Page 23 of The Twelve-Hour Rule
The balcony overlooks one of the pools and then the beach beyond that. The water is such a crisp blue that I have to squint to be able to see it properly. It truly is paradise here.
We eat without talking at first. Coffee, then fruit, then coffee again. The wind keeps trying to lift the corner of the napkin but Ben is quick and steadies it with a heavy spoon on the corner. He catches me watching and tips his head like a magician closing out on his latest trick.
“Impressive,” I say. “You’re a problem-solver.”
“Consultant,” he mutters, sheepishly. “We love a good fix.”
“I’m actually a little embarrassed to admit this but… I have no idea what a consultant is.”
“Well,” he says, popping a piece of papaya into his mouth and chewing slowly. “I’m basically a very expensive person who is hired to confirm that companies are doing things the wrong way.Sometimes I make PowerPoint presentations to make the whole investment worth it.”
He winks at me and that earns him a smile. His mouth tilts. He reaches across the table and skims his fingers over mine before grabbing his mug. It’s small. It’s also the loudest thing in the room.
Ben leans back in his chair, coffee cup balance between his palms. “And you? What do you do when you’re not accidentally extending vacations in paradise?”
“I’m an architect,” I say, a little too casually, like I didn’t go to school for years to get a couple of degrees to do the things I love the most.
He perks up. “Like, buildings?”
I snort. “Yes,like buildings.”
“Sorry, I didn’t know if it was, like, design-y architecture or like structural, engineer-y architecture. Or like… computer architect. You seem like you’d make beautiful things.”
“I work for a full-service boutique firm and so I’m involved in much more than the structure. I do a lot of the decorating, too,” I add. It’s a huge part of my identity—how much attention I pay to details and spaces, and making sure that the areas where we spend a lot of time reflect who we are but also support our state of mind. I like calming spaces. “I’m working on a small hotel in Tribeca right now.”
His eyebrows lift. “Fancy?”
“It’s twelve rooms,” I say, rolling my eyes. “The only thing fancy about it is the upholstered chairs for the lobby. Everything else is pretty much standard and screamshotel.”
He laughs. “I think it’s pretty impressive, nonetheless.”
We people watch from our chairs a while longer. A cloud drifts over the sun and everything softens a shade. On the beach, someone strings up more paper lanterns, testing the bulbs even though it’s morning. A staff member wrestles a stack ofclean towels taller than he is. The world keeps building toward evening, and I feel strangely content to watch it.
Ben stands and comes around to my side of the table. “Come here,” he says, like it’s a joke, like he’s about to show me some magic trick just for the sake of making me laugh. He slides my chair back and ducks to kiss me—not showy, present. His thumb grazes my jaw and the back of my neck prickles in the breeze.
“Hi,” he murmurs.
“Hi,” I echo, trying not to smile and failing.
We pull apart when someone from the pool staff below starts clapping at the end of an impromptu pool game. The applause breaks into a chant for a girl named Bekah. Someone starts a conga line. Ben rests his forehead against mine for a second, then straightens.
“You want the last croissant?” he asks.
“Take it,” I say. “I’m full.”
He tears it in half anyway and puts the bigger piece on my plate. “I’m going to check my phone to see what everyone is up to, but I’ll be right back.” He places another kiss on my mouth; this time it’s chaste and casual, like we’ve been doing this for months but at the same time he can’t help himself.
I gather our plates and stack them on the tray so housekeeping doesn’t have to do it. He watches me from the bed and doesn’t comment on the habit—to tidy the scene, make it easier for the next person.
I go back inside when the sun punches through the cloud again and the balcony heats up in a rush. He collapses onto the bed, phone in one hand, and pats the spot next to him. I lie on my side and face him, the hotel sheet rumpled between us. Without looking, he finds that same place under my ribs and rests his hand there like it’s his duty.
“So what’s the plan for today?” I say, pretending to be casual. The wordpretendingis doing a lot of heavy lifting.
I don’t know what’s happening to me. It’s been years since I’ve cared this much about what someone might say next. Years since I’ve caught myself waiting for an answer like it might change the course of my day. Or week. Or—god forbid—something bigger.
My marriage ended quietly, with no screaming or betrayal to pin it on. Just the slow realization that the person I’d built a life with didn’t see me anymore. We both stopped reaching across the bed, stopped asking questions, stopped trying. It was easy, in a way—because it hurt less to stop caring first.
Now, sitting across from Ben, that same fear tugs at the back of my ribs. The idea that if I let myself want more, even just for a second, I’ll end up standing in the ruins again, wondering what I did wrong this time.
