Page 81 of Drilled (Dad Bod Contracting 2)
“This is about relaxing and having fun, so I’m not going to argue with you,” Imogen says, after a moment, “but no more boob shows at open windows, okay? I don’t want gaggles of horny tourist dudes lining up over there with binoculars hoping for another peep at the hot older lady who likes to flash people.”
I flip her the bird. “I’m not an older lady.”
“Yeah, but you’re not twenty-five anymore, and this isn’t Mardi Gras.”
“No, but my tits look almost as good now as they did then, so that’s a win.”
“Can we stop talking about your tits?” Imogen says, grabbing her suitcase and opening it on the bed.
We both shower, change into bikinis and cover-up dresses and find a place within walking distance to eat some food—it’s well past lunch, but we have omelets and bacon and sausage and a bowl of berries and endless cups of coffee.
Eventually, I look at the time and toss down enough cash to cover the meal. I stand up and announce, “Time to find a cabana, and a cute cabana boy.”
She nods, adds cash for a tip, and we head out for a few hours of lying in the sun, swimming, and drinking way too many gin-and-soda-waters.
And that is how we spend the week. One day drifts into the next, pleasantly, slowly, but also way too quickly. We shop, go to fancy dinners in the evenings and linger over extended breakfasts in the morning, and order food to our cabana in the afternoons. We collect shells and tease the guys on the beach around us with elaborate shows of rubbing sunscreen on each other, laughing as they all but trip over themselves trying to get a better look.
I leave my phone turned off and stuffed in a pocket in my purse, forgotten. I don’t think about anyone, or anyone in particular. I don’t work out. I eat food I haven’t eaten in years—and while I know I’ll have gained a bunch of weight when I return to reality, I honestly don’t care. I know I can strip it away again, and the sense of peace and relaxation is totally worth it.
I can’t shake the lingering weight of sadness, though. It’s not overbearing, it’s not a crushing cloud of depression, its just…sadness. Like I’m missing something.
Someone.
I don’t let it bog me down, and I don’t let it show, but it’s there.
As the week wears on, though, and we get closer and closer to having to go back home, the heavier the sadness gets, and the harder it is to push it away. True to her word, Imogen never pushes the conversation to anything heavy, and I’m grateful for it.
It’s early evening on Saturday, the last full day of our trip. We’ve been at the beach most of the day, and I’m trying to pull myself out of the funk of sadness, trying desperately to convince myself it’s just end-of-vacation melancholy that’s not about anyone in particular.
Imogen is beside me, on her belly on the cabana mattress, sunglasses pushed up on top of her head to hold her hair back, texting Jesse. Abruptly, she pops her head up and swivels it around as if looking for someone, and then casually lowers it back down again, a strange expression on her face.
I eye her. “What was that about?”
She tugs her glasses back down over her eyes. “Nothing.” She’s not good at lying, and worse at pretending she’s not. “Thought I saw someone I knew, but it was just a lookalike.”
I frown at her, rolling to my side and tugging my top up so I’m not spilling out of it. “Imogen, you suck at lying. What’s going on?”
She clicks her phone to sleep and clutches it in her fist, staring at me through her bug-eye sunglasses. “You know I love you, right?”
All my suspicions are on high alert. “Yes?” I say, drawling the word into a question.
She glances past me, lets out a breath, and then moves to a sitting position, gathering her purse and cover-up. “So…you’re here through Tuesday. I changed your flight and stole your phone while you were sleeping to reschedule your Monday and Tuesday appointments.”
“Why would you do that?” I frown harder. “What do you mean, I’m here till Tuesday? Just me? Where will you be?”
“In St. Pete’s with Jesse.”
“You’re ditching me here, alone, to spend time with Jesse?” I sigh, shrugging. “Okay, I get it. We’ve had a great week and I’m super thankful we’ve had this time together. I really needed it.”
She’s smirking, sort of, but hiding it. “This is where you just need to trust me.”
“Trust you?”
She leans over me, and I sit up to hug her. “Yes, Audra. Trust me. I have my reasons for doing this beyond wanting time alone with Jesse on a beach.”
I stare at her, examining her—she’s up to something. “And you’re leaving right now?”
