Page 117 of Total Dreamboat
“I’m truly very sorry,” she says. “Perhaps you can find another hotel.”
“Right. Thank you.”
I trudge to a chair in the lobby and set about calling around to see if other places nearby can check me in with just cash.
I strike out.
Which leaves me only one option.
I dial Hope’s number.
Hope
Separating from Felix, while satisfying in the moment, was misguided.
It turns out that to get a temporary passport, you need proof of your travel plans. This means I need to change my airline ticket to depart from the Bahamas. Which requires the internet. Which requires tracking down an internet cafe—yes, they do still exist, although nowhere near the embassy—and then physically printing out forms and trekking back another half hour on foot to stand in line once again. (Did I get lost multiple times without Google Maps? Yes. Yes I did.)
The whole process takes hours, and I’m told it will be at least two days before my passport is ready to pick up. Under other circumstances, killing two days on a tropical island would be heavenly. In actuality, it is tragic. I’m paranoid about money, paranoid about getting fired, and paranoid about braving international travel without a smartphone.
Plus, it is so fucking hot.
I trudge back in the direction of the hotel and stop at a market to buy a pineapple Fanta. I stand under the awning in the shade and down it in three long gulps. It’s cold and sugary and makes me feel momentarily better, until Iask directions to Paradise Fun and learn that I’ve walked in the wrong direction and am now forty-five minutes away.
I buy another Fanta.
As I’m paying, my new phone vibrates in my purse. The only people that have this number are Felix, Lauren, Lana, and the embassy. I pray it’s not the embassy reporting some new hiccup that will result in further bureaucratic hell. Even more fervently, I pray that it’s not Lana telling me that something went wrong with the media blast.
But it’s not.
It’s Felix.
At the sight of his name, I feel a mix of irritation that I’m not rid of him, and relief that I am not technically in the Bahamas alone.
I accept the call. “Yes?”
“Hey. It’s me.”
“So I gathered.”
“Look, I know you don’t want to hear from me and I truly hate to ask, but I need help.” He sounds like these words have been extracted from his throat with pliers. “I can’t find a hotel that will let me book a room without ID and a credit card.”
I instantly gather what this means.
I’m going to make him say it anyway.
“So…?” I prod.
“So, I was wondering if I could stay with you again. At Paradise Fun.”
I consider this. On the one hand, I was looking forward to never seeing him again. On the other, if I do him a favor I’ll have the upper hand. And there is the human compassion aspect, or whatever.
“Hope?” he asks.
“Yeah, okay,” I say. “Fine. I’m on my way back there now.”
“Thank you,” he says. There is so much genuine relief in his voice that for a second I feel sorry for him. He has offended me to my core and ruined the high I was feeling at experiencing real, actual joy for the first time since my breakup. But he’s not a bad person.
Or maybe he’s a moderately bad person, but I don’t want him to suffer.
