Who cares if people think I’m a loser? I’m not a loser. Or, at least I won’t be after my year of self-discovery is complete.
I give myself a little mental pat on the back. “I know. That’s why I did it.”
“This isn’t like you at all.”
“I’m trying something new.” So take that, world.
When Tessa speaks, there’s a new suspicion lacing the words. “Did something bad happen with the doctor? Did he suck in bed?”
“It was fine. He has nothing to do with it.” It’s a lie. He has everything to do with it, just not in a way I can explain. How do I articulate that the best sex of my life is forcing me to make changes in my life? It’s counter intuitive.
I run my hand through my hair, and try to ignore the feeling that’s been dogging me since I snuck out of Christopher Fellows’s apartment. I hate that he feels like a missed opportunity, when it’s not true. Even if I’d done everything perfectly, there’s no future. I’m thirty-two to his twenty-seven. Five years older! I understand this is the modern age and women can do whatever they want, but I don’t date younger guys. He’s supposed to be older than me. I’m supposed to make him feel young, not have him make me feel old. Also, he’s starting his career, and still finishing up his residency to be an orthopedic surgeon. I’m nearing the wrong side of thirty and am now forced to be realistic. If I want family and kids, I don’t have time to sit around and wait for someone to establish a career.
Any relationship potential was over before it began.
Besides, that had never been the point of him anyway. I’d gone after him precisely because he was uncomplicated.
“Fine doesn’t sound all that promising.” Tessa’s voice rips me from my thoughts.
I bite my tongue to keep from defending him. To keep from gushing about his considerable skills. A man that sweet looking should not be that good in bed. There should be a law. Or he should come with a warning. Caution: May cause multiple orgasms and life-changing self-analysis.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Tessa sounds concerned again.
I do my best to reassure her. “I’m great. I promise. I wanted to do something different, something challenging, so here I am. This vacation is about me. A journey.”
There’s nothing but silence.
I can’t explain any more than that. “I should go.” I have a Kindle full of books to read—from Zen Buddhism to The Power of Habit—to feed my mind, and a phone filled with guided meditations to feed my soul.
“Are you sure? Because you sound weird.”
I laugh. “I swear, I’m more awesome than I’ve been in a long time. I just needed a vacation. I booked a cabana this afternoon so I can relax, drink, and sit on the beach until the travel washes away. Tomorrow morning, I’ve scheduled a beachside yoga class and a massage. Does that sound like a breakdown to you?”
“I guess not.” She still doesn’t sound convinced but I’m through trying to explain. “Will you call if you need me?”
“I will.” A false promise, because I won’t call. From now on the only person I’m going to need is myself. “Talk soon, love ya.”
I hang up before she can say anything else, and signal the waitress over to order another drink. I smile up at her, a young, pretty girl with dark skin, a red bikini top with a matching floral-print sarong. “Can I get another in a plastic cup to take with me?”
“Of course, ma’am.” She writes it down on her pad and hurries away.
I adjust my sunglasses. I’ll ignore the ma’am part and focus on the beach.
So this is it, I’m taking charge. As Elizabeth Gilbert says in the book, “Day fucking one.”
Operation self-improvement is on its way.
The sun is heaven on my skin.
After the night of crazy sex, frantic preparations, traveling and drinking a day’s calorie worth of pi?a coladas I’m exhausted. Alone with my cabana, the sun shining on my skin, the weather is making me so tired. Lulling me into that space between sleep and wakefulness. My lids grow heavy and I close the cover of my Kindle and toss it aside. My eyes drift closed.
This is the best idea I’ve ever had. Why did I ever avoid this? I should have done this a million years ago.
What better way to deal with a disaster than by escape? I’m a genius.
My limbs are boneless, heavy with relaxation. I have complete freedom to do whatever I want. And all I want is to drift along, the warmth of the sun on my skin, the sounds of the water breaking over the shore, the tropical breeze blowing in my hair.
I shift on my chair, and lower it down to a prone position. Between my legs I’m still swollen and sore. A flash of memory fills my head, distracting me from my quest for peace. Christopher moving slow and easy and languid inside me. His hands—
Nope!