Page 28 of A Not-So Holiday Paradise

“I wasn’t joking about the bugs and rodents being in here,” Beckett says, stepping back and looking around. “So I think we should create a sort of wall with these crates. Like a kid would make a fort, kind of.”

I nod. “Yeah,” I say again, feeling relieved at this suggestion. I don’t want rats to eat my feet in the night. “Okay. Good.”

So together we move, pushing and dragging and arranging until there are massive trails in the dirt floor and we’ve cordoned off what essentially amounts to a tiny, rectangular room with crates for walls.

“Is this the only blanket?” I say, pulling mine a little tighter and praying that his answer won’t beyes.

“Yes.”

Great.

“You take it,” I say quickly, unwrapping myself. “I’ve had it for a bit. I’m warmer now.”

It’s a lie; I still feel frozen to my bones, which I don’t understand at all. It’s not freezing outside the hut or within. We’re maybe in the sixties. Is it psychological? Is that a thing?

“No,” Beckett says, shaking his head. “Keep it. Or we can share; either way. But you need it too.”

I blink at him, intending to thank him once again, but what comes out is “You’re being really nice.”

A snort of laughter, maybe a little bitter, escapes him. “Not really. Your brother would kill me if I let you die on my watch.”

Ah. Right. That makes sense, I guess. But even though it’s stupid, I can’t help the small twinge of disappointment I feel. It’s not like I was expecting him to confess his love or to say he cares more about my comfort than his own. I know that’s not the case.

So why is my heart sinking?

“Tired,” I mutter. “I’m tired.” That has to be it. This has been a fantastically terrible evening, and even though night hasn’t fallen in earnest yet, I’m wiped out. Of course my emotions are going to be iffy at a time like this.

“Get in,” Beckett says, thankfully not bringing up the fact that I’m talking to myself. He nods at our makeshift sleeping chamber, and I eye the space warily.

It’s going to be a tight fit. No starfishing tonight. And what if I do something embarrassing in my sleep, like snuggle up to him? What if I snore? What if I talk in my sleep?

“Should I put the blanket down first?” I say, because I need to stop psyching myself out.

“Oh,” Beckett says, rubbing the back of his neck. He looks at the blanket in my arms and then at the dirt floor. “Yeah. And then we can kind of roll ourselves up in it.”

Like two little island burritos.

“I don’t guess there are any types of fish that sleep rolled up in leaves or whatever,” Beckett says.

I blink at him, frankly shocked by the question. “Uh,” I say. “Not quite, that I know of. But betta fish—”

“Those are the blue ones in aquariums a lot, right?”

“Not always blue, but yeah. They sometimes use leaves as little hammocks, sort of.” I blink at him again. “Why do you ask?”

He shrugs, looking self-conscious. “Just seems like you like to talk about fish, so I thought…I don’t know. You might want to tell me about it.”

That’s…unexpectedly sweet.

But he points to our little crate room before I can say anything. “Spread the blanket,” he says.

You know,” I say, leaning over the edge of the crate nearest me and spreading the blanket as neatly as possible into the space. “There’s a specific group of fish called sand-sleeping wrasses that bury themselves to sleep. They sort of burrow into the sand.”

“I’ll stick to my bed.”

The two of us clamber over the crates to reach the space in the middle, him gracefully, me less so. Then, not making eye contact with each other, we both lower ourselves to the ground and lie down. It’s an awkward shuffle of muttered “sorrys” and knocking elbows and knees, but we make it.

And then we’re just lying there, the two of us stretched out side by side like a couple of sardines staring at the roof, and my mind is speeding once more through all the ways this could go wrong.

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