his hair, shifts his weight, like he can barely contain himself. “Tell me about it.”

“I thought I just did—want me to tell you more?” It comes out breathy and more loaded than I intended. Anticipation flutters in my chest. There are a lot of things I’d like to tell him right now. Things I’d like to show him.

He bites his lip. And I feel territorial. Almost mad that he’s doing it for me.

“Okay,” he says, pointing a thumb behind him. Hitchhiking to a less charged place. “Well, I’ll go form a single file line outside and wait my turn.” He turns to leave, and I am not having it.

All the pent-up chemistry of the past weeks has come calling and it won’t be denied.

“Oh, but, see, I think that’s a bad idea,” I say, stepping toward him before he can go. I am out of the stream, goose bumps rising on my skin, but water still drips down my body.

Surprised, he chances a glance up at me. My bathing suit is still partially up, after all. Though his eyes drift to where it threatens to fall farther.

“You do?”

“I do. Because the thing is, I love an outdoor shower.”

“Who doesn’t?” He is trying so hard to stare at anything other than my hands cupping my chest—my face, my neck, my rib cage, my belly, my legs—but it’s a challenge.

The naked need in his eyes makes me want to skip the pleasantries. But I’m not quite done toying with him.

“If I know you’re waiting outside, I’ll feel rushed,” I continue. “And I really don’t feel like rushing.”

“You don’t?” He swallows hard, his voice hoarse.

“No,” I say, taking another step forward, so I’ve narrowed the gap between us even more. “I feel like taking my time.”

He exhales a shuddered breath. I can practically see his heart pounding. Mine has also joined a drum circle.

“So, what do you propose?” he asks, his hand resting where his towel meets his hip. I’m suddenly aware of how easily it might drop. “Should I go back to my room, to my regular shower?” His heart is definitely not in that offer.

“Hmm,” I say, tipping my head toward one shoulder. “That seems sort of unfair.”

He nods, now on board for whatever this is. “I think so.”

“So, I guess maybe you have to stay .”

He holds my gaze, his eyes darkening as my message fully computes. “Maybe I have to stay.”

“Maybe we’re just… screwed?”

I shrug. Drop my hands.

His eyes pan over me slowly. Reverently. Like a tracking shot. And I am the landscape. Shoulders. Breasts. Stomach. Thighs. Water drips down my body from my hair and neck, down my chest, past my bellybutton and into the recesses of my suit’s bottom. We both watch it disappear.

He licks his lips.

I take a final step forward, so we’re as close as we could possibly be without touching. I can see every nook and cranny of his upper body, the chiseled lines of his pecs, abs, arms. The slightest move, a microscopic tilt forward, and my bare chest will be pressed against his. My breath hitches. I don’t know if the anticipation is going to kill me or if it’s keeping me alive. He smells like tropical sunscreen and escape. I can feel the heat from his body like flying too close to the sun—or maybe it’s mine.

“Sasha,” he says, his voice rugged with gravel. If my insides weren’t already molten, they are now. “Are you sure?”

And I am. I want this too much to stop. In my mind, I have already taken the plunge.

I am wet, and I am wet.

I look him hard in the eyes. Once we go there, we cannot turn back. Whatever passes between us in that moment communicates more than all the words.

“Positive.”

That seals the deal. Ethan shoves the door closed behind him with his elbow without glancing back. It clicks into place. Decisive. Like a foregone conclusion. His eyes are locked on mine. Finally, finally , I lift a hand and dare to run it along his collarbone, then down his stomach, his skin warm to the touch. His ab muscles clench beneath my fingers. There is a sharp intake of breath in which I read multitudes.

Everything in me feels pulled taut.

This. Is. Happening.

We stand there, zeroed in on each other, for a beat. My whole body buzzing.

“You wanted to talk earlier,” I rasp, barely able to catch my breath. “Still need to now?”

“Nope,” he says, eyes fierce and boring into my own. Vaguely threatening. Like I’m the burger now. “I’m good.”

But there is the smallest something glitching in his expression.

“So, what’s the problem?”

He blinks, nods toward the shower, which we are far from under. “You’re wasting water.”

As I groan in irritation, Ethan takes me by the wrist with one hand and the waist with the other and backs me against the wall.

I look up into his face, inches from my own. “So, are you giving a TED talk about conservation or are we…?”

I don’t get to finish the sentence. He kisses me hard up against the slats, shutting me up. And I’m more than good with it. His lips are soft at first, then less patient, his stubble delightfully rough. He tastes like dragon fruit and salty sea. His body feels both new to me and like it’s already mine. And, as he slips his tongue into my mouth, he changes the tone of my groan.

If I thought the kiss on the beach last night was full-on, this is next level, frantic with need.

And this time there are no interruptions.

There’s nothing calm or languid about what happens next. It’s a full-court press. That’s just fine with me. I’ve been waiting too long to wait longer. We’re flush against each other, his hips pinning mine, our hands on their own personal journeys. I cannot get close enough. Pressure is already building inside me. His deep kiss gets deeper, rougher, as he picks me up, his strong hands cupping my ass. My legs wrap around him. Like I’m a python and might end us both. Entangled, he carries me under the shower stream, where we tear our lips apart for an instant, staring into each other’s faces.

His lids are heavy. We’re both out of breath. I shake my head, laugh.

“Better?” I ask.

“Better,” he agrees.

My body bumps and grinds against his chest and six-pack, slick and wet, as he slowly slides me back onto my own two feet. From my new vantage point, I watch water drip down his cheeks from his wet supermarket hair, down his toned body. Fine . I admit it. I guess all that running is kinda worth it.

And it’s all mine to touch. I can choose my own adventure.

Under the scruff is that dimple I admired before. I reach up and trace it now with my fingertip, then drag my finger across his plump bottom lip. Because I can.

“Hi,” he says, from an inch away.

“Whattup,” I say back.

I glance past him at the huddle of plants in the corner. “I feel like I’m being watched.”

He rakes his eyes down my body, leaving prickles in his wake. Head to breasts to tippy toes. “That’s because you are.”

That does me in. Enough talk. I slide my fingers up into his hair at the back of his neck, then reach around and tease his ear with my teeth. He growls, then urges my head back up with his chin, capturing my lips and kissing me properly again. Only there is nothing proper about it. Proper is for amateurs. His hands come to my ass as I dig my fingers into the backs of his wide shoulders, pulling him toward me as if there’s anywhere left to go. We’re in so deep, we might fuse.

His thigh presses between my legs. I gasp. I can feel him hard against me.

His lips trail from my face down the side of my neck, to my shoulder, my collarbone, shooting me full of chills. He cups my breasts as I arch against him.

“Keep your hands up,” I mumble. “Don’t let them drop.”

“Don’t worry,” he grunts, his teeth against my neck. “I’ve got this.”

“All right,” I sigh. “As long as you’re on top of things.”

He pauses to look up with a raised eyebrow. “Maybe for part of the time.”

“Maybe for all of the time.”

“You’re impossible,” he whispers against my ear, shaking his head. “But also really hot.”

I’ll take it.

Just like that, we’re grinding against each other with the urgency of teens with a time limit and parents downstairs.

And that’s when his towel drops. A sopping white terrycloth heap on the rocky floor. We both look down at it and back up at each other. He laughs. Shyly. Adorably.

Only, there is nothing to be bashful about. More like something to shout from the rooftops.

I can work with this. And I take it as an invitation. I raise my hand way up and, starting at the top of his head, trace the path of water down his body, past his shoulders, his chest, the place where his lower back slopes into his ass. I lick a droplet from his chest.

“Fuck,” he groans.

I like it when Demon Dad curses.

He grabs my hips with authority—running isn’t the only thing he knows how to do—and slips his thumbs inside my bathing suit on either side, teasing it slowly down. He pauses there.

“What’s the holdup?” I ask, pursing my lips.

He looks at me sideways, then yanks it the rest of the way down, so it drops with a smack, pooling at my ankles.

“No holdup.”

I am fully naked. In all the ways.

We stare at each other like a dare.

He calls my bluff first, backing me toward the shower wall again in a cloud of steam. Apparently, the water preservation will have to wait. I am also a finite resource. My shoulder blades press against the wood, as he pins my hands to the wall.

He takes a beat to look me up and down. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs. And it’s like I’ve been waiting for this my whole life instead of a few weeks.

My breath catches as he drags his palm down my arm and side to my hip. He makes a pilgrimage across my upper thigh and slips his hand between my legs. Finally . He just barely touches me. I claw at his back. He gives me more.

If my jellyfish sting still hurts, I’m in too much of a fugue state to know or care. I am no longer a solid. I am liquid mercury, shiny and illusory. No, I am a vapor! I am weightless. I am one of the constellations we saw looking down on us from the sky.

And I want it all. I am prepared to beg.

That’s when it occurs to me. There’s a hitch in my plan. Damn .

“Condom,” I mutter, like it’s the name of someone I hate.

He breaks away, his brow furrowed like he’s never heard of such a thing. Like it’s a foreign object. “Condom?” Then, “Oh, shit. Condom.”

We’re old married folk. Well, at least we were recently. People who either had weekly sex without constraint or never bumped uglies at all. Why would we think to carry such things? And it’s not like we’re in New York City. Like there’s a corner bodega or a twenty-four-hour pharmacy with blinking fluorescents advertising carnal convenience. This is a deserted island. Literally. A five-star wasteland. And, unless we can MacGyver a contraceptive device out of Turkish towels and key chains from the gift shop, we’re out of luck.

Now, we might actually be screwed.

But my fiery loins aren’t having it. Not with his wet skin pressed against mine. We must not be stopped.

I silently brainstorm; I can see Ethan’s wheels turning too. Stephanie surely has a stash. But we can’t go there. There’s no planet on which she doesn’t ask questions. There’s no way to ask Michael if I ever want to face him again.

That’s it! The thought of my favorite Citrine staff member reminds me of his tour and suddenly I have all the answers.

“The sundry drawer!” I shout, like I’ve got the most popular answer on Family Feud . Like 98 percent of the people they polled during sex said “sundry drawer!”

Still gripping my body, Ethan looks at me like I’ve lost it. “Sorry?”

Then I remember that he is a man. He does not use cotton balls. He does not use shower caps. He does not think about after sun gel.

“In the bathroom,” I say. “With the Q-tips.”

I watch realization dawn on his lovable face. “They have condoms in there?”

We bolt apart, throw on our towels and flip-flops and, pausing momentarily to make out against the back door to the main house, scurry through the villa like semi-naked burglars. Once in my room, I am on a mission. Clutching my towel to my chest, I slip into the sparkly bathroom, open the drawer with a prayer—and there are my RAW fair-trade condoms, hip to be square and backlit like the Holy Grail!

Thanking the gods, I turn back to Ethan, who is standing by the bed, a pained but hopeful look on his face.

“Are they there? Please tell me they’re there.”

I hold up the package like a winning ticket. And, in doing so, drop my towel. I don’t pick it up. He throws his head back and grins. And I’m on him before three.

Luckily, this time, the shades are drawn.

We topple onto the fluffy cloud bed and, in an instant, he flips me underneath him. He settles in like he’s my favorite weighted blanket. And I don’t ever want to get up. He leans down and nips my bottom lip. Then, pressing kisses against my overheated skin, he works his way from my jaw down. Neck. Collarbone. Breasts. Rib cage. Waist. Hip.

I feel like I’m about to burst I’m so impatient.

I close my eyes. Flash to all the times I’ve tried to push my feelings for him aside—stealing glances at his body in the park, the hot shock of his hand grazing mine in the schoolyard, his thigh between my legs on the hammock, his rum punch lips and tongue entangled with mine on the pitch-dark beach. His warm hand running slowly, appreciatively, down the side of my body, sending shivers through me. Every adorable smile and playful smirk. And I am overwhelmed with how much I want him.

It’s when he reaches my inner thigh, and stays for a while, that I call it.

I appreciate the gesture, but I can’t wait anymore. I need his bigger body between my legs. His chest to my chest. I need my hands on his back, him pressed into me. No air between us.

“It’s time,” I say.

“Time?”

I nod, holding up the condom. “To bang.”

He shakes his head, laughs. “Such a way with words.” But he doesn’t hesitate before he reaches for it.

I get to watch him, like a preview of what’s to come, as he rips the package open. The boyish angles of his face. His furrowed brow as he concentrates. His muscular forearms. He is a thing of beauty.

Then, not soon enough, he is hovering over me, his rapacious eyes fixed on mine. This man wants me too.

I wrap my legs around his hips and hold on tight; he is so hard against me.

“Sasha,” he says gruffly. My name .

I am already undone.

“Ethan. Please .”

He shoots me one of those crooked half smiles, like he likes that I’m tortured for him.

“Since you asked nicely,” he says. Then he finally thrusts inside me—first slow, deep, then harder as I demand it.

And that’s when I lose all cogent thought, all hell breaking loose in the best possible way. The best laid plans. (God help me and the puns.)