Page 4 of Not Your Basic Love Story

She replied a minute later. ‘Yaaaaay! Meet us at the bar when ur ready!’ Winky kiss emoji. Champagne emoji. Sunshine emoji. Three heart emojis. She was drunk, already.

‘LOL will do bae.’ Kiss emoji. Three heart emojis. Dancing emoji.

I definitely needed a drink. But NOT tequila. Anything but more tequila. Tequila might be permanently ruined for me, and I’d only been in Mexico for about ten minutes.

CHAPTER TWO

The all-inclusive resort was in the famous Cancun hotel zone. Miranda had spared no expense—rather, Derek’s parents had spared no expense—and we were staying at a super luxurious one. It had four bars, not including the swim-up pool bar, five restaurants, and a wide, private beach.

The palm-lined road was familiar, given I had stayed at a different resort several years ago on a girls’ trip. I didn’t remember much else. The only souvenir I had from that escapade was a questionable lower-back tattoo: an infinity symbol with a heart and some dandelion tufts.

Blinking in the sunshine, I took in the gorgeous setting while the driver unloaded my bags. The architecture was incredible and reminded me of my backpacking trip through Europe. So much glass and concrete with pyramidal shapes, reminiscent of the Louvre. Or, you know, the actual pyramids. Not that I’d been to Egypt. Yet.

The lobby was equally impressive, with cool marble on the floors and walls and suspended greenery descending like the hanging gardens of Babylon. Perhaps they’d built this place with that idea in mind. Regardless of their inspiration, I was totally out of place here amongst all the well-dressed, very tanned upper-class people inhabiting the resort.

I checked in. A few minutes later, credit card swiped and key handed over, I was on my way. The bellboy took my bags and led me to my ocean-view suite. I tipped him, making a mental note of having to exchange more of my Canadian dollars into American (generally their currency of choice), and then closed the door, eager to be by myself after the bustle of travel.

The suite was exquisite. Giant floor to ceiling windows met with a sliding glass door, which opened to my balcony and granted an uninhibited view of clear, blue ocean and an equally stunning sky. A massive king-sized bed with a soft white duvet sat along one wall. My eyes settled on the red rose petals sprinkled suggestively overtop, two towels folded into the shape of kissing swans.

Nope.

I swept the petals off the bed and onto the floor, then shook out the swans.

Keep it together, Rebecca. It’s been two and a half weeks. You can do this. All you need is a shower—a shower and a drink. I helped myself to a Corona from the mini-bar and made my way to the bathroom.

Much like the rest of the suite, the bathroom was incredible, decked out in cool white marble with grey veins. A huge jacuzzi tub took up one wall next to a rain-head shower and double sink. I looked in the mirror; my hair was frazzled from the humidity, my makeup needed a do-over, and my clothes were rumpled and smelling nasty. I stripped naked and stepped into the shower with my beer.

A shower beer can fix many problems.

Alone, hot water pouring down my body, drink in hand, my mind wandered back to how I’d imagined it when I booked the room several weeks ago. How I’d imagined it withhim. Pushing into the doorway, kissing and giggling, jumping onto the bed. Romantic evenings walking barefoot along the beach. Hot, sticky nights fueled by champagne. Perhaps a proposal, which I’d keep secret from Miranda for a few days until the magic of her wedding had worn off.

Had I been out of line, imagining a proposal? We’d been together for over a year and a half. That was a reasonable amount of time to date before becoming engaged, right? But had to go and ruin it. How could someone throw it all away, weeks before a destination wedding he knew was so important to me? It was like he wanted to punish me, to force me to attend those dinner parties and cocktail receptions alone, answering, “Oh, where’s your boyfriend?” with “Oh, we broke up.” Followed by the requisite, “Aw, too bad!”

Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. It is too bad.

The timing wasn’t his fault, I guess. Everything else was, though.

I chugged my beer, then went through the process of cleaning the airport (and Dev’s lunch) off of me.

Despite everything, it was impossible to look out those giant windows at the incredible, cloudless blue sky and be in a bad mood. One towel wrapped around my torso, another twisted on top of my head, I unzipped my suitcase as I hummed an old Katy Perry song that had no business being hummed by anyone anymore, and—

What the…?

This wasn’t my bag! Instead of pumps and cocktail dresses, there were men’s shirts and shorts and a very expensive-looking pair of brown leather sandals, size eleven.

Of course, I would fuck up and grab the wrong bag. I hadn’t even considered for the slightest moment that two people would have the same ridiculous luggage. This was not my day.

I texted Miranda. ‘FML babe. Gonna be late. Grabbed wrong luggage!’

She didn’t reply. Probably busy.

That was fine. Everything was fine.

I called the concierge, hoping this wasn’t the first time something like this had happened. Sure enough, the person on the other end of the line assured me that this happened from time to time and that they’d take care of it. I gave them my own name as well as the name of the unlucky person who—

Oh shit! They had my bag!

I hung up the phone and sat on the edge of my bed with my head in my hands. Not only were all my clothes in there, but I’d grabbed my vibrator and thrown it right on top of everything else because, let’s be honest, I was going to need it.

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