Page 26 of Harper's Holiday Romance
100 per cent I do not.
Wouldn’t even cross my mind in the real world.
It was a dream, a weird scenario created by my unconscious mind. It didn’t mean anything. Yes, I might have woken up with a throb between my legs. I may have been the slightest bit curious as to how the dream would’ve progressed, but that was totally normal.
“I wonder what it means?” Sarah asked. “I think if you go to sleep and dream about someone it means they’re dreaming about you too.”
We craned our heads to look at Sarah.
“You know that’s crap, right?” Billie challenged. “I’m sorry, but there is no way in scientifical hell when you dream about someone it’s because their brain has somehow sent a signal to your brain to tell you they’re dreaming about you as well. It’s the most cliché thing I’ve ever heard.”
Totally cliché.
“Totally crap.” Billie added.
I agreed wholeheartedly; I did.
She was the devil. The elevator was Hell, and the cenote was the first circle of Hell. It was the hotel’s very own Limbo, where the devil herself waited patiently for the souls who never sinned.
“I don’t believe it, but it’s a cute thought,” Sarah explained.
Cute indeed.
The rooftop infinity pool provided prime views of the whole resort and the clear blue Caribbean Sea. The choice of seating area was vast. Too many options made my brain malfunction. My decision-making skills were reliant on a certain level of information and confidence. I had neither in new surroundings.
I faced various choices daily: my choice to wear a certain outfit or to sit in a certain position at a restaurant required the same thought process as deciding what car to buy or what to study at university. There was no in-between. The decision paralysis frustrated me at times. Thankfully, Billie was the complete opposite, which helped the group dynamic.
“Shall we sit over there?” she asked.
“Sure.” I nodded.
My body relaxed.
We opted for the daybed. It was covered by grey cloth strapped over a white concrete canopy. There were smaller wooden sun beds laid out neatly on the row in front with additional thick grey padded cushions and smaller scatter cushions. It must’ve taken the pool concierge a long time to set them up just for people to sweat all over them. Eww!
There were two types of people, the ones who lay flat out all oiled up and sweating on a towel-less sun lounger forgetting that the person the day before did the exact same thing, and me—making sure my towels wereperfectly covering every inch of the sun bed, so even the heels of my feet weren’t contaminated with other people’s bodily fluids.
Four separate sunken seating areas filled the space between us and the edge of the rooftop. They were completely unoccupied, and it wasn’t until I watched a family of pale orange flies swarm the greenery nearby that I understood the reason. I stayed well clear.
The pool concierge arrived almost instantly, racing past us to set our towels down on our chosen beds. The service was next level. We ordered three piña coladas to start the day. My taste in drinks didn’t vary significantly from the average English girl. I wasn’t quirky with my choices. I stuck to the basics, but it guaranteed a predictable hangover, and I liked that. Never again would I be peer-pressured into drinking my body weight in tequila. It happened once, and it would never happen again. The following morning I’d considered going to the emergency room to have them check the pain in my body wasn’t related to something more serious.
“Man, I love this place.” Sarah sprawled, arms stretched above her head, the small ripples of her toned stomach flexing back at me. Sarah had a gym body, the type that takes years and years of hard work and dedication to acquire. I preferred to dedicate my life to watching reality TV and hoping my metabolism would somehow remain the same; here’s to hoping.
“It’s incredible, isn’t it?” I chimed.
“It just lacks eye candy; don’t you think?” Billie countered. “Like, where are all the men? There was one relatively attractive man yesterday at the pool, but then his wife turned up, and my dreams of a holiday romance were shattered.”
“My eye candy and your eye candy are significantly different,” I pointed out.
“Well, duh. You two like pussy; I like penis.”
“Pussy sounds so vulgar.” I didn’t like the word. It didn’t roll off the tongue without sounding so culturally inappropriate.
“It’s better than Panty Hamster,” Billie said. I almost projectile spat my piña colada on the unsuspecting couple in front of us.
“What did you just call it?”
“Panty Hamster. Please tell me you’ve heard of that,” Billie asked.
