Leaving the bathroom, I wander into the main room. Plenty of closet space for my clothes. Not that I brought loads.
Mostly bikinis, shorts, and tank tops. Some summer dresses and outfits to wear to my solo dinners.
Nothing fancy.
Although I did bring a pair of heels with me, I can’t see them getting much use. Walking on sand in heels is a definite no-no.
Thankfully, I brought some wedges and nice flip-flops, the kind with a bit of bling on them, in case I have to dress up.
I honestly don’t know what the dinner dress code is here.
I’m imagining it to be quite relaxed.
And I’m seriously overthinking this.
When I reach the bed, my bag slips off my shoulder and thuds to the floor, right along with my stomach.
The bed is all laid out with a sprinkling of rose petals and some towels arranged into the shape of a heart.
At the end of the bed, there’s a small table with a bucket of champagne and two glasses. A fruit basket and a card.
I walk toward it and pick up the card. Removing it from the envelope, I read it.
I don’t realize I’m crying until a tear hits the card, smudging the ink.
Fuck this.
I dry my face with my hand. Toss the card onto the floor and grab the champagne from the bucket. Unwrapping it, I pop the cork with proficiency that I didn’t know I had, and I take a long swig from the bottle. Fuck the glass. It’s not like I’m sharing it with anyone.
Grabbing a banana from the fruit basket, I walk out onto the terrace, into the heat, and sit down on one of the two loungers.
Two loungers and only one of me.
I glare at the empty lounger, like it’s somehow its fault that my life went to shit in the span of a few seconds.
A few seconds … walking in and seeing something no person ever wants to see … was all it took for my life and future dreams to dissolve into pieces before me.
Honestly, I’d toss that sun lounger into the ocean, but I don’t want to have to stump up the cash to replace it.
That, and the sea life doesn’t deserve to have its home invaded by my anger.
Still, I put my foot up against the side of the lounger and push it as far away from me as I can.
God, look at me. I should change my name to Eeyore. I’m like a sad fucking donkey.
I need to sort my shit out. Cheer the hell up.
But first, I need something to eat; otherwise, I’ll be a cheap date tonight.
Putting the bottle down on the floor beside the lounger, I peel open the banana.
It’s actually a hella big banana. Bigger than my ex’s dick—that’s for sure. Probably has more potential to fill me as well.
I snort a laugh.
Tim used to hate it when I snorted, so I used to try not to do it.
See, there is an upside to all this. I can snort a laugh without the prick complaining.
I snort again and then a couple more times, just for the hell of it. Then, I take a big bite of banana. Chew and swallow and then chase it down with some more champagne.
I might be alone and miserable. But I’m in paradise. In the most gorgeous bungalow, looking out over the water. I have an outside bath and alcohol, and that always helps dull the pain, making me feel less alone and sad.
I’m a happy drunk, always have been, so I’ll just keep drinking this champagne until I’m feeling happy.
Or as happy as I can.
I get my phone and open up the Music app, and then I select a song that never fails to lift my spirits and pump a bit of strength into me—Christina Aguilera’s “Fighter.” I hit play, and then I put the champagne bottle to my lips and take another drink.
two
West
I notice her the moment she walks in the bar. She’s hard to miss for a few reasons. One, she’s clearly drunk and trying to act like she’s sober. It shows in the rigidness of her walk. Two, she’s wearing a hell of a lot of clothes for this kind of heat. Even at night, it’s hot as balls here, and this chick is wearing black leggings and a long-sleeved black shirt, like we’re in for a cold flash. And three, which probably should have been the first thing I listed … she’s hot as fuck. She reminds