Page 203 of The Fall

The rain fades by mid-afternoon, leaving the island draped in that brightness that follows tropical storms. Water beads on palm fronds and drips from the villa’s eaves.

Blair stands at the French doors, his silhouette dark against the sudden clarity of sky. “They’re setting up for Carnival tonight,” he says.

I stretch across the rumpled sheets, muscles perfectly sore, and look at him from our nest of tangled linens. “Oh yeah?”

“It’s supposed to be incredible. Great music, great food, dancing...” His eyebrows flick up.

“Dancing, eh? This I have to see.”

Blair’s smile, the one that starts in his eyes before it reaches his mouth, breaks across his face. “Just call me Fred Astaire.”

We shower together, a fruitless exercise. Blair washes me head to toe, and my fingers trace the planes of his chest, the ridges of his abs, the strong curve of his ass, until he pins me against the tile wall and we lose another hour and wring another orgasm each from each other.

We borrow a Jeep from the resort and steer down winding roads that hug the coastline. Blair drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on my thigh. The air rushing through the windows carries salt and spice and hibiscus, and I close my eyes and lean my face into the soft wind.

The music reaches us first: drums and brass from half a mile away.

Blair parks at the edge of town. Lights string between palm trees, a thousand tiny suns throwing gold across a moving river of people. Towering figures on stilts glide above the shifting crowd. Dancers whirl past in brilliant colors: royal and tangerinesilks, currant and aubergine and sunflower-yellow painted faces, peacock purple and teal feathers in elaborate updos.

Bassline thumps through everything: walls, the ground, my body. A man shakes a tin can full of coins in time to a band warming up on the corner, and a drumline rattles down the street.

The air carries a dozen scents: wood smoke and roasting meat, salt water and flowers, the clean sweat of bodies dancing together. Kids weave through the crowd with sparklers, trailing light like comets as vendors offer grilled breadfruit and skewers glistening with jerk spices, bottles of homemade rum, flowers, beads, candles, and candies.

“Ready?” Blair asks, taking my hand. His fingers lace through mine.

“Let’s do this.”

We wander narrow streets still sticky with heat, the stone slick where the rain fell. We stop to buy fresh coconuts cracked open for their water and meat, fried plantains dusted with cinnamon, and fresh mango sliced into star patterns. The sticky-sweet juice coats my fingers; Blair laughs when I suck them clean. He buys us both woven bracelets and we put them on each other.

The music grows louder as we head toward the center of town. A full band plays on a homemade stage, saxophones and trumpets gleaming under colored lights, drums keeping swaying time like relaxed heartbeats. A man with silver at his temples plays a flute that soars above the percussion. Everyone is dancing; it’s impossible not to move.

Blair’s arm slides around my waist, drawing me flush against his chest. His breath tickles my ear when he speaks. “They call this soca music,” he says.

“How do you know that?”

His smile turns sheepish. “I might have done some research before we came.”

So very Blair: researching Caribbean music just to share it with me here. I turn in his arms until we’re face to face. “Dance with me.”

We start awkwardly, trying to mimic everyone else’s easy movements. Blair steps on my foot; I bump his knee. We laugh, foreheads brushing together as we get our balance. We’re not good at this, not by any stretch. Our movements are clumsy compared to everyone else, but it doesn’t matter. Blair’s hand is warm at my waist and his eyes never leave mine.

Gradually, we settle into a rhythm. Blair’s hips guide mine, and my arms are locked around his neck. We breathe each other’s breath. Our lips brush by accident, then again with purpose.

Music is everywhere: steel pans bright as starlight, bass loud enough to move bones. Blair spins me unexpectedly, then pulls me back in with a laugh. We dance through three songs, and by the end, we’re sweating and laughing, loose and jointless.

When the band takes a break, Blair leads me back toward the food. We demolish another handful of skewers, then get one of each dessert. While we’re refueling, parade floats bloom from the side streets, paper-mâché peacocks and serpents bedecked in carnival beads and fluttering ribbons. Sequins flash; someone throws sugar-dusted pastries into the crowd. A woman sings into a battered mic, her voice cracked velvet curling around old love songs.

Blair pulls me into the flow of people following the parade. We dance our way down the main drag toward the beach, where bonfires dot the sand.

We claim a spot near one of the smaller fires. Blair sits and pulls me down, my back against his chest, his arms wrapped around me. The parade continues its winding path along theshore, music and laughter trailing behind it like a wake behind a boat.

The fire snaps in front of us, throwing orange sparks up toward the night sky. The heat warms my face while Blair’s body keeps my back cozy. I lean into him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against me. We don’t talk for a while, watching the flames dance and the parade lights twinkle.

I run my fingers along Blair’s forearm. His chin rests on my shoulder, and I turn my head slightly, catching the profile of his face in the firelight. The orange glow catches on his cheekbones, in his eyes. He looks content. Happy.

“So,” Blair says, breaking the silence. His voice is casual, but threaded with an undercurrent I can’t decipher. “How did you handle being gay in the league?”

The question catches me off guard. How do I answer that? The truth is complicated; I barely understood my own sexuality until I dreamed up a perfect future with Blair. Falling for him was the first time I’d ever felt this way about anyone.