Page 88 of Beach Bodies

There’s a parallel world in which Daniel ran the story five years ago, and the Riovan shut down, and Jessica was vindicated, and I didn’t kill anyone, and Daniel and I fell in love. A cruel little montage of scenes follows– Daniel and me waking up late on a lazy Sunday and squabbling over who gets what section of the paper while bacon sizzles in the skillet. We’re both passionate citizens of the world in our own ways; it’s easy to imagine we might get involved in city politics. Local non-profits. Argue about the candidates on the ballot, the ethics of processed meat, the character arcs inCrime and Punishment. We’d argue hard and love hard. It would be a great life, full of intensity and purpose… and incredible sex.

But that’s not the world I got.

Not the life I lived.

Not the choices I made.

I’ve reached the Jeeps, all parked together just outside town in a grassy clearing, the keys still inside; there’s no theft up here. I simply climb into the first vehicle, turn the key in the ignition, and rumble my way back on to the dark road that leads through the rainforest.

Above, the stars twinkle, distant and cold.

Stars are so different from fireworks, aren’t they? Fireworks demand your attention with their boom and their flare– but then they leave. You have to work harder for the stars. Leave the city and the light pollution and the chaos– all so that you can see what was really there all along.

I’ve never wanted something as much as I want to turn the vehicle around right now.

I want to run back to Daniel, fling myself into his arms.

I want to be the Lily he can be with, without compromising who he is.

The rainforest looms like a mouth, eternally open in a black yawn. I press down on the gas, and the stars are swallowed by the canopy. The Jeep’s headlamps jolt their light into the largeness of the dark. The scent of the rainforest at night is somehow even richer than during the day. Thick, floral, smothering.

I push down even harder on the accelerator.

In my heart of hearts, I know what happens next, because I know him.

He cares too much about justice and truth to stay silent.

He’ll air the season.

He’ll ruin me.

And I’ll love him the more for it.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Back at the hotel, I move about the room in a dream state, booking a ticket on my phone on the first flight out, then packing my things. My Riovan-branded gear I leave on the bed.

I drive to the airport in the Riovan Jeep. They’ll find a way to get their vehicle back. It’s two in the morning when I park in the airport garage. No flights are going out until morning, of course, so I curl up in the back seat. At 5a.m., I rouse myself, redo my ponytail, grab my luggage. Leaving the keys in the Jeep’s front seat, I head into the blinding fluorescent light of the airport. The security line is short, and only ten people are ahead of me. I’m certain I’ll be stopped by officials.

I hand the first man my passport and scan the ticket QR code on his device, my pulse racing as I remember the prison conditions on the island. The hole-in-the-ground potties. The overcrowded cells…

‘Go ahead,’ he says with a smile, handing my passport back. ‘Have a safe trip home.’

Really? That easy?

The duty-free shops on the way to my gate display mementos– posters and straw hats, sandals and carved earrings. I stop before one of the displays, and some achy part of me wishes this wasthatkind of trip; one I’d want to remember with a bird-shaped magnet or a set of tacky coasters.

Even while I wait in the short line of people boarding the flight to Miami, I can almost hear it– the footsteps of police, running to stop me before I leave the island.Arrêtez, mademoiselle, arrêtez!

But I board in peace, take up residence in my oversized seat, and am promptly offered a steaming washcloth to refresh my face and hands.

‘Would you like a beverage before we take off?’ says a glossy flight attendant in navy blue, leaning towards my seat with a pair of tongs to collect the hot washcloth I just used.

I upgraded to first class. I figure, if I do go to prison after Season Two drops, I’ll appreciate the memory of the leg room on my final flight. The hot washcloth and the warm salted nuts are just added bonuses.

‘Some white wine, please,’ I say. Pretty sure they don’t serve that in prison, either.

I sip the wine. I’m still processing so much, but one thing keeps floating to the top:

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