Page 40 of Whiskey Splash

His gaze is on me, waiting to see if I’ll finish what I was saying. I take another drink and mull over the question, smiling softly.

“I guess, I never really thought about what I wanted,” I say finally. “Being a masseuse just fit. You know? Like how you fell into acting. It wasn’t something I was chasing after, but when I started doing it, it seemed to work out. You pick something, you go with it, and fifty years later—poof, that was your life!”

“You never had big dreams?”

“I’ve never wanted to be famous and have fans and glitz and glamour, if that’s what you’re asking?”

“It’s not,” he says, letting that one slide off.

“Oh, you mean regular dreams?” I tease.

“Boring dreams. Meaningful dreams,” he offers. “Beautiful dreams.” That one comes with more authority and a look that makes my insides light up like the clouds. I uncross and re-cross my legs, adjusting my weight, the slit of my dress sliding to the side, allowing the buttons to inch up my legs.

“I guess Arie’s dreams were always enough,” I say quietly. “They were so ambitious and fun, and she included me in everything. She filled up the whole room till there wasn’t much left. Not that I’m upset. I’m happy to hide. I like being in her shadow.”

“Why would you ever be happy with that?” His insistence prickles my neck, and a piece of me tries to remember the last time I felt ambitious.

For some reason, nothing comes to mind.

I can’t think of a single instance in the last year or two where I wanted to dash out and grab life by the balls. Run with it. Go all in and step into the adventure like this afternoon on the zipline.

I try to dig deeper, and it surprises me to think it may have been as long ago as high school, or the beginning of college freshman year. I rub my neck as an unsettling thought surfaces. I haven’t wanted much for myself since before Jeremy and the picture incident.

“Wow,” I laugh nervously. “You know I haven’t got a clue,” I lie. “Arie’s just so beautiful and wild and exciting, and—”

“You’rebeautiful, wild, and exciting,” Desmond interrupts, the intensity of his gaze making me dig my toes into the sand, the soft grit rough and ticklish at the same time. “Arie’s not the only one who deserves what she wants.”

“Of course,” I agree weakly, breaking our connection, my hand idling on my neck where the skin sticks from humidity. “I don’t mean it like that. I just mean … Arie’s always known who she is and what she wants. And I’m, I’m …”

I look back at Desmond and feel unraveled. He’s like a dream, someone beautiful and otherworldly in the glow of the lantern. Picturesque. Untouchable. This moment feels too romantic to be real. It doesn’t even feel like it’s part of my life. It’s a page ripped out of someone else’s life, that I’ve stolen for an afternoon, someone like Arie …

But I guess that’s his point. Thisismy life. Not my sister’s, but mine, and Desmond chose me.

A crack of thunder snaps against the sky—startling us both. I clutch my glass of wine, almost dropping it in the sand, and Desmond turns to look at the oncoming clouds. They’re black and fanning out over the sky like a sheet of electric night, pockets of light flashing in the skimming folds. The wind starts to pick up and I look back at the restaurant, the palm leaves billowing.

“Do you think we should go inside?” I ask. “That’s looking a little intense.”

Desmond scans the sky. “I doubt they like their patrons getting struck by lightning.”

I lift my hand, stretching it out toward the water and fishing for raindrops. After a moment, a few wide splats plop onto my palm, then my shoulders. A couple hit the tablecloth, painting it with dime-sized polka dots. I look at the sky, calculating.

“What do you think is the actual likelihood of getting struck by lightning?” I ask, leaning back in my chair like I haven’t a care in the world, the thrill from this afternoon’s zipline bubbling in my veins. I close my eyes and savor the feeling of the cool drops of rain on my hot skin.

“Rare, but probably more likely than falling from a zipline,” Desmond jabs, his tone playful. “You seemed significantly more scared of the zipline than this rain.” A smile tugs at my cheek, but when I open my eyes, he’s looking at the sky in concern.

Another clap of thunder ripples through the air and suddenly the raincloud drops a new wash of precipitation, changing from tiny erotic sprinkles to a full-fledged rain. I yelp, my dress and hair dampening, putting my wine glass back on the table.

Lightning flashes and I jump up, the following roar of thunder crashing through my bones. Desmond grabs my hand and the two of us dash through the sand toward the restaurant, laughing. Wet splotches cover my shoulders and a third clap of thunder drops the full downpour from the cloud’s skirts.

I jet to the left, instead of going through the gate to the patio. Instead, I drag Desmond over to a small arched enclave in the wall. The tiny space has a half-dome overhang and below it is a fountain with a rim we can sit on. It’s the perfect perch for waiting out the storm and watching the beach that the wind has started to ravage.

“Sit!” I tell him, pushing my lavender hair out of my face as I breathe in the wildness of the storm breaking. He does and I slide down next to him, the enclave narrow, with just enough room for the two of us.

The play of lightning is magical, zigzagging and snapping across the horizon, the brightness creating a contrast against the pink bougainvillea vines that hang over the enclave’s ceiling. Our table is a mess, the romantic dinner for two overturned by the wind’s gusts. One of the chairs is tipped over and my wine glass is on its side, a pounding of water filling up our half-eaten plates.

“Absolutely fantastic!” I say, my heart pumping.

A second later, our waiter runs out with an umbrella in hand and is startled to see us not at our table. Desmond whistles and he turns around to find us. The waiter nods, but first runs to get my tote that’s sitting under the table. I thank him when he makes his way to the enclave and hands me my bag.

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