Page 47 of Pick-Up
Keep things all business for the rest of the trip.
24 | Couch SurfingKAITLIN
The rain is coming down in sheets. It’s been pouring since this morning. And I cannot get down to business.
Instead of working, I am lying on the couch, scrolling through Sasha’s pictures again. Wondering why I keep looking to the past for answers about the future. But doing it anyway.
Rewinding back to high school hasn’t worked well for me thus far; it basically combusted my life. And yet I persist.
I’ve seen this image of Sasha and Bart stuffing their cheeks with popcorn at the Bronx Zoo at least five times. She almost never posts. I don’t know why I keep checking for new ones.
Sometimes her ex-husband’s feed is fun. A bevy of humble brags and bullshit gratitude. Occasionally, there is Ryan Reynolds.
But then, as if I had manifested it, magically a picture appears in stories—some kind of tropical cocktail with a pineapple skewer.Lucky, Sasha. The caption is nothing but sun and sunglasses emojis.
I donotclick like.
“Mom!” my daughter barks like she’s already said it four times.
She turns on the light in the living room, and it’s only then, as I squint against the assaultive brightness, that I realize I’ve been lying in the dark.
“Ruby. What?!”
“I’m hungry. Can you get off your phone?”
Like she’s the parent.
She’s right, of course. It’s getting late. And I have given no thought to food.
“Coming, coming,” I say, pushing myself up off the couch. I put my phone aside, for now.
25 | Island DreamsSASHA
Michael is not wrong. The resort is spectacular. And I do love it. It’s so arresting, in fact, that I momentarilyalmostforget my jumbled feelings. At least I try.
I take three deep breaths, shaking off my startle.
As we approach the beach, bucking along the dirt road, I see ten perfect villas set back from the shore, before a wide-open expanse of sand. Each has its own palm tree and landscaped trim of scraggy brush. Though the roofs are pointed and bear the same heather-gray shingles as the reception house, their silhouettes feel almost Japanese, low and flat with sharp symmetrical lines. The white exterior is in stark contrast to black-tinted windows. A play of dark and light.
I’ve seen the pictures, but, in person, this place is next level. I can’t believe I get to stay here.
Michael brings the golf cart to a stop, helps me out and leads me into the villa via a slatted white door, framed by cacti in porcelain planters. Inside is a burst of energy. It gifts me my own burst of joy, despite my pounding heart. Beneath a lofted ceiling is an enormous open-floor-plan living room and kitchen. Though the fundamentals are neutral—couch, rug, granite side tables and countertops—the accents are unapologetic and lively: electric orange wall prints, French blue–striped throw blankets, yellow Acapulco chairs, Mad Hatter shelves of incongruous heights that are lit from within, illuminating artisan vases and figurines.
Michael points out the fancy espresso machine, the remote-control shades, the giant flat-screen TV, the stainless steel refrigeratorstocked with complimentary drinks. A bottle of wine is positioned on the kitchen counter beside a lavish tray of sliced tropical fruit, from papaya to kiwi, chocolate truffles, crackers and cheese.
I am Alice and this is Wonderland. I don’t belong here, but I’ll take it. I will shrink and grow to fit. A wonderfully wrong dream.
Two walls of the villa are entirely windowed so that sunlight falls across the floor. It makes me want to curl up like Larry the cat. Maybe tuck myself in a corner and hide from reality, given the situation with Ethan. I honestly don’t know whether to feel flattered or humiliated. I am vibrating with both. So I try to push my worries aside for the moment.
There are three bedrooms off this main room: one alone by the entrance and two side by side off the far wall. Michael leads me to one of these far ones, opening its door and then stepping aside so that I might be the first to walk in and experience my sanctuary for the coming days.
I can’t help but smile big. Much like the living room, it is bright and airy with mile-high ceilings and transparent shades that filter in a lemony haze. The bed is king-size with an embarrassment of plush pillows. I want to collapse into it and make snow angels. But Michael still has much to show me, and he is serious about his job.
“This room can be adjoining with the one next to it, if guests prefer,” he explains, gesturing toward a closed door beside the closet. “It’s perfect for families with small children.”
“Darn it. I’ve left mine at home,” I joke. “I knew I forgot something.”
“We can supply anything you’ve forgotten,” he says. “Within reason.” He raises his eyebrows. Michael is funny!
