Page 57 of Here for a Good Time
It’s not that Leila’s done anything wrong. In fact, being earnestly excited about their latest work in progress is one of the greatest gifts you can give a writer. However, in a matter of seconds, I’m transported back to my last signing at Sar Oat Sin where that girl—what was her name? Cho? Chu?—asked me about my next book with the same enthusiasm, and I really, really wished she hadn’t.
I also don’t want to talk about my book right now. In fact, I don’t want to talk about anything with anybody. But I don’t want Zwe to think that I’m brushing off Leila, so I force myself to hold the conversation.
“I’m… still working out the details,” I mumble.
“How did you come up with the idea?” she asks.
This, I can answer. “I tried to think of the kind of plot and themes my readers would like and arrived at this. I mean, time travel is always fun, right?”
“It sounds really interesting,” she says. “I’m even more sorry now that we had to leave your backpack behind. Did you already have a lot written?”
“Nah, just a couple of chapters. Like I said, I’m still figuring out the details, it’s all a mess. Honestly, they weren’t even that good.” I mean it as a semi-ha-ha self-deprecatory statement, but the edges feel too raw on my tongue.
She gives me a cursory “I’m sure that’s not true,” to which I return a polite nod and tight smile.
“Haveyouread any of it?” she asks Zwe.
“No,” he replies instantly. Without realizing, I wait for him to elaborate; my stomach pinches when he doesn’t.
Because with Zwe, it’s typicallyNo, but.
No, but I’ve been pestering her for ages to let me.
No, but only because I haven’t successfully hacked into her laptop yet.
No, but I already know it’s going to blow everyone’s minds.
“I see,” is all Leila says.
We resume walking in quiet until Zwe asks, “Hey, do you think your family heard the shots? Earlier?”
“Not sure,” Leila says. “Even if they did, they might just assumeit’s some new resort activity. Guests ask for the weirdest things sometimes.”
“Oh yeah? What’s the weirdest request you’ve ever received?”
She blubbers air through her lips. “Off the top of my head?” After considering for a bit, she says, “Oh shit, how could I forget? We were once asked to host a, wait for it,dog wedding.As in, two dogs got married.”
A shocked, hearty laugh comes out of Zwe. “You’re kidding. Did you guys actually do it?”
She shrugs and rolls her lips in aWhat can ya doexpression. “Here at the Cerulean, our job is to curate your perfect getaway.”
Zwe waves both hands, and then makes a time-out signal. “Walk me through this. Did you know this dog wedding was happening beforehand, or was it a case of guests bringing their dogs and springing it on you last minute that they wanted to marry their dogs? Was it two different guests, or did both dogs belong to the same guest? Were there other dogs in attendance? I have to know everything.”
Leila explains that yes, theydidknow in advance, because the whole event had a wedding planner behind it, and yes, there were other dogs in attendance, all of whom belonged to the betrothed dogs’ owners’ friends and “carpooled” across two private jets. The two dog newlyweds belonged to a couple of human newlyweds who, on their honeymoon, had the brilliant idea that their canines should also be joined in holy matrimony.
“Do I want to know how much all of that cost?” Zwe asks.
Leila’s grimace speaks for itself. “There was a wagyu wedding cake. The ‘guests’ could pick between salmon and lamb chops. Oh, and some of the dogs in attendance, naturally, had food intolerances, so we had to prepare special plates for them. Our head chefhas worked in multiple Michelin-starred kitchens, and this was the closest I’ve ever seen to her almost quitting.”
“Your job is turning out to be both the weirdest and most interesting role I’ve ever encountered,” Zwe says. “Do you like it?”
I’ve inconspicuously put myself behind the two of them again, and from my angle, I notice a slight straightening of Leila’s spine. Her gait slows, like she’sreallythinking about this. “If I answer honestly, do you promise not to report it back to Sandra?” she asks at last.
“Promise,” Zwe says.
She gives a dark chuckle. “It depends on the week. I mainly took the job to stay close to my family, and the majority of the guests we get are great, but every once in a while, you get some real pieces of work. But it pays well, and my parents rely on me for most of their money, so—” She finishes on anotherWhat can ya doshrug.
Zwe nods. “That’s really admirable of you.” His tone shifts with concern. “Wait, what if your family goes down to the pier? Like, to get to the mainland—”
