“Hi, Mrs. O’Malley,” I say, looking over her shoulder and nodding my greeting to Mr. O’Malley at the same time. His bald head reflects the sun as he returns my nod, his face splitting into a wide smile.
“Let me look at you, sweetie,” Mrs. O’Malley says, releasing me and taking a step back. She reaches up and holds my face still, peering up at me with the all-seeing eyes of a mother. Her gaze skates over my face for a second before she tuts.
“You’re too thin, Beckett,” she says, pinching my cheeks and then looking at her husband. “Does he look thin to you, Robert?”
I laugh, swatting her hands away. “I’ve been eating just fine,” I counter. “I’m just working a lot.”
The Charlotte Amalie cruise port bustles around us, the pier full of tourists in sunhats and fanny packs, and I steer Mrs. O’Malley to the side so that we don’t get run over. Mr. O’Malley follows until the three of us are off on our own.
Mrs. O’Malley looks around, though, and points down to the end of the pier, where the paved thoroughfare turns a sharp corner around the port terminal. It’s a unique-looking building, blue with three massive archways and a red roof. “It seems busy under there,” she says, her eyes fixed on the shadowed archways. She looks around some more and then nods to the large, white awning off to one side. “Let’s go wait there, shall we? There are seats,” she says, casting an anxious look at Mr. O’Malley. He’s got a bad knee, and I know she worries about him walking long distances.
“Sure,” I say, because I’m not about to get in the way of a wife worrying about her husband. She’s right, anyway; a decent-sized crowd is congregated in the shadowed terminal area, so we’ll have better luck waiting comfortably somewhere else.
Mr. O’Malley texts Wes as we head in that direction, and when we pass into the shade, I’m just as grateful to be out of the sun as they are.
“This is much better,” she says when we reach one of the last unoccupied benches, looking at Mr. O’Malley. “Isn’t this better, Robert?”
“Much better,” he agrees with a nod. “We can save our energy for later today.”
They settle themselves on the bench, while I look with faint amusement at the batch of tourists that walks by in a steady stream. I’m a big people watcher, and tourists are always fun to observe. There are red faces and tanned faces, tired faces and energetic faces. People of all races and nationalities swarm to the island like ants to an anthill.
“So, Beckett, tell us about work,” Mr. O’Malley says as he settles into his spot on the bench. “How’s the research facility coming along?”
“Pretty well,” I say with a nod. “We had a few delays with equipment getting to us, so I’ve been here a little longer than I expected to be, but that’s fine. I don’t have anywhere else to be, and I like the weather.”
I’m an employee of the University of Florida, and my current project involves overseeing the placement of a small research campus on a tiny, speck-on-the-map island here in the U.S. Virgin Islands that we call Van Gogh Island. The island is uninhabited, and that’s what we liked about this location. Because the facility will be used primarily for astronomy field research, the university wanted to avoid all sources of light pollution. It’s the perfect place.
I tell the O’Malleys about work for a while longer; Mrs. O’Malley is particularly interested in the mundane details, like what everything looks like. Then she begins asking me about my life here on the island. She wants to make sure I’m eating enough, sleeping enough, taking care of myself well enough; so we chat for a good forty-five minutes while we wait for Wes and Molly, and I try to answer all her questions.
“And are you seeing anyone, sweetie?” she says now, a gleam of interest entering her eyes.
“Nope,” I say. It’s the same answer I give her every time she asks this question.
“No girlfriend?” she presses. “Don’t have your eye on anyone?”
“No,” I say firmly. “No girlfriend, no one I’m interested in.”
She nods, looking thoughtful. “Well, I’m excited to see everything you’ve been working on,” Mrs. O’Malley says, rubbing her hands together. “I want to see all the things you’ve been up to—oh,” she says suddenly. “Look, there’s Wes!”
I spin around, following her gaze, and I grin as soon as I catch sight of my best friend. He looks the same as he always has, for the most part—the tallest one in his family by far, with reddish-blonde hair, pale skin, and square glasses perched on the end of his nose. As far as I know their Christmas cruise only started two days ago, but Wes is already sporting an admirable pink glow on his cheeks and forehead—much like the one on his dad’s bald head. He doesn’t appear to have seen me yet, and he’s waving and smiling over his shoulder, talking to someone still hidden by the steady stream of people. Molly, maybe? I assume she’s around here somewhere.
I take the opportunity to jog toward him, leaving his parents on the bench. By the time I reach Wes, he’s just turning to face my direction again. He laughs when he sees me approaching, looking over his shoulder one last time before meeting me in an affectionate—but very manly—hug.
I laugh too as we embrace, my smile widening when I catch a glimpse of the woman he must have been talking to—not Molly but a curvy redhead wearing sunglasses. Her head is turned in our direction.
I shake my head, still laughing as I step back. “Same old Wes,” I say. “You’ve been on vacation for two days and a woman is already chasing you down.” I give her another subtle look, my appreciation growing. She’s one of the more attractive women I’ve seen him with over the years, but she’s not his normal type at all. He usually goes for tall and toned, very athletic—there are a lot of volleyball and basketball players in his past—but at first glance this girl doesn’t appear to fit that description. She’s too short, too curvy.
My eyes swing back to Wes, and I grin. “She iswayout of your league. If she decides she’s tired of you, pass my number on, yeah?” It’s a joke, of course; I don’t do much dating, and Wes knows that.
He doesn’t laugh like I expect him to, though; his smile has faded, and he scratches his head. “What are you talking about?” he says. He frowns at me, looking confused, before turning around to follow my gaze. Then his head swings back in my direction. “You idiot,” he says, rolling his eyes. “That’s Molly.”
Oh.Oh.
Oh,crap.
I’m not proud of it, but my jaw actually drops as I look back to the woman.
Because no. There’s no way. There’sno waythat’s Baby O’Malley. I mean, granted, I don’t have social media, so I don’t see her there; and while Mrs. O’Malley does call me and send me packages, she doesn’t include family photos. Still, I gape at the woman, trying to see what Wes could possibly be talking about—