Page 38 of Caribbean Crush

I smile at the idea. It’s tempting, for sure.

“There’s no family to tie you to the area? No relationship?”

“Neither.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“About the relationship? Who cares. About my family? Yes, well, that’s the straw I pulled, so there’s no sense in dwelling on it. Are you going to get me to this medic or not?”

We pull up to the dock, and he turns off the golf cart. Before I can reach for my bag, he has it in hand. He looks over at me and waits until I finally meet his gaze. Oh dear ...

“If you’re in dire straits—”

“I’m not,” I say with a heavy eye roll. “I’m merely young and wild and free. Stop feeling sorry for me.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re looking at me like I’m a poor orphan you found living under some freeway overpass.”

He flinches and reconfigures his features, wiping the pity away and replacing it with a void of indifference.

“Let’s go.” With that, he starts striding down the dock, still holding my bag.

“You don’t have to stomp off like that.” I hurry after him, wincing over my stinging calf. “I’m not as tall as you are—I can’t keep that pace even if I break into a run. Are you in that much of a hurry to be rid of me?”

He slows down. “So this hotel thing—”

This again?

“You really can’t drop it, can you?” I shake my head before muttering under my breath, “I never should have told you.”

“Where were you before?”

“A house. My grandmother’s house. She died. There, you’ve found my deepest, darkest wound. Feel better?”

“No. When did she die?”

“None of your business,” I say with an icy tone.

I try and yank my bag away from him to prove my point—that I don’t need him for anything, not even to carry my stuff—but he doesn’t let go. In fact, he holds it up out of reach like we’re in grade school. Though he was definitely not tall enough to do this back then. The nerve.

“And why don’t you just get an apartment?”

“I don’t want one,” I say bluntly. In the following silence, I realize he’s forcefully unveiled a little nugget of truth.

I’ve been looking at apartments in White Plains for the last two weeks, and there were some decent contenders, but I managed to find fault with every single one of them. One apartment complex didn’t have any vacancies for another month. Another one only had apartments on the fourth floor with a dingy view. Yet another had so little natural light the whole place felt like a dungeon. Even the last one I looked at, what should have been the Goldilocks apartment, left me wanting more. It was a cute one-bedroom, slightly under budget, in a good neighborhood with a park view. I couldn’t find a single fault, and yet when the leasing agent asked if I wanted to proceed, I said no, flat out. I looked online the next day to find it was no longer available. Relief was the only thing I felt.

I realize now, in this unlikely moment with Phillip, that I don’t want an apartment back home. I don’t want to move on as if my grandmother never existed. I don’t want to simply trudge through and save face. I don’t want ... any of it.

“Let me walk you to the clinic,” Phillip says, his voice gentle as if he’s realized he’s struck a nerve. He lowers the bag within reach, and I yank it away from him before turning on my heel.

“No need. I can find it myself.”

Chapter Nine

CASEY

It was harsh the way I left Phillip on the dock—a sort of don’t-kill-the-messenger situation where he got all the blowback from my newly realized quarter-life crisis. I didn’t like how deep he was delving, and so I stormed away in a huff. I’m already sorry for it. I looked for him after I left the clinic yesterday. After only an hour, I was as good as new thanks to a paste of baking soda and seawater the doctor applied to my calf. When I left, I was given clear instructions to take a hot shower and apply an ice pack if the pain worsened, though it never did.

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