How to Honeymoon Alone

He curses, eyes never leaving mine, and I feel powerful. I’m my vacation self and I’m my regular Pinecrest self at the same time, and I’m watching a man come undone by my touch.

I haven’t felt like this in a long, long time.

“Fuck,” he says and slides a hand into my hair. “I don’t know what I’m gonna-oh.”

I’ve sheathed my teeth and upped the pressure, and he tips his head back, words forgotten. I feel like a goddess.

“You’re too good at that,” he mutters.

He pulls me up twenty seconds later, his eyes laser-focused on my underwear. He tugs them down, and then I’m on my back, the sunburn faded, watching him roll on a condom with lightning speed. He pushes into me a heartbeat later.

I tighten my legs around him and hold onto his shoulders, and I don’t let myself think that this might be one of the last times we do this.

Getting attached wasn’t part of the deal. Not the one I made with him, and definitely not the one I made with myself.

I’m not ready to have these feelings again, and I’m certainly not ready to get hurt again. Write books. Teach my students. Decorate my new house.

Pine over Phillip is nowhere on that list.

He slows down and thrusts deeper, his movements like waves crashing against me. He lifts one of my legs, and it takes me no time at all to finish. And I don’t know if it’s the sex itself, or him. This. The fact that we’ve been so open about all of it from the start.

A long time later, we amble down the corridor to the elevators. Phillip’s hand plays with the tie of my bikini top, hanging out over the back of my sundress.

“I love this one,” he mumbles. “The purple one. It looks so good on you.”

“Thank you.” Warmth blooms in my chest, and I pull him into the elevator. “I have an idea.”

He leans in, an arm braced on the elevator wall next to me. “Tell me.”

“They sell postcards in the lobby. I’ve seen them before.”

His eyebrows lower. “Not where I thought you were going with this.”

I chuckle. “I know, but hear me out. Let’s send a postcard to each other.”

“To each other?”

“Yes. I’ve heard of how long it can sometimes take for international mail. We might get them in two weeks, or two months, or never. But if they arrive, it’ll be a little reminder of this.” I rest my hand on his chest, and through the linen of his shirt, I can feel the beating of his heart.

A reminder of you, I think.

“What would we write?” he asks.

“Anything we want. But it’d be a secret.”

“Ah, neither of us would know until we get our card.”

“Exactly,” I say. “Are you game?”

His mouth tips up into a smile, and his hand brushes over my cheek. “Sure.”

We stand on either side of the little display of postcards. Up top is a sign that says the concierge will be happy to postmark and send them on their way. It’s a complimentary service, apparently, and if I ever suspected this wasn’t a five-star resort, this would have convinced me.

“Which one are you choosing?” I ask Phillip, looking at all the versions of tropical beaches.

“I’m not telling,” he says.

“What?”

“The whole thing is supposed to be a surprise, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then so will my choice of the card,” he says. He holds up a card and an envelope in one hand and steps back. “Don’t peek.”

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“Right,” he says and raises an eyebrow. “Remember, I’m a lawyer. Breaking the rules is a suable offense.”

“It absolutely is not.”

“That’s your last warning,” he says with a smile and turns around to the concierge. I’m smiling at his back. He asks for a pen, and I watch as he writes down whatever it is he wants to say to future me.

What do I want to say?

I choose a postcard with a map of the island on it, and with my marker, I draw a little heart around the Oistins Fish Market.

I hesitate for a few seconds before I start writing.

Hello from Barbados,

By the time you read this, you’ll be back at your twenty-four-seven job, merging and acquiring. But I don’t want you to forget your vacation self. How rarely you shaved, and how you told your coworkers to fend for themselves. Your vacation self was a tough nut to crack in the beginning… but he turned out to be a really great guy. I didn’t expect to meet him, but I’m really glad it happened. And I want you to remember it, too. How you were. Don’t forget to relax sometime and watch the metaphorical turtles hatch.

And if you ever want to take a trip to Pinecrest, I’d love to be your guide.

Thanks for everything,

Eden.

I finish the tiny scrawl on the postcard. My words don’t feel like enough. Not at all. But as I look over at him, standing tall by the concierge and conversing with an employee, I realize he probably isn’t writing beautiful poetry or anything, either.

Don’t fall off any more boats, perhaps. Some quip about the baby turtles hatching, maybe. A dig at my guidebook, for sure.

Phillip and I exchange addresses. I had his memorized from the itinerary, but I pretend I don’t, and write it out on the back of my postcard.

Both of our missives disappear in the hand of a smiling receptionist who assures us they’ll be mailed first thing Monday morning.

“Let’s see whose makes it home first,” Phillip says as we walk out of the lobby.