How to Honeymoon Alone

“Thank you. I thought so, too.”

“You’re dry, you know,” I tell him and point my fork in his direction. “Funny, but dry. It’s a sneaky kind of humor.”

“Thank you,” he says seriously. “That’s the nicest compliment I’ve ever received.”

I chuckle. “Right. Tell me, does your sarcasm ever get you in trouble?”

“Never,” he says.

“See, now I can’t tell if you actually mean that or not.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Doesn’t that answer your question?”

“Yes, it does. It gets you in trouble a lot then. I can see that.” I narrow my eyes at him. “Doesn’t work well in court though, does it? The judge must get so annoyed at you.”

He rolls his eyes and digs into his swordfish. “I don’t go to court very often. Great attorneys rarely do.”

“How come? Isn’t that where you make your bombastic speeches and appeal to the juries, and… and… have little sidebars with the judges?”

“You watch too much TV,” he says. “No, it’s mostly meetings.”

“You settle before going to trial?”

“I mostly work with contracts, in mergers and acquisitions. Not lawsuits.”

I take a long sip of my rum punch. It’s strong, and we have two each, courtesy of a happy hour. “You must be a good attorney,” I say. “Even though you’re a nice person.”

Phillip spears his grilled fish. “I’m not that nice.”

“You are,” I say. “You agreed to this, didn’t you? Although,” I add, tapping a finger on my chin, “I suppose you wouldn’t be able to afford a bungalow for two weeks without a bit of blood money.”

He reaches for his drink. “Now you’re getting it.”

“Do you like it? Attorneying?”

“Like it,” he repeats and gives a half laugh. “That doesn’t seem relevant.”

I chew my piece of fish and macaroni. “It doesn’t seem relevant? Are you serious?”

“Yeah. What does it matter? Everyone needs a job, and I’m good at mine.”

“Well, considering how much time we all spend at our jobs, I think, liking what we do is pretty important. I love my job, even if it’s challenging at times. There are definitely days when I want to take a week off work just to sleep. But overall, I like it. Do you feel that way, too?”

He stretches out a leg next to the table and braces his hand against it. His free hand holds the fork in a tight grip. “I’m good at finding solutions to problems that don’t appear to have any. It’s what my clients need, and they pay good money for it, too.”

I smile at him. “Not what I asked.”

“Sure,” he says and rolls his eyes. “I like that part of it.”Content © copyrighted by NôvelDrama.Org.

“A ringing endorsement from Phillip Meyer!” I say. “It’s his absolute dream job!”

He shakes his head. “You’re impossible. It’s an okay job. It’s a lot of work, but I like to work hard. There’s not much more to it than that. Besides, it’s a job with very clear winners and losers.”

“And that’s… something you like?”

“Yes,” he says. “I’m competitive. Winning suits me just fine.”

I chuckle. “Wow. Just the other week, I spent the evening making participation trophies for every kid in my class.”

Across the wooden table, Phillip makes a sound of disgust and cuts into his fish. My eyes land on his large hands. One of them had been on my bare thigh.

“-that’s wrong with society today.”

I blink at him. “Sorry. What?”

“Participation trophies,” he says and raises an eyebrow. “You okay?”

I take another big gulp of my rum punch. “Yes. This is strong.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, it sure is, Eden.”

We get two more drinks, rum sours this time, along with a slice of rum cake. I feel full and happy and sway in tune with the music blasting from the stage. A man plays on the drum kit while another sings. People, locals and tourists alike, dance in front of the stage. The whole place feels filled with life.

When it’s time to leave, I slip my arm through Phillip’s and sing along to the music. The band is covering an old pop song now.

He keeps walking. “Told you the rum was strong.”

“I’m not drunk,” I say. “I’m tipsy. There’s a massive difference.”

“Mm-hmm,” he says, and we come to a stop next to the busy road. “Now, I’m going to insist on this-we’re taking a regular taxi back to the resort.”

“You didn’t like your job as a seat belt, did you?”

He gives a non-committal harrumph and raises his hand. A taxi slows to a crawl, and Phillip opens the back door for me. As I’m sliding across the back seat, I hear his muttered reply, half of it is lost to the haze of music and traffic.

“-liked it far too much.”

I rock back on my heels, standing on the Winter Resort dock. It’s a beautiful day. The sun shines down on me from a cloudless sky.

Phillip should be here soon.

He has an excursion booked for today on his planned itinerary. This time, it’s a private boat tour out to one of the many shipwrecks along the coast of Barbados. The ruins have long since been reclaimed by nature, and it is now a teeming coral reef. The tour guide will let us snorkel above it.

You’re not nervous, I tell myself. I’m my brave vacation self, one who doesn’t need a playlist of forest sounds to fall asleep, and the one who loathes routine and who throws plunges headfirst into every adventure.

In another week I can go back to my safe existence, my new house, my job, and writing in my spare time.

You’re not nervous. You’re excited.