Page 72 of The Boyfriend Swap

I didn’t know if it was the beer (I was on my third) or the hot sun that provoked me to confide in two strange men. I was a skilled liar and could have easily concocted a fake story as to why I was in Barbados. For instance, I’d been left at the altar and celebrating my honeymoon solo. Or I was writing a novel set in the Caribbean and was there for “research.” But the truth felt good. It was liberating, and it might help me come to terms with what had gone down at Christmas three weeks earlier. I explained what happened when Perry outed our break-up at the Christmas table and how the members of my family chimed in about my relationship issues. “Once I got over the hurt and humiliation of being psychoanalyzed so harshly and publicly, I accepted the truth in their words. I’m so used to being the boss of me and everyone else, I never learned how to let someone else take care of me. I think maybe I want romance?” I spoke the words like a question because until that moment, I didn’t know how to articulate what was missing from all my romantic interludes. Romance. Jake had been a romantic, and I stomped all over it. And I never gave Will a fighting chance. Maybe if I’d confided why I didn’t want him to meet my folks, he would have understood and we could have figured it out together. Instead, I kept him in the dark.

Douglas, a stocky guy in his late thirties with thinning brown hair and tattoos on both his arms, raised an eyebrow. “I can’t comment about Will, but there must have been some crazy chemistry between you and Perry.”

I shook my head vehemently before taking a sip of beer. I wasn’t much of a beer drinker in the States, but this Banks stuff was more than decent. “No. He drove me bat-shit cray cray.” I shrugged guiltily.

Robert, the older of the two, with a shaved head and a fit body, motioned to Izaiah. “Two more beers,” he said, pointing to himself and Douglas. “And put Sid’s next one on our tab too.” The guys had met in a bowling league and won the trip for themselves and their significant others in a tourney. The women had gone on an excursion to see the turtles and weren’t back yet.

I was in my happy place. A nice buzz was the perfect distraction from guilt and contemplation. “Thank you so much, Robert.”

“My pleasure. Call me Bobby. How did Perry get you so wound up?”

I didn’t even know where to start. His first offense was changing the story of how we met to make me look like a pathetic stalker. It got worse from there when, no matter what nonsense he spewed and how dumb he made me look, my family members were charmed as if he’d put a spell on them. Then he repeatedly dissed me at my own party, embarrassing me in front of my relatives. I finally forgave him, just in time for his grand announcement of our breakup, resulting in my public shaming at the dinner table. And what was with the stupid nickname he gave me—Cherry Bomb? But my new friends didn’t need to know the details. “Basically, the swap was a genius of my creation, yet Perry refused to follow my rules. He insisted his way was more interesting. He couldn’t follow my lead—he had to be contrary every time. When I’d confront him about it, he’d play dumb and laugh at me. I couldn’t shake him and it drove me batty.” He was such a piece of work, I had to laugh. “It sounds silly now, but at the time, it really set me off.”

“It seems like Perry was trying to have fun and loosen you up. When you didn’t take the bait, he went out of his way to provoke you and push you out of your comfort zone,” Bobby said.

Bobby had a point. Even when Perry tried to be nice to me and free me from my father’s claws, I held it against him. It was like I was more comfortable working against him than with him.

“Maybe if you hadn’t insisted on taking charge of every moment, he wouldn’t have been so contrary,” Douglas said. “Sometimes, you need to be the woman in the relationship.”

My inner feminist didn’t like this and I scowled at him. “Thewomanin the relationship?”

Bobby laughed. Patting Douglas on the shoulder, he said, “I don’t think Doug means any disrespect.”

Doug shook his head. “I don’t. Men like to show off to their women sometimes. Be the tough guys. The one who opens the tightly screwed pickle containers, mows the lawn, carries the heavy packages. If you can do it all yourself, what do you need us for?”

I raised an eyebrow. “I can think of one or two things.”

They laughed, and Bobby continued where Doug left off. “All we’re saying is there’s nothing wrong with kicking butt at work, but every once and a while, sit back and let your man take the lead at home. Even if you’re rolling your eyes on the inside, it will make him happy with little effort on your part. All you need to do is relinquish control and let go. Not all the time, but sometimes. You might even enjoy it.”

“We’re not excusing Perry’s actions, but they support our arguments that strong men don’t like to be controlled. And you,” Bobby said, nudging me lightly in the arm, “need a strong man.”

My head was spinning from the beers and the complimentary head-shrinking by my mini therapists. I needed a nap. I asked Izaiah to close out my bill and climbed off my barstool. I regarded my new friends with a weak smile. “Thank you for your interesting perspectives. You’ve given me a lot of food for thought.” With a final wave goodbye, I headed back to my room.

Robyn

“In a pot,” I sang.

“In a pot,” my kindergarten class repeated.

We sang together, “We stir the letters up and then, you boil it ’til it’s good and done.”

“Who’s got the K?” I sang.

Five-year-old Tommy Capshaw called out, “I’ve got the K!” When his classmates snickered, he threw his freckled hand against his mouth before repeating himself, this time in song and to the tune of “Hot Cross Buns.” Then he sprinted to the front of the classroom, affixed his magnetic letter K to the board next to the letter J, and rushed back to his fellow students.

When he sat back down, his breathing ragged and his normally fair cheeks flushed from exertion, I grinned at him and sang, “Alphabet soup.”

The kids repeated, “Alphabet soup.”

“In a pot,” I sang as my classroom phone rang. “One minute, guys.” My phone didn’t ring often during class, and it usually meant one of the children was needed somewhere else. I picked up the phone. “Hi. This is Miss Lane,” I said while keeping an eye on my students. If one restless five-year-old got bored sitting still, the rest would copy like monkeys at the zoo.

“Hi, Robyn. It’s Principal Hogan. Sorry to disturb your class.”

“No problem,” I said as my hands shook. Despite my promise to Lance, I hadn’t garnered the courage to confront Principal Hogan about the rumors since I’d returned to school a week earlier and, instead, was avoiding him. What I didn’t know couldn’t hurt me. “What can I do for you?”

“Could you stop by my office after this class? I think you have a free period, right?”

I gulped. “Of course. I’ll see you soon.” This was it. He was going to deliver my fate.

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