“I’m sorry,” Deanie says distractedly. “But”—she glances back over her shoulder—“did you see that guy?”
“Guy?” I wrap the ribbons around my wrists for the final trip to the boat, still looking at those balloons. Seeing a camel float away like that feels like a bad omen. And yet somehow…I’m jealous. It’s literally floating on air. Free, with no pressure; no responsibilities. Nothing to do but bob along in the sky?—
“The hottest man alive just walked into that bar,” Deanie says, cutting into my thoughts.
I glance over at the beach as we walk back down the dock. The only building there, besides a few gorgeous beach houses farther down the sandy crescent, is a pub called the Rusty Dinghy.
“Worthy of killing an endangered animal for?” I stare up at the camel balloon, now a rapidly shrinking yellow dot in the sky. My stomach churns.
“A chest as wide as that island.” Deanie says, oblivious. “The kind of biceps that could pick me up like I was a pool noodle.”
I resist rolling my eyes. Easy for Deanie to say. Her petite frame is about the size of a pool noodle. “You couldn’t even see his face from here. He could be missing teeth. Or have an offensive tattoo or something. Plus, he’s walking into a bar at nine in the morning.”
She sighs again as we reach the boat again. “I love tattoos. Ooh, maybe he’s the bartender!” She sees my single raised eyebrow. “Okay. You’re right. But you forget what it’s like to be single at our age.”
“We’re twenty-nine!”
“Exactly.”
I laugh, and I have to admit it feels good. I’m wound up so tight my teeth hurt.
Also, I’m kind of sad I missed him. I can admire a handsome guy from afar, though I don’t go gooey for them the way Deanie does. I think it’s a lifetime of knowing those gorgeous guys don’t really go for girls like me—on the plainer side of pretty, with my basic, wavy brown hair and freckles, short, and a little thicker than what’s considered ideal. I get called cute but rarely beautiful like Deanie. It’s fine. It just takes the pressure off.
But I’m not single, either. I think of Richard and how sweet it was that he volunteered to ride on the boat with my parents over here. Of course, it would have been better if he drove up with me and Deanie to help set up. Funny how immovable his golf plans suddenly were this morning.
Once the boat’s finally loaded, grizzled boat guy looking like he’s deeply regretting his life choices, I give Deanie a hug. “Thanks again for looking after things while I’m gone.”
Deanie’s my friend, but that’s because she’s also VP of the company I founded, Visionary Consulting, which specializes in company rebranding. I’ve forwarded all calls to her until tomorrow night when I’m back in Vancouver. She’s my right-hand woman, and she promised she could handle it for a few days. “Three, max,” she’d said though. “Sorry.”
No one wants my job. It’s thankless. I don’t get to do any of the fun projects anymore. I just run the show. Fix the problems. Manage the crises and nightmare clients.
Deanie grimaces as if remembering what she’s taking on. But she puts on a perky face. “Of course. It’s no problem. And maybe someday you won’t need anyone to look after things over the weekend.”
The fact that I don’t ever see that happening—at least not in the foreseeable future—is enough to make my breathing a little tight.
“When Clientzilla calls”—because it’s not if, but when—“remind her to do her mindfulness exercises.” Clientzilla is our worst but most lucrative client, who loves to text me 911 branding emergencies twenty-four hours a day. “Anyone else, tell them I’ll call when I’m back.”
“I’ll be fine!” Deanie says, waving at me as we pull away from the dock. She chews her nails, probably already having received a hundred texts from Clientzilla. But before the driver turns the boat around, I see her staring wistfully at the bar as she heads back to the van.
I laugh because it’s easier than focusing on the nerves jangling in my stomach, hoping I pull this off.
An hour later, my phone buzzes.
RICHARD: we’re at the dock.
My stomach flips with excitement. The room is decorated, and I’ve just laid out the food items on the main catering table. The owners of the resort only let me use the retreat center if I booked the whole thing—the hall and all the rooms—so even though it’s a little overkill having the place decorated just for the four of us, it’ll all be worth it to see Mom’s face.
BRYONY: sounds good. I’m ready!
I’m not quite. I rush to the bathroom to change into the linen suit Mom likes—at least it’s the only one she doesn’t criticize as fitting me “poorly.”
I throw a brush through my hair and slick a last-minute coating of gloss on my lips, then rush back out. They’re arriving at the dock on the other side of the tiny island, the bigger one for larger watercraft, only a five-minute walk up to the retreat center. I know; I timed it. I wait until I hear voices from the path before swinging the main doors open.
Mom and Dad are bickering as they make their way up the path, and Richard’s on his phone behind them. As usual. I try to ignore the way that jabs at me. My mom’s birthday—the one where I told him I was taking a big risk in trying to connect with her—is kind of a big deal.
Still, I lift my chin, setting my smile back on straight.
“Hi!” I close the doors behind me, wanting to preserve the surprise.