Page 6 of Beach Bodies

I block out their conversation and sign the bottom of my customs form.

Nothing to declare.

Soon I’m exiting the airport and boarding one of the shiny new Riovan-branded shuttle buses that will take me to the south side of the island, where the resort lies sprawled on an outcrop of rock guarding its private beaches below, like a sleeping dragon.

You can say a lot about the Riovan, but you can’t fault it for its looks. Even though it will be a good thirty minutes of bumpy roads before the resort comes into view, I can see it in my mind’s eye. It’s imprinted there from the first time I saw it five years ago, the same way a flash of searing light imprints itself on the back of your eyelids. A white building on white rocks, overlooking a flawless crescent of crystalline sand and turquoise water that starts shallow, but thirty feet in drops off, the colour changing to a deep and dangerous blue-green.

The resort is shaped like a tiara. In the centre, facing the water, are the public areas, stacked in a tall building: dining hall, two restaurants, bar, gym, yoga studio, spa. Spreading out like curving wings to either side, to maximize the view of the water, are the guest accommodation and staff rooms. Enclosed in the tiara are two pools, tennis courts, a Zen garden with a water feature, and a cluster of gas fire pits for evening lounging. The first time I saw the Zen garden, I burst out laughing. I’m not sure why. I suppose luxury at that level struck some chord of silliness at the time. Let’s just say I wasn’t laughing by the time I left.

I find a seat in the back row of the shuttle and rest my head against the top of the bench seat as my stomach protests all of my life choices. Mainly the vodka. In my mind’s eye, I see the Riovan like a fortress on the cliffs, waiting for me like it does every year, silent and watchful. Does it know why I come? If it did, would it snap its jaws shut as I crossed the threshold?

I stir in my seat.Silly. The Riovan isn’t a being. I jiggle my leg as passengers continue to trickle in. Soon we’re full up. The mom and her teenage daughter are the last to board. They press into the row right in front of me, the daughterclosest to the aisle, and barely have a chance to sit before the bus lurches down the road that will take us to the southeast corner of the island.

‘I told you to wear something different. It’s hotter down here,’ I hear the uptight mother say in a low voice.

‘I don’t like to show my arms,’ says the teen.

‘I don’t want to hear it, Skylar,’ the mom hisses, before reaching into her purse for her earbuds. ‘I’ve told you and told you. The solution isn’t to cover them up, it’s tofirmthem up.’

The girl, Skylar, silently turns her head away from her mother and leans into the aisle, giving me a full view of her profile. I’d put her around fourteen. The same age I was when I started dressing in oversized everything.

I watch her for a few seconds. Lean forward.

‘Hey.’

She twists back.

‘I like your shirt,’ I whisper with a conspiratorial smile. ‘Great choice.’

‘Oh, thanks.’ She seems embarrassed, but pleased. ‘I made it. With a tie-dye kit? I got for my birthday? It has, like, um… all my favourite colours in it…’ She plucks her shirt out from her body.

I smile. ‘I like the purple and the blue. They’re kind of blending together. In a ring.’

‘That’s my favourite part too! Hey…’ Skylar scrunches her nose. ‘How much would you pay for a shirt like this?’

‘Are you selling them?’

‘They’re really fun to make. And I could customize them with people’s favourite colours…’

‘Love it. I’d totally buy one.’

‘Sweetie?’ says her mother, one earbud plucked out and pinched between her fingers. ‘Look forward or you’ll get motion sick.’ She gives me a suspicious frown.

With a guilty little ‘sorry’, Skylar turns forward again.

‘I was just admiring your daughter’s T-shirt,’ I say with a friendly smile, even though I’d love nothing more than to give the woman two firm slaps across the face.You have a great daughter. Don’t you dare fuck her up.‘She’s quite the artist.’

The mom doesn’t deign to respond with anything but a thin-lipped smile.

As the shuttle bus bumps over the rough island roads, and the first-timers seated around me ooh and aah as the ocean sends teasing little sparks through the thick vegetation, I close my eyes again and let myself drift.

I don’t want to be here. It would be more comfortable to stay in my Cincinnati life, to disappear into the routine of work, the distraction of my friends and their small dramas, the slow, sleepy rhythm of Sundays spent reading the next book on my list of100 Classics to Read Before You Die(Crime and Punishmentis number 48).

But I have to be here.

Call it duty? Compulsion? Vocation? Passion? Maybe. So many labels I could put on it to try and manipulate how others would see it, howIsee it… but labels are cheap. Reductive. As my mother’s daughter, I should know.

The existentialists had it right. (The Ethics of Ambiguityis number 25.) We are fundamentally free, which is actually terrifying. We are responsible for our choices. Every. Single. One.

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