How to Honeymoon Alone

“I wasn’t too harsh?” I reach for my piña colada and take a long, calming sip.

“He’s a corporate lawyer,” Phillip says. “That phone call with you was probably the nicest he’s had all day.”

“Wow.”

He chuckles again. “You’re answering all of my phone calls from now on. I have a few other people you’re welcome to give the same treatment to.”

“I think you’re fully capable of saying that to them yourself. But you don’t.” I lift my eyebrows. “Maybe you secretly like working twenty-four-seven?”

The amusement on his face fades like dissipating ripples on water. “Yeah. I’ve heard that before. Good thing you’re here, then. Can’t work when you’re around.”

“You can’t?”

“No,” he says. “I don’t want to miss whatever stunt you’ll pull next. Plenty of things to fall into around here.”

I hold up my drink. “Well, for my next trick, I’m going to make this piña colada disappear. Please observe.”

He watches me lock my lips around the straw, face oddly serious. Like he’s studying me doing it. Something flips over in my stomach.

“I’m watching,” he murmurs. Then, he clears his throat and takes the sunglasses off his head, resting them on the table between us. “I’m going in the water.”

“Need to cool down?”Text property © Nôvel(D)ra/ma.Org.

“Something like that,” he mutters and heads toward the sea. I watch as he wades out until the waves reach his hips and then dives in, his broad shoulders emerging again in a crawl.

He swims back and forth along the shore, far enough out that he’s not bothered by any of the other tourists swimming in the shallower waters.

He returns a long time later and stretches out beside me, droplets drying on his skin.

I flip the next page in my novel. I’m nearly at the climax, at the point where the story tips from the predictable to chaotic, and I have a few theories about what’ll happen. Finding out if I’m correct is the best part of every reading experience. It’s like I’m solving a puzzle along with the characters.

“What are you reading?” he asks without opening his eyes.

I curl my fingers around the top of the book, keeping my place. “A cozy mystery.”

“A cozy mystery?”

“Yes.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a bit like… Agatha Christie. Murders and feel-good vibes.”

“Right, I almost forgot you were obsessed with true crime.”

“This isn’t really true crime. The crime is kind of incidental.”

“Tell me about the plot.”

So I do, lying there beneath our umbrella. I tell him about the lead detective and how she’d moved back to her hometown only to discover that her ex had been keeping secrets, and that the boy who’d teased her in high school had become her shut-in but attractive neighbor, and then a teen disappears, and-

Phillip interrupts me. “Is that the kind of stories you write?”

“I knew you would try to get that information out of me.”

“I’ll find out before we leave the island,” he says, putting his hands behind his head. “What are you in the mood to write next?”

I flip the book closed, committing the worst of all acts. Dog-earing. Maybe talking about it with him won’t be that hard. He’s been supportive so far, and… well, he’ll be a stranger again in just a few days. “I’m actually planning to write something inspired by this resort.”

His eyes light up. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting. Tell me about it.”

So I do. I talk about the people I’d seen-the arguing sisters, the rich couple on the beach, and all the theories I have for them. Phillip laughs at several of them and gives suggestions for others.

I don’t tell him about the mysterious businessman character, though.

“Is this the one?” he asks. “Will you try submitting it to a publisher again?”

I look down at the book in my hand, at the tiny name of the publisher on the spine. It’s easier to face than him. At least while I speak these words. “Probably not. I told you I failed at the publishing part. Now… now I’m not really sure it’s worth doing again.”

It feels easier to say out loud than I’d expected.

“Well,” he says. “People fail all the time.”

“They do?”

“Yes. That’s part of the game. You lose at times. But that doesn’t mean you stop playing. You go out again and again, and maybe next time, you win. And if you don’t, well… then, the game isn’t over, yet.” He turns to look at me. “How many publishers are there in the world?”

“I don’t know. Thousands? Tens of thousands?”

“Right. And are they all identical? Do they all have the exact same understanding of the publishing industry?”

I sigh. “No, you know they don’t.”

“Right. So another publisher might love your next book or the one after that. They might package them differently, market and sell them better.”

“They might, yeah.”

“Don’t let some stuffy editor who didn’t know how to sell your first book be the arbiter of whether or not you’ve got talent.” He leans back in the chair, head tilted up. His stubble has thickened into the beginnings of a decent beard. It makes him look older, somehow, and gruffer. But more relaxed, too. “If you decide a career as an author isn’t for you, that’s fine. But let it be because you decide it. Not someone else.”

I look at him for a long few moments. “You’re right. I mean, my first publisher doesn’t know everything. They never put any advertising dollars behind it, either.”

“No wonder it didn’t perform.”

“I also think I’m a better writer now.” I look down at the book I’m reading. It was a great quick read, and halfway through, it had given me that feeling. I think I could do this. I think I want to do this. “Maybe I should try again.”