Page 6 of How to Say I Do
I still remembered that long aisle coated in bridal-white rose petals and lined with candles flickering in crystal hurricanes. Jesus, I’d had to walk the entire length of it thewrongway, with all those people staring at me—
Stop. Don’t think about that.
My mouth had the flavor that I imagined what biting into a rotting corpse would taste like. Zombie pâté. Delicious. But I had no toothbrush. No toothpaste, no clean clothes, no luggage. Nothing, in fact, but this wet towel.
I watched the sun rise over the ocean while sitting butt naked on my back deck. The morning was Hollywood beautiful: the sun rising gold over the waves, cream-orange and lilac light running on top of the turquoise waters like spilled paint. The waves weren’t so bad now that my brain wasn’t trying to bash its way out of my ears.
I’d daydreamed about being here so many times. In all those imaginings, I’d had someone special beside me. I’d had my hand looped through someone else’s, and we’d shared a cup of coffee as we leaned our heads against each other.
Rose petals fluttered across the sand. I plucked one up and turned it over. Wyatt, again, rescuing me. Had he taken that ridiculous vase, too?
I held out my hand.
No one was there to take it.
I waddled to the gift shop the first minute they were open wearing nothing but the resort’s fluffy robe and a pair of cotton slippers I’d found in the closet. I bought the essentials: bathing suit, board shorts, flip-flops, t-shirts, emergency boxers, a pair of pants, a couple linen button-downs, toothpaste, toothbrush. Ralph Lauren and Vineyard Vines these were not. Everything was labeled with the resort’s logo.
I considered heading to the concierge to update the resort on my relationship status, but there were only so many self-inflicted punches to my ego I could stand in one short time period. Besides, I’d rather have the conversation that I’d been dumped at my wedding and ditched on my honeymoon while I was wearing underwear and more than a robe and slippers.
So, back to my villa with me.
I dressed in orange board shorts and a yellow t-shirt, then brushed my teeth and my tongue three times. My sunglasses were, thankfully, under the bed, and with those and my new plastic flip-flops, I was ready to face the day.
Booking a top-of-the-line honeymoon experience at an all-inclusive luxury resort meant that, according to the resort, I would receive the best of all possible romantic interludes and escapades, each hand-curated by “experience specialists.” They proclaimed to be world-class experts at love stories, and they had the clientele and the price tags to back that up. When I’d picked out my week of honeymoon activities, I’d been assured I was crafting an itinerary that would have made a swoony romance film feel washed up and stale. That morning, in fact, Jenna and I were supposed to enjoy a beachside brunch in a private lanai.
Which I had been looking forward to, immensely. French toast with my toes in the sand, sipping on champagne while I hand-fed her slices of papaya and mango? Yes, please. This was supposed to be the first morning of the rest of our lives, where we started daydreaming about our shared future, but now I needed to pick up the phone and cancel. There was no rest of our lives, and everything I’d imagined—parties of two, her and me, us together—was gone.
I was alone.
Again.
False, flippant bravado surged.So what?I was alone, but I’d been alone before. I was here, and what better way was there to get started on getting over Jenna than kicking off my honeymoon as a party of one? I could do this. I could eat french toast and stare at her empty chair. Imagine, too, all the sweet nothings we weren’t saying—
Fuck, what the hell was Idoing? I should go back to the airport, fly home, and forget about everything. What was the point of staying? What was I trying to prove? That I could survive her? Or that I could survive getting dumped so well that I could gallivant through our honeymoon without a single fuck to give?
A tiny voice inside me whispered,But you do, you do—
I shut that shit down. Rummaged around in the bedside drawer, slipped my sunglasses on, and then stepped out the back door. I loved french toast. This was just brunch. Fuck it.
I took off toward the main beach.
The resort was laid out around a picturesque horseshoe bay, inviting luxurious elbow room and decadent leisure. Each private villa had their own slice of pristine sand, all of them spreading outward along the twin arms of the horseshoe. At the center of the unspoiled bay lay the resort’s beach. Climb up from that beach and you came to the main terrace, where there were infinity pools, carved-off lanais and secluded lounges, a dozen intimate bars and restaurants, and the concierge building overlooking everything from atop a sloping, tropical-bloom-drenched hill. Beyond all of that, the resort boasted a golf course, horse stables, hiking trails, and three hundred acres of pristine jungle preserve full of secret lagoons, hidden waterfalls, and clandestine swimming holes within the isolated grounds.
The main eatery and watering hole at the center of the horseshoe bay was called El Amanecer, and it was a thatch-roof, open-walled tiki hut, and blended in so well with the beach it looked like it had grown out of the sand. There was no such thing as an honest-to-God crowd anywhere at the resort—this place was all about exclusivity and boasted of only allowing a highly selective number of bookings—but I spotted a gathering of people dining on eggs benedict while they sipped mimosas beneath the thatched awning.
On the sand, just above the high-tide line, the resort had built a temporary private lanai out of bamboo poles, draped the whole thing in long runs of silk that puddled on the sand, and finished off the romantic décor with garlands of plumeria and hyacinth blooms. Inside the lanai sat a table set for two, covered in a white tablecloth, fine china, and—of course—more roses. A sign hanging off one of the chairs readReservedin a fancy calligraphy worthy of the Upper East Side.
I almost veered off for the El Amanecer to join in with the strangers and their mimosas. I could gossip with them, hiding my brand-new plastic flip-flops as I joined in the wondering about who on Earth was supposed to be out there. Join in the jokes, too, about how the couple was probably still in bed, too wiped out or too caught up to venture out for breakfast. Something likethatsurely screamed of a couple so deeply in love. Right?
Fake courage was the better part of facing down humiliation and heartbreak. Hadn’t someone said that? Fuck it, I just wanted a drink. “Bettancourt?” I asked the attendant waiting by the lanai. His name tag said Luis.
Luis bestowed upon me the glittering five-star smile of luxury customer service. “Si, señor. And youramor?”
“Delayed.” I screwed on my own smile, and I wondered if it looked as hideous as it felt. “It may just be me this morning.”
“No problem. Right this way.” Luis escorted me to one of the chairs. Both were angled to face the ocean, but they were still situated close enough that you could reach across the table and hold hands with your beloved.
Before I’d marched down the beach, I’d scrounged up a notepad and a pen from my villa, and now I set them in the empty space where Jenna and my fingers were supposed to be intertwined.
