Page 56 of Caribbean Crush

Then I think of how this article could change my life if Gwen really likes it, if she thinks my writing is worth investing in, if other publications catch wind of the story and it really gets picked up. This could be life changing, I’m sure of it.

So whether or not it’s the polite or nice thing to do, after I read through my new exposé about Phillip for the twentieth time, I send it to Gwen.

I also send it to Phillip.

It’s a bold move on my part, especially considering I have no idea what his reaction will be (spoiler, it won’t be pleasant), but it’s the least I can do. Over the coming days and weeks, if Gwen approves the story, someone from Bon Voyage will reach out to Phillip’s team for approval and input. He’ll read what I’ve written about him eventually. It feels important that it at least come directly from me first so that he can prepare himself now rather than later.

I sit back on my couch, my hands shaking from adrenaline.

If I made a mistake, well ... there’s no going back now.

I stare at my inbox almost as if I expect them both to reply to me right away, but nothing happens. I refresh once and then again; there are no new emails.

After a few minutes, I close my laptop and look around. I’m itching to get out of this suite. I could try to hunt down Sienna at the pool, but I’m too scared to wander around the ship. I’d rather not cross paths with Phillip just yet. Better to give him a chance to read the article ... a moment to cool down if he needs it.

Instead, I take a book out onto my balcony. I have every intention of reclining back on one of the loungers and losing myself in my book, but instead, I lean against the rail and stare out at Puerto Plata, the tiny slice of the Dominican Republic that stretches out in front of me. It’s midafternoon. I’ve missed the planned excursions for the day, but nothing’s stopping me from doing a little bit of exploring on my own. I barely think it before I’m already acting, throwing on a dress and comfortable sandals, grabbing my purse and wallet, sunglasses and sun hat.

I race through the halls of the cruise ship, hurrying toward the gangplank. I’m scared I’ll bump into Phillip, but the moment my feet touch solid ground again, I breathe easy. The cruise port is right in the heart of the city. Freight and cargo are getting unloaded; taxis whiz past; music comes from every direction; and people are everywhere: sitting outside clustered together on plastic chairs, playing cards; walking along the sidewalks; riding bicycles and motorcycles, sometimes piling an entire family onto a single bike. The city is eclectic, and once you bypass the overtly touristy parts—the pink street and the umbrella street—you see the real lives of the locals. I walk past old, sagging buildings in need of a fresh coat of paint, mismatched architecture, grocery stores, and laundromats. There’s color everywhere as if the city has a personal vendetta against painting things white or gray or beige. The beauty of Puerto Plata is evident everywhere, highlighted most prominently by the huge mountain that serves as the city’s backdrop, looming over the squat one- or two-story buildings. The mountain is part of the Isabel de Torres National Park, and I find out by asking a few nice locals (who help me with my cobbled-together Spanish) that I can take a cable car to the very top.

I rush in that direction, wanting to stay on foot rather than hop in a taxi. I’m documenting everything, snapping photos with my phone, trying to absorb every last detail. Gwen hasn’t seemed all that interested in my review of the trip so far, but I’m hoping I can change that. I want to prove to her that this interview is a stepping stone to bigger and better things. I’ll write up a review of Puerto Plata and send it along anyway. I’ll show her that I’m eager for more assignments and possibly—hopefully—a long-awaited promotion.

It’s a thirty-minute walk from the downtown district to the Puerto Plata cable car, where a long line of tourists waits to take the ten-minute journey up to the top of the mountain. I manage to make it in the last group for the day, and we get crammed into the cable car like sardines. I don’t mind. Of the twelve of us, only two people speak English. I hear French rattled off quickly. Portuguese too. It would be stifling inside if not for the open windows. Everybody carves out spots at the sides as we rise over the city, lifted by a cable into the air along the side of the mountain. My stomach swoops with the ascent, and a little laugh of delight spills out of me. The woman to my left does the same, and we smile at each other, bonding over this unique, shared experience.

I know it’s silly, but when we reach the very top of the mountain and I stand overlooking the entire city of Puerto Plata and the surrounding ocean, I can’t help but tear up. It’s more than I can take in all at once, not just the view itself, but also the stark difference between this day and all the ones that have come before it. Today, I’m standing on top of a freaking mountain. Last Thursday at this exact same time, I was sitting in a crappy hotel room, staring at the inside of a mostly empty minifridge, trying to decide which frozen dinner I wanted to cook (unsuccessfully) in the microwave.

I’m crying because of everything I’ve done wrong. I hate that I’ve wasted so much. I don’t mean the years I spent taking care of my grandmother. No, I don’t regret that one bit. But she died last year, and I’ve lived every day since her passing as if I’m dead too. How did I not see it before? The monotony of it? The sinking dead-end job?

I breathe in a sense of conviction, staring out over the city. I know I’ve done the right thing by submitting that article to Gwen. I’ve shaken free of it all. I’ve really put myself out there now. There’s no going back.

Chapter Fourteen

PHILLIP

I’m pacing on my balcony, annoyed by the heat and the shitty signal I get out here. Already, I’ve tried and failed twice to connect with my team back in the States. Now, I have them on the phone for the third time, but I have no idea how long it’ll last.

“Do they not have fucking cell towers in the Dominican Republic?”

To say I’m pissed would be an understatement. I’m on the phone with Angela Carew, my personal PR representative, and Gary Marshall, head of Woodmont’s legal team.

Neither of them replies to my question, choosing to let it go. Wise, I think. I’m ready to chew someone’s head off, and I don’t really care who it is. It might as well be them.

“How do we kill it?” I ask, wanting to handle this problem quickly and efficiently. I want this off my plate so I can move on to more pressing matters, like finding Casey Hughes.

Neither of them responds right away. Gary clears his throat, only infuriating me further, before he replies with a weak tone. “I’m not sure we need to.”

I didn’t hear him right. Bad connection and all. “Excuse me?”

Angela speaks up now, sounding just as spineless as Gary. “Yes, actually, Phillip ... I’ve read through it, and I had Laura take a look too. It’s not so bad.”

I squeeze my eyes closed and rub the bridge of my nose, trying to ease the tension headache forming there.

“I’m sorry. I thought I made myself perfectly clear here. I don’t want this story to run. Casey Hughes took journalistic liberties that I don’t agree with. Delving into my life. Bringing Vivienne into this, for Christ’s sake—”

“You’re looking at it from the wrong angle, taking it too personally.”

No shit, Sherlock!

It’s about me. What’s more personal than that?

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