Page 8 of The Four Engagement Rings of Sybil Rain

“Great, thank you!” I make a note to do some Googling about what camera settings I’ll need to adjust on my phone to get a good picture of the moon turning blood red as it passes through Earth’s shadow.

After coming all this way, it would be a serious fail if I ended up just posting a blurry red smudge to the Flowies feed.

I cross the lobby, pausing in the center of the atrium to study the map. I’m curious about the sculpture garden, thinking vivid flowers and bird baths would make for a great setting to stage some products, so I decide to head there after a quick change.

Already, my skin is looking more vibrant; tropical air suits me.

I throw on a fresh bathing suit—this one decidedly sexier, an all-black bikini with beaded straps—and an airy cotton mini-dress that you can see through in the light.

I run a brush through my hair and dollop another bit of lip gloss and I’m good to go.

I’m feeling a lot more like myself again when I descend back down to the main floor.

But I’ve barely passed through the hedges that line the perimeter of the gardens when I spy Jamie and Genevieve sitting on a stone bench, tucked among lush, flowering pink ginger.

Their heads are bent together as they read over a binder resting on their laps.

She’s now in a fuchsia wrap dress that hugs her curves and sets off her sleek dark hair.

Jamie’s changed into shorts and a T-shirt, and his hair has dried in soft waves.

One piece keeps falling into his eyes as he leans in to point to something in the binder.

My fingers itch with a Pavlovian instinct to reach over and smooth it back.

I think about just passing through anyway, give them a good look at my outfit change, act like I don’t care. But I’m not ready for that. I can’t handle another potential interaction this soon.

Then, as if he can sense my presence, Jamie’s head darts up, his eyes instantly finding mine.

My face flushes, and I turn on my heel to exit the way I came.

I’ll check out the sculpture garden another time.

F OLLOWING THE RESORT MAP, I take a path instead that goes past a putting green and a barbeque and picnic area before eventually winding its way down to the beach.

I turn the corner, and the vista that opens up before me is absolutely breathtaking.

Soft white-gold clouds on a brilliant blue sky, waves swooshing rhythmically in long white lines, the bright sand dappled with sunbathers.

I rent a chair under one of the hotel beach umbrellas and settle in to read a few eclipse articles. But I end up drifting off instead—probably thanks to the mai tai earlier, or the jet lag, or else the mental breakdown I’m fighting off.

When I wake up an hour or so later, the afternoon sun is glittering off the sea. Everything is cast in peachy-pink light. And there, head crowned in a halolike glow, is Jamie once again. I rub my eyes, convinced for a second that I’m still dreaming, but no.

His hair is wet again, this time with seawater, and his rash guard is plastered to his chest. He’s got a surfboard tucked under his arm—since when does Jamie surf?—as he emerges from the sea like a Greek god and makes his way up the beach.

As in, straight toward me.

I slump down to hide my face but overestimate the width of the chair and end up sprawled in the sand. Dear lord.

For a moment, I seriously consider just staying here and “owning my space and my stance,” as Gwendolyn would say, but the thought of faking my way through another painfully awkward interaction with Jamie has me back on my knees, stuffing my sunscreen into my tote and jamming my straw hat onto my head.

When I make it up from the beach, I make a beeline for the lobby lounge, figuring Jamie’s headed toward the elevators at the opposite end of the atrium to return to his room and shower off. He looks good sandy, but I have clear memories of the fact that he does not like to stay sandy.

But I’m wrong.

I no sooner step inside the marbled foyer than I spot him passing through one of the many arched entrances.

He’s bypassing the elevator bank and heading straight for the lobby bar.

I don’t think, I just act. Seconds later, I’ve ducked behind the bar, crouching beside a pair of very practical sneakers.

Above me, the bartender, an early-thirties chick with olive skin and a shaved head, doesn’t even pause wiping down a highball glass. She just glances down at me and says, “Can I help you find something?”

“My dignity?”

Her lips quirk up in a smile, but she doesn’t say anything as she reaches for another glass to dry.

“I’m trying to avoid my ex-fiancé,” I explain, looking up at her. “He’s here with his new girlfriend.”

She pauses and cocks her head at me. “How did you and your ex end up at the same hotel?”

“Ominous lunar energy? Or maybe just simple bad luck?”

Her eyebrows (both pierced) shoot up, but the smile doesn’t leave her face. “I’m not sure I want you behind my bar if you’re trailing luck that bad.”

“I don’t blame you.” I pull at the ribbon on my hat. “I promise to leave and take my doomed vibes with me in a sec. I just can’t seem to find anywhere in this hotel where he isn’t .”

Just then a man’s Boston-accented voice comes over the bar. “Can I have a pina colada?”

“Of course.” The bartender starts making the drink, and then I hear the man’s voice again.

“How about you guys? Pat? Gary? Fellas? What can I get ya?” There’s a cacophony of responses, and I peer out from behind the bar to see a mass of middle-aged men in Hawaiian shirts and name tags.

“Okay, yes. We’ll do three pinas, two mai tais, four lava flows, a hibiscus daiquiri, and three Coronas. With lime.”

From my spot on the floor, I can see the bartender’s stricken face.

She’s trying to hide it—no doubt her managers having drilled into her that at an upscale place like Halia Falls, the customer is always right—but I can tell she’s a little overwhelmed by the large order.

Seems like they only have one person on duty down here before five p.m., and these guys are ready to hit the afternoon like it’s Vegas.

Not even pausing to consider if Jamie might still be in the lobby, I whip off my straw hat and pop up from my hiding spot, startling a balding white guy in a guayabera who jerks back and nearly knocks over a barstool.

“All right, who had the Coronas?” A couple hands shoot up, and I quickly locate the mini fridge that contains the beers and start pulling out bottles.

“Got an opener?” I say to the bartender.

She looks at me dumbfounded but pulls a bottle opener from her apron and hands it to me.

I pop off the caps and top each bottle with a wedge of lime from a container of fruit garnish in front of me, then start handing the beers off.

Beside me, the bartender is mixing punch, pina coladas, and mai tais at record speed.

I pass off each drink as it’s completed.

“Oh, Gary, you would be a daiquiri guy,” I say with a grin, handing the beverage to the man I’d heard that other guy call Gary.

He’s short with small round spectacles and graying hair at his temples—and little-to-no hair on his crown—and he looks surprised, but pleased, that I somehow know his name.

“What makes you say that?” he asks.

“Because daiquiri guys are the most fun, obviously!”

The mood of the crowd brightens as I continue to hand out drinks, all with cocktail umbrellas and bright decorative flowers floating on top, making playful banter with each customer as I go.

And then, in just a few minutes, everyone’s got their orders, the bartender is swiping a credit card, and the group is heading off.

When they’re gone, the woman leans her lower back against the bar and looks at me. “So much for bad luck.” She flings a white towel over her shoulder. “What are you, some kind of guardian angel?”

“No, but I worked for a wedding caterer one summer.” I pick my hat up off the floor. “Pure hell. Don’t know how you do it.”

The bartender grins. “I’m Dani, by the way.”

“Sybil.”

“Well, thank you, Sybil.”

I laugh. “Thank you for letting me hide down there.”

“No problem,” she says. Then she raises a studded eyebrow. “So, ex-fiancé, huh?”

“Yep,” I say, wincing. “And if you can believe it, he’s not my first.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m oh-for-three on engagements turning into actual marriages. My friend Finn jokes that I’m allergic to the altar.”

Dani gives a low whistle. “Wow, that’s gotta be some kind of a record.”

“I never do anything halfway,” I say with a shrug and a half grin.

“So why did you leave this one?”

I’m momentarily taken aback by her frankness, but at the same time, I appreciate it.

Even my best friends have been wary over the past year of asking too many questions about the failed wedding.

I’m sure they think they’re just giving me space, and I appreciate the intention.

But sometimes, it also feels like they’re not asking because they already know the answer.

Sybil Rain is a bolter. That’s just who she is.

“Jamie is actually the one who called it off,” I say to Dani. “I did something stupid over our wedding weekend, and he couldn’t forgive me for it. So he cut me loose.”

“Something stupid?” Dani asks, and I can see wariness in her expression. Her lips have gone tight, and her eyes narrow. “As in… cheating?”

“No!” I say quickly. “Not like that at all. Maybe stupid is the wrong word. More, just… I handled myself all wrong.” Of all my many transgressions, at least I can say infidelity has never been one of them.

I sigh and look up toward the beautiful blue-tiled ceiling, wondering how much of my baggage I want to spill to this bartender.

“Essentially, I started not feeling well, and I guess I just got major cold feet and skipped town for a few days. I mean, it’s a little more complicated than that, but that’s the gist. I came back in time for the wedding, but at that point, the damage was done. ”

Dani gives me a sympathetic nod. “I’m sorry.”

I wave off her sympathy. “It’s fine. Anyway, what’s in the past is in the past. I just wish it would stay there.”

“I still can’t believe you’re both here,” Dani says, shaking her head. “Truly, what are the chances?”

“Well,” I tell her, “it’s not that much of a coincidence since we both had airline vouchers that were about to expire. We were supposed to come here on our honeymoon last year.”

Dani looks like she wants to ask me another question, but a customer comes up to the bar, and she turns to start fixing them their drink.

“Sorry, I’ll get out of your hair,” I tell her, coming out from behind the bar. “Now I just need to find a new hiding spot. Is there anywhere at this resort where I can be sure not to run into him?”

Dani smiles as she pours rum into a cocktail shaker. “Listen, if you really want to avoid this guy, I can think of one place to go. Out to sea.”

I look at her to see if she’s joking.

“There’s a snorkel boat,” she explains. “I think the last trip heads out at 4:30 and it’s… 4:15 now. Want me to call down and have them hold you a spot?”

“That’s perfect.” I startle her by giving her a swift hug. “You’re a saint!” Then I race out of the bar toward the docks.

It isn’t until I’m hurrying across the white-sugar sand to the snorkeling shack that I wonder if I’ve been overhasty.

Maybe instead of avoiding Jamie like the plague, I should just grin and bear it.

We’re both adults. There’s no reason why we can’t be cordial to each other.

Talk, even, like Nikki suggested. But Jamie’s face from this morning—cold and distant—flashes through my mind, and I shut down any thoughts of cordiality with him.

The past should stay in the past. That ship sailed and sank.

There’s no point trying to salvage anything from the wreckage.