Page 15 of The Twelve-Hour Rule
At the pool, we find two loungers half in the shade and she tosses her bag over one. I follow, dropping my sunscreen and phone. She’s looking around, and I can’t quite read her. I’m not sure if she just offered to hang out to be polite, or if she’s trying to bolt. I sure as fuck don’t want to leave her side, but I’m needy, and well aware of that.
“You don’t have to stay here all day, you know,” she says, settling back into her chair. “I’m sure you’ve got much more exciting things to do than hang out with me.”
“Psht,” I say, lowering myself onto the chair beside hers. “This is my idea of a relaxing vacation. Sitting poolside in silence, while avoiding the sun as much as I can.”
She laughs, and puts on her sunglasses, and I stare again. At the fine lines covering her arms and part of her torso and legs. At how she seems to be relaxed at moments, but then overthinking at others. At her brown hair drying wildly around her.
“Your friend doesn’t have anything planned for today?”
“Just the rehearsal dinner,” I say casually. Although there was mention of some activities but, even before her, I hadchosen to opt out, both because I came here alone and because I don’t know anyone besides the groom.
For a while, we just sit there—the two of us, the soft shuffle of music from the bar, the splash of water somewhere close. The sun warms the air around us, and I close my eyes, letting myself pretend that this is normal. That this isn’t the last few hours I’ll get to see her.
When I open them again, she’s turned on her side, propped on one elbow, her sunglasses dangling from her fingers.
“What?” she asks when she catches me looking. Her green eyes are on me, and the slow smile she gives me is nothing short of devastating.
“Nothing.”
She hums, clearly not believing me. “You’re terrible at lying.”
“Not true,” I say, but I’m smiling back, because she’s right. “I’m actually a professional consultant. Lying convincingly is partially part of the job description.”
“What else are you lying about?” she asks dryly, lying back.
I laugh under my breath. “Absolutely nothing. I promise.”
The breeze picks up, carrying the scent of sunscreen and food, and I feel that same quiet pull in my chest, the one I keep trying to ignore.
She’s leaving in a few hours. That should make this simple.
It doesn’t.
Because when she shifts slightly and glances at me again, I can’t help but think that I want more of this. Not just the sex, not just the easy—albeit limited—conversation or the way she teases me like she’s known me longer than a night. I want to know what her laugh sounds like when she’s really happy. What her mornings look like when she’s not on vacation.
And that’s the problem.
I always want more.
CHAPTER 8
SOL
Ben,I have come to appreciate, has that kind of easy charm that disarms you before you realize it’s happening; the steady kind, not the performative kind. He listens, smiles like he means it, and when he talks, he actually looks at me. Not in the way Matías used to look at me—a few seconds at a time in between swipes of his phone, especially in the last year or so of our marriage.
By the time we sit down for lunch, I’ve stopped pretending this is casual. I went back and forth in my head all morning between wanting to run far away and working up the nerve to casually mention that maybe we should head up to his room before I leave.
The restaurant we pick is one of those open-air ones by the pool, all white umbrellas and woven chairs and joy in the air. I order the fish tacos again, because I’m so predictable, and he orders something off the grill and jokes that he’s trying to get enough protein to balance all the mojitos he’s going to drink this week.
“You keep talking about these tacos like they changed your life,” he says when the waiter walks away.
“They kind of did,” I reply, tilting my head. “Didn’t you say you took your food seriously? And haven’t you ever had food so good you forget about your problems for three whole bites?”
He grins. “Only three?”
I roll my eyes. “Four, maybe, if the salsa’s spicy enough.”
He leans back, watching me with that crooked smile that should honestly be illegal. “And what kinds of problems are you having that you’re trying to forget about?”
