Page 65 of A Not-So Holiday Paradise

“That was my question.”

“Great,” she says. “Any more?”

“None,” I say. I smile a little. “Should we forget about yesterday, then?”

“Yes,” she says fervently. “We should. It’s Christmas!”

“It is Christmas.” My smile grows as I watch the excitement dawn on her face. There’s something almost childlike about the way she claps her hands and smiles at me, her eyes shining.

“It’s Christmas, and I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”

That freaking smile of mine grows even more. “Let’s eat,” I say. I’m going to make this the best Christmas I can for her.

* * *

Because tourism isthe number one source of income for the island—followed closely by trade and rum production—we’re able to find somewhere to eat breakfast with ease. It’s a little café I’ve never actually been to, despite the fact that it’s located prominently in the square where Señorita and Alfonso hang out. We’re only inside for three seconds before it becomes apparent that this place has leaned heavily into the island theme; there’s some sort of tropical music playing in the background, and the tropical flower motif is incorporated pretty thoroughly everywhere, from the tablecloths to the wallpaper.

A cheerful man with a wide smile greets us and then leads us to a tiny, two-person table next to the large front window. Then he hands us two menus, takes our drink orders, and promises to be back shortly.

Molly opens her menu right away, but I let my gaze wander out the window for a few minutes first. As always there’s a steady stream of people, and people-watching is one of my favorite things to do. I’m not sure why; I don’t know what I get from seeing random crowds going about their business.

“It’s because you’re lonely,” Molly says when I tell her this. “You don’t feel socially fulfilled, so you like to watch other people being social.”

“I’m socially fulfilled,” I say. It’s a knee-jerk response more than anything; considering her words for even two seconds leads me to the conclusion that she’s right.

“Are you?” she says skeptically. “Didn’t we establish just a few days ago that you’re a chronic avoider of relationships?”

I swallow. I do remember that conversation. “All right, fine. Yes. I could stand to be more social,” I say.

Molly smiles, radiant and beautiful. “Don’t worry; you have lots of chances to practice. You like the people you work with, don’t you?”

My shrug is halfhearted. “I guess, yeah. They’re fine. They’re good.”

A snort of laughter escapes her, and then she says, “Such a convincing character recommendation.” She points to my menu, which is still folded on the table in front of me. “Have you decided what you want to eat?”

Oh. I should probably do that. I open the menu, scanning quickly over the items. “Eggs, breakfast sandwich, fruit—” But I break off when Molly suddenly begins to laugh.

“Do you remember how that first day Wes and I were late?” she says through her giggles.

“Yeah,” I say, wondering where this is going.

“It’s because I had an allergic reaction to the tropical fruit they served on the breakfast buffet,” she says. “At least, I think it was the fruit; that was the only thing I ate that I hadn’t had before. I had these splotchy pink hives all over my face, and I was so worried because I was going to see you for the first time in years.” She’s still smiling, a faraway look in her eyes. Her gaze turns to me as she goes on, “I wanted to make a good impression on you.”

She laughs again, and it’s a contagious sound; I find myself laughing too. Except there’s something about our laughter that’s tinged with desperation, a sharp edge to the sound that slices at the space between us. I think I know why, too—it’s because this is our last day together. And even though we haven’t talked about what will happen when she returns to her family, we both know.

She’ll continue to do her own thing, gobbling up the world in greedy, pleasureful bites; I’ll do my own thing, merely existing day in and day out. We’ll go our separate ways while we wait to see if our feelings die.

And we will never get these moments back.

By the time our food comes—a breakfast sandwich for her, eggs Benedict for me—the desperate laughter has died, and we’re much more subdued. We eat mostly in silence, although I am faintly amused to learn that I was right the other day; when she’s eating food she really enjoys, Molly does indeed make borderline obscene sounds. My smile is short lived, though, overshadowed by the knowledge that our time is almost up. We pay for our meal and then leave, heading back to the curb outside the square where we can find a taxi. Despite our moods, the sun is bright in the sky, the cheerful hum of tourism all around us.

“I want to hold your hand,” Molly says as we walk, dropping her words abruptly into the silence that’s fallen between us.

I look over at her, surprised. “What?” My hand flexes seemingly of its own accord when her words register.

She stops in place, her footsteps dying on the paved stone. The look she gives me is the closest thing to heartbreaking I think I’ve ever seen; somewhere between desperate and hopeful. “I want to hold your hand,” she says again, louder this time.

My arm moves before my brain can even formulate a response; I reach out and grab her hand, interlocking our fingers as our palms meet. My entire body sighs at the contact as a pleasant warmth rushes through me. It’s an overly enthusiastic response to such a simple touch, but I guess this is who I am now: a man so captivated that his heart explodes from even the tiniest things.

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