Page 59 of Playing With Matches
“Anyone want to play?” I ask, raising an eyebrow at Isla and Marco.
“I just want to get this thought down before it flies away,” Isla takes out her laptop again and starts typing quickly. She pauses to twist a piece of hair and bites her lip, then she smiles and resumes typing at an even more furious pace. I could watch her all day. I love trying to figure out what she’s writing about, imagining scenes based on the expression on her face. Earlier when she blushed, I tried to sneak a peek, but she wouldn’t let me see.
On the other side of the table, Marco is shooting ridiculous selfies with a filter.
“Don’t you ever get sick of that?” I ask Marco as he tries yet another filter. This one puts fruit on his head and lipstick kiss marks all over his cheeks and chest.
“What? No!” Marco preens. “I am proud of my body, Jackson. I want to share it with the world. But mostly, I want to share it with one special woman,” he looks piteously at Isla who’s so lost in thought she doesn’t even notice.
“How old are you, Marco?” I ask, pulling blocks carefully from the tower.
“Marco is thirty-two,” he says. “A good age to settle down.” He gazes at Isla again. She keeps typing. He pulls his long hair into a man bun.
Marco is actually thirty-seven.
“Huh,” I say. “I could have sworn you were older.”
Marco reaches out and pulls a piece from the bottom of the carefully balanced stack on the table, causing the entire thing to come crashing down. “Oops,” he says. “My bad.”
Isla sighs contentedly and slams the laptop shut. “Got it!” she says. “Sometimes my muses are like slippery fish. I think I’ve got a big one but then the line snaps or they flop right off the deck of the boat. I can’t even record the idea before it’s gone again. But I got this one.”
“Tell us more,” Marco says. “Did you write about me?”
“Maybe,” Isla smiles enigmatically. “You’ll have to wait and see. I did include a handsome surfer in one scene.”
“Show me?” Marco begs. “I must read it!”
“Oh no,” Isla shakes her head. “This is a very rough draft.” She looks down at my knee. “Oh no, Jackson, your knee is still bleeding. Let me get you a bandage. I know I have some here somewhere,” she mumbles as she reaches into her bag and pulls out a pink floral band aid and some fruit-scented hand sanitizer. “This might sting,” she warns, squirting the pink gel at my skinless knee.
Mother of God. Just cleanse my wound with a blowtorch next time, Woman.
I flinch at the pain, but mercifully it passes quickly, and she sticks the floral bandage on my knee, kissing two fingers and passing them over the flowery dressing. “All better,” she says.
“I could use a drink, how about you two?” I say, thinking I should have had the drink before she tended to me.
Isla glances over at the bar, thirstily. “I don’t see anyone there. I’ll go see if I can find someone.”
“Marco will come with you,” he jumps to his feet. “You stay here, Jackson. Order Buffalo wings if the waiter comes.” He jumps up and takes Isla’s elbow, and the sight of this makes me feel like I have an electric eel writhing in my belly.
“You’re just going to leave me here alone?” I complain.
“Only for a moment,” Isla promises, sympathetically patting my arm. She glances down at the menu. “You should order the lobster mac and cheese for yourself,” she winks. “And order whatever you fancy for me.”
I fancy so many things. But none of them are on the menu.
Isla heads towards the empty outdoor bar kiosk with Marco. He says something to her, and she laughs merrily. The green eel of jealousy writhes in my gut some more.
I’m not alone for very long. A moment later, Alexis drops down into the seat across from me.
“‘Sup, Jackson?” She grins. She is wearing a red tube top and floral sarong with a matching red hibiscus flower in her hair. Her naturally-curly, brown hair is even curlier than usual, and her skin is two shades darker.
“How did you manage to get a tan like that in only two days?” I marvel. She looks good. Great in fact. I hardly ever see Alexis in anything but yoga pants and baggy sweats or boring business suits. The tropics suit her.
“It’s the Puerto Rican genes,” she smiles. “I still can’t believe we’re here, can you?”
“The twenty-seven mosquito bites I got that first day go a long way toward convincing me.” I scratch at a bite on my arm.
“Try to loosen up a little and enjoy it, Jackson,” Alexis looks at me with pity. “A lot of people would kill to be able to visit a resort paradise like this.”
