Page 14 of Here for a Good Time
“Wanna try steering?” he shouts over, beckoning at the wheel.
“No thanks!” I reply. I can feel the blood draining from my knuckles as I grab tighter onto the edge of my seat.
“I’m good!” Zwe adds.
Antonio chuckles and shakes his head. “City people!” he yells, and throws in a wink to soften the insult.
I sit in the covered part of the boat on the cushioned bench on one side of the wheel while Zwe is taking in the breeze down the far end of the opposite bench, head tilted back, eyes closed, ocean air tousling his black strands. The top two buttons of his sand-colored linen shirt are undone, and his chest hair peeks through. This is one of those moments where I think,Where did the time go?I’ve known this boy since he was ten, and it’s like I blinked and now we’re almost thirty and he has fucking chest hair and we live in our own apartment and we pay bills and occasionally unclog our toilet and do other Very Adult things. Everything has changed, and also nothing has. I still love books and he still loves numbers (I always know when he’s wrapped up the month’s accounting for the bookstore because he comes home looking like a kid who just came back from meeting his favorite star athlete) and if I’m going to be on a secluded island for two weeks, there’s no one else I’d rather drag along with me.
“How long have you two been together?” Antonio’s yell startles me.
I look to see if Zwe heard him, even though between the wind and the water,Ibarely heard him. “We’re not together!” I yell back.
“Are you sure?!”
“Pretty sure!”
Antonio smirks a smirk that is best described as “devilish” before yelling, “So then why were you looking at him like that?”
There is a surge of heat in my cheeks that spreads across my face, as though the wind has punched a hole in the roof and there’s no longer anything between me and the sun’s rays. “I–”
“Don’t worry!” Antonio cuts in. Another cheeky wink. “I won’t say anything!”
Zwe and I take a few photos on the boat, including a selfie where, in the background, Antonio’s turned around to smile at the camera—a move that had me yelling, “Antonio! The wheel!” to which he’d chuckled and yelled back, “It’s okay, Ms. Poe! I know this boat better than I know my own body!” which doesn’t seem like an actual phrase, but maybe it’s an “island person” saying that I, a city person, has never heard of.
We slow down as the resort comes into view, three staff members already awaiting our arrival on the long bamboo bridge that juts out from the beach.
“Do you think they’re all this… eccentric?” I mumble to Zwe as Antonio steers us toward a long piece of rope that will, presumably, tether us to the bridge.
“God, I hope so,” Zwe replies.
Antonio and the man who was waiting help us off the boat.
“Mr. Zwe, Ms. Poe,” says a woman wearing a white linen pantsuit. She takes one step forward with the confidence of someone who is single-handedly in charge of a five-star island resort. “Welcome to the island of Sertulu, and on behalf of all of us, welcome to the Cerulean. My name is Sandra, I’m the manager of the resort. I hope you had a good journey here?”
“It was great!” I beam, now self-conscious about my eye bags with every new person I meet. I’d thought of getting my sunglasses out on the boat but didn’t want to risk them flying off of my face. I make a mental note to book that spa the second we’re checked in.
“Antonio took good care of us,” Zwe says. Upon hearing his name, Antonio grins and holds out a fist, which Zwe bumps.
“Antonio,” Sandra says through a weary sigh, but he interrupts her first.
“It’s chill, they’re not the snobby kind,” he says, still with that grin, the kind that could melt a Popsicle in the dead of winter. “We’ve had somerealsnobby ones,” he explains.
“Okay, that’s enough, Antonio,” Sandra says, sounding like a mom politely ushering her moderately behaved child to his bedroom. “Why don’t you go ahead and send those suitcases to the villa while I give Mr. Zwe and Ms. Poe their tour?”
Antonio makes a small saluting motion. “Come on, dude,” he says to the other man, but then stops in his tracks. “Oh, where are my manners? Mr. Zwe, Ms. Poe, this is my boy Eka.” I suppress a giggle at Antonio calling Eka his “boy” when the latter is clearly several years older than him and closer in age to me and Zwe.
Eka, who is lessanimatedthan Antonio, smiles and bows his head slightly. “Pleasure to meet you. I will be your assigned porter during your stay.”
“Nice to meet you, Eka,” I say.
As the two men walk away, Sandra gestures at the young woman standing next to her. “This is Leila. She will be your personal villa host while you stay with us.”
“Hello, Ms. Poe, Mr. Zwe.” Stepping forward, Leila offers us the silver tray she’s been holding. The constant “Ms.” and “Mr.” is already making me squirm, and I make a note to brainstorm with Zwe as to how we can politely ask everyone to stop. “Would you like to try our welcome drinks? We mixed them according to the online questionnaires you emailed us,” she says, referencing the “flavor questionnaire” we’d been sent a few days after I made our booking. “Mr. Zwe, for you, we’ve mixed honey syrup, fresh lime juice, mango purée, and a splash of ginger beer. Ms. Poe, yours has lychee, limejuice, club soda, and some honey-ginger syrup. All of the fruits are grown on our very own organic farm, and the honey is sourced from a local aviary on the mainland. Please, enjoy.”
Zwe and I take sips from each of our glasses at the same time, and let out matchingmmmms, also at the same time.
“This is the best thing I’ve ever drank,” Zwe says. “And not just today. I mean, in my life.”
