Sunscreen & Coconuts Read online

  I let my utensils drop noisily on my plate. “No!”

  “I made myself useful while I was trapped in the room yesterday with a swollen face.”

  “It looks so much better, by the way,” I remarked.

  Racy touched her hand to her cheek where the jellyfish had stung her. The puffiness was gone and a little foundation had managed to cover the remaining redness. “I still can’t believe you wouldn’t pee on me.” She stuck out her bottom lip. “What kind of friend are you?”

  “The kind that doesn’t pee on her friends.”

  “What if a rattlesnake bit me?” she posed. “Would you suck out the poison?”

  I leaned forward and grinned. “That depends. Where’s the bite?” I wiggled my eyebrows for affect, pulling a laugh from my friend.

  “Save that charm for your big date.”

  I leaned back in my chair and groaned. “Why do you always drag me along on your schemes?”

  “You’d never have any fun if it wasn’t for me,” Racy clucked. “You’d be at home in your pajamas right now with your goldfish, drinking hot chocolate and listening to Christmas albums.”

  I sighed wistfully. “That actually doesn’t sound so bad.”

  “Listen, we’re meeting both of our dates tonight at that tiki bar. If you don’t like the girl, it doesn’t have to go beyond that.”

  “Do you at least have a picture of this person?” I asked.

  A smile crept onto Racy’s face. She knew she almost had me convinced. She produced her phone and, after a few taps and swipes, she showed me the screen.

  “Pretty,” I grunted.

  I grabbed Racy’s phone and she crowed in victory.

  “What kind of person signs up for a database like this?” I asked, flipping through the profiles, more out of curiosity than anything else.

  “Who are we to judge?”

  “Hello? Hello?!” A woman at a nearby table spoke loudly into her cell phone, interrupting our conversation. “I’m in Curaçao. Where are you?”

  I turned my attention to the overly loud woman. I didn’t stare directly at her—just in her general vicinity—but even if I had, she appeared too focused on her phone call to have noticed me.

  “Hello? I can hear you; can you hear me?”

  Racy and I made knowing eye contact while the woman continued to speak too loudly for the space.

  “Who is this? Who is this?” she repeated into the phone. “Oh, Andrew!” The woman stood up and, thankfully, started to walk towards the restaurant exit with her phone call. “Hello! I’m in Curaçao on vacation.”

  Racy and I turned our heads to watch the woman leave.

  “Okay, I’m sorry,” Racy said lowly.

  “For what?”

  She held up her hand in vow. “I promise never to be the obnoxious American again.”

  “As long as that woman’s around,” I chuckled, “you never will be.”

  +++

  “I don’t have anything to wear!” I complained from the hotel bathroom. Racy didn’t immediately respond, so I stuck my head out the bathroom door. “I would have packed totally differently if I’d known you were making me go on a date.”

  “Less flannel and more strap-ons?” my friend quipped.

  Racy stood in the center of the room in the aisle between our beds. A towel was wrapped tightly around her midsection while her black hair, still wet from the shower, cascaded down her shoulders. Her attention was split between me and a few potential outfits that she’d laid out on her unmade bed.

  “It’s not so much about the clothes; it’s about the under clothes, Mercy.”

  We hadn’t managed to do much vacationing that day—the prospect of evening plans kept us close to the resort grounds, meaning we’d spent most of the day by the pool and ocean side at the beach.

  Racy held up a pair of black, lacy underwear, entirely sheer and see-through. “What do you think?”

  “Do those actually serve a functional purpose?” I wondered aloud.

  “It’s underwear, Mercy. Not a rain jacket.”

  “Why wear anything at all?”

  Racy pursed her lips. “I don’t want him to think I’m a total tramp—just a little bit. It’s a fine line, you know.”

  “You’re actually considering hooking up with a stranger tonight?” I marveled. I didn’t want to judge—I was progressive; consent culture and all that. I myself, however, had never experienced a one-night stand.

  “If he’s as cute as his profile picture, I may need to rub one out before we leave so I don’t hump his leg during dinner.”

  “The bathroom’s all yours,” I conceded.

  We finished getting ready for our respective dates and started the short walk across the resort. I hadn’t been lying when I’d complained to Racy about having nothing to wear; I really hadn’t packed anything appropriate for a first date, but at the same time I didn’t feel entirely out of sorts in my favorite wrap dress: navy blue with small, white polka dots. Racy had—characteristically—dressed a little more daring in full makeup and a black mini dress. I had no idea how she planned on navigating the soft sandy turf in her red-bottomed heels.

  The Thirsty Coconut was far more lively that evening than I’d seen it the two previous afternoons. A live band was positioned near the ocean and most of the tables had been claimed by other couples. Two stools were available at the bar, so Racy and I occupied those seats until our dates arrived.

  I hopped up from my barstool nearly as soon as I sat down.

  “Getting cold feet?” Racy asked.

  “Bathroom,” I excused.

  Racy waved me off. “If you don’t come back, I’m contacting the American Consulate.”

  The bathroom, a small room with a single sink and a separate bathroom stall, was empty. The overhead lighting was limited, but bright enough that I could check and reapply my lipstick. I didn’t typically wear a lot of makeup beyond a layer of mascara, but I chose for that night a bold red lip close to the color of my hair.

  I was definitely having doubts about the evening. I knew next to nothing about this woman I was scheduled to meet. I only had a picture, and what if that wasn’t even what she looked like? What if I’d been catfished and forced to endure small-talk for the entire night? I didn’t even have patience for small-talk with people I knew and liked.

  I remained in the bathroom for as long as I safely could without Racy sending a search party after me. The bar was just as crowded as before when I returned. Our dates had yet to arrive, but in my absence, a label-less beer bottle had appeared on the bartop at my place. Racy had the same bottle in front of her.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “I got you a loaded Sol.”

  I inspected the longneck bottle. “It looks like a beer.”

  “It is,” she confirmed, “but with a little extra something-something.”

  I took a sip and resisted immediately spitting it out. The taste of tequila hit the back of my throat and burned all the way down.

  “That’s tequila!” I sputtered.

  “That’s a loaded Sol,” she corrected. “They fill the neck of the bottle with booze.”

  My second sip was less boozy, and by the third sip my throat and midsection were pleasantly numb.

  “Your phone was blowing up while you were in the bathroom,” Racy noted. “I was tempted to text Bethany back, but I restrained myself.”

  “Thanks for your willpower.”

  I checked through the few texts that Bethany had sent, all of which were reassurances that my apartment was still standing and my fish was still alive.

  “I don’t know how you can be friends with your exes,” Racy remarked.

  “I don’t do it all the time. But Bethany and I decided we were more compatible as friends than girlfriends.”

  “Hence the no sex for a year.”

  “Yeah,” I noted glumly.

  “At least you got someone to watch your goldfish out of the deal. I hope she’s not having wild sex par
ties at your place.”

  I didn’t dignify her statement with a response.

  “You’re right,” Racy continued without my prompt. “It’s probably more likely that she’s spending the week building model tall ships than hosting a kegger.”

  I changed the subject. “How are our dates going to recognize us?”

  “Our profile pictures.”

  I tapped my palm against my forehead. “Of course,” I sighed loudly. “You made us profiles.”

  “You can’t contact people on this app unless you have a profile,” she informed me. “It lessens the chances of hooking up with a weirdo.”

  “Do I even want to know what my profile says or what picture you used?”

  Racy smiled. “Probably not.”

  A decidedly deep, male voice interrupted our conversation: “Racy—rhymes with lacy?”

  Racy and I both spun on our stools in the direction of the voice. A man, about medium build and height, stood behind us, smiling. He looked American, on vacation and not a local. His dark hair was slicked back—salt and pepper in spots. Tan-lines appeared at his temples from sunglasses. He wore a collared shirt, open at the neck, tucked into flat-front khakis.

  “Mark?” Racy posed.

  “Guilty.” He produced a single flower—a vibrant orange bird-of-paradise. “Your picture doesn’t do you justice,” he complimented.

  Racy slid off her barstool and took the pro-offered flower. “You’re sweet.”

  I watched Mark’s eyes take the full measure of my friend. His dark eyes raked appreciatively down her body.

  “This is my friend, Mercy,” Racy introduced me. “She’s waiting for her date, too.”

  “How did people ever meet before the internet?” Mark smiled.

  “Do you want us to wait for your date to show up?” Racy asked me. She already had her arm linked with Mark’s, so I could tell she approved of her online date.

  “No, no. Go have fun,” I insisted. I was beginning to hope my date would be a no-show, so I could go back to the room, put on my pjs, and order room service. I planned on slinking out of the bar as soon as I was out of Racy’s sight. “I’m sure I won’t be waiting long.”

  The new couple left the bar area in search of a proper table, leaving me at the bar. I considered ordering a second drink—one a little less loaded than my first—but the longer I lingered, the more likely this date might actually happen.

  I felt a light tap on my shoulder before I could make up my mind about the second drink.

  “Excuse me.”

  I twisted in my chair.

  The woman standing behind me looked a lot like her profile picture, only with tanner skin and lighter-colored hair; I wondered how long she’d been on vacation.

  “Sorry,” she apologized, wringing her hands in front of her body. “Are you Mercy?”

  “That’s me. Are you Therese?”

  She nodded. “Uh huh.”

  “It’s nice to meet you.” I gestured to the vacant stool beside me. “Have a seat?”

  Therese climbed onto the other stool and smoothed down the front of her skirt. “I’ve never done anything like this before,” she exclaimed. “I don’t even online date.”

  “Me either,” I admitted, privately relieved that neither of us had experience with this sort of this.

  I raised a finger to get the attention of the ponytailed bartender. We waited in an uncomfortable silence while he filled our drink orders, a glass of white wine for her and another beer for me.

  A quick scan of the bar came up empty; Racy and Mark had moved their date to another location. She hadn’t messaged to let me know where they’d gone, but she was a grown-up, so I had to trust that she could handle herself.

  I cleared my throat. “How do you like Curaçao?”

  “It’s pretty. And everyone has been very nice.”

  “Is this your first time on the island?”

  “Mmhm,” she confirmed. She ran her finger along the rim of her wine glass. “I was supposed to be on this vacation with my girlfriend. My ex-girlfriend,” she corrected. “I booked the tickets months ago, thinking everything was fine, but then at dinner a few weeks ago she dropped a bombshell and told me our relationship wasn’t working for her. It totally blindsided me,” she continued. “I thought everything was great. We never fought. I thought the sex was good. Lots of laughs. I couldn’t understand what wasn’t working.”

  “Did she tell you why?” I probed.

  Therese’s voice pitched. “No!” She shook her head and shut her eyes tight. I had a hunch tears weren’t too far behind. “We didn’t work anymore, apparently, but she couldn’t give me anything more tangible than that.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I murmured.

  Therese waved her hands in front of her eyes as if to fan away the emotions. She loudly exhaled, causing the edges of her cocktail napkin to flutter beneath her wine glass.

  I didn’t quite know what to do, but thankfully Therese seemed to shake it off. “I’m fine, I’m fine. I’ve shed way too many tears over her already.”

  “It’s awfully admirable that you decided to go on this vacation without her,” I approved.

  Therese’s features crumpled again. “The tickets were nonrefundable.” Her shoulders shook as she tried to choke back the sobs.

  I clasped my hand on her shoulder. “It’s going to be all right, Therese. You’re not defined by whom you date or don’t date.”

  I’d said so to Racy numerous times whenever she gave me a hard time for being single.

  Therese wiped at her face, running her index fingers beneath her eyes to capture any migrating mascara. She shook out her hands and sniffled. “God, I’m a mess.”

  “No more than the rest of us,” I assured.

  She exhaled. “Maybe we could start over?”

  A smile carved across my mouth. “Hi, I’m Mercy. It’s nice to meet you.”

  Her voice wobbled with emotion. “Hi, Mercy.”

  We spent the rest of the evening sticking to safe subjects. Our jobs that stressed us out. Our families that stressed us out even more. Good movies we’d seen lately and our favorite books. Conversation came easy once we’d put her ex-girlfriend in the rearview mirror, but it was clear that there was no spark between us or a chance for a second date. I hadn’t expected the meeting to turn into anything though, so I wasn’t disappointed.

  After a few more drinks, Therese and I walked back to the hotel lobby and parted ways with a quick, friendly hug. There was no uncomfortable lingering or expectations to make the evening continue or promises that we’d keep in touch or even see each other again during our time on the island. Our rooms were in different parts of the resort, so we said our goodbyes in the lobby.

  I walked back to my room, half amused by the night’s events. I wondered what Racy’s date had been like; I was pretty confident she hadn’t spent her evening talking about exes or consoling her date through tears.

  I slowed my step as I came upon our shared room. It looked like something was hanging from the doorknob. I thought at first it was the Do Not Disturb sign, but something was off.

  Wait. Was that. A sock?

  A white athletic tube sock with a bright red cuff hung from the door handle. Upon further inspection I discovered a folded-up piece of paper on the inside of the sock—like a message in a cotton bottle. Racy’s familiar handwriting was scrawled across hotel stationary:

  The date with Mark went better than expected. If you get this before we’re finished, grab a drink at the tiki bar and I’ll meet up with you later. – R

  “Unbelievable,” I sighed.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Thirsty Coconut was less populated the second time around. The band had packed up and the live music had been replaced by American surf rock. Most of the tables had cleared out and staff had started to shut down the extra seating area by setting the chairs on top of the tables. The bar was still fairly crowded, but I located an empty stool between two polo-shirted men—thankfully n
ot the same men from my first day on the island. I set my phone on the bar and hoped I looked unapproachable enough that no one would talk to me. My annoyance about Racy radiated from me, punctuated by the fact that I was still in a dress.

  It was too late to text anyone on the East Coast, so I scanned through the apps on my phone and avoided eye contact with the other bar patrons while I slowly sipped a watered-down fruity cocktail. The man to my right eventually vacated his stool, giving me more elbowroom. I dropped my purse on the seat, effectively saving the spot for whenever Racy finally returned from her date.

  A slender hand, attached to an equally slender wrist shook a well glass in my peripheral vision. The melting ice cubes clanked around the inside of the glass.

  “Another one, Kate?” the ponytailed man behind the bar asked.

  “That would be great, Jimmy. Thanks.”

  I recognized the shock of white-blonde hair as the woman I’d seen poolside the previous day and then later at the tiki bar. She leaned against the bartop while the bartender refilled her drink. I pretended to be interested in the happenings on my social media feed, but I couldn’t help glancing in her direction.

  Her hair alone was worth a second look. She wore it closely shaved at the sides and longer up top—it was longer than a pixie cut, but too short to pull back in a ponytail. She was aided by hair product that gave her the appearance of having just rolled out of bed.

  The day before she’d been wearing a similarly oversized, garish tropical shirt. The bright green shirt was covered in cream-colored flowers. The shirt was open at the neck, which provided just a hint of chiseled clavicle. The look was more typical for middle-aged men with beer bellies, not model-thin women no older than myself. She swam inside of the overabundance of material. She’d rolled up the short sleeves, but that only exaggerated the slenderness of her biceps.

  Jimmy, the ponytailed bartender, slid a filled glass in her direction. “Don’t overdue it tonight,” he chuckled.

  She tipped her fingers to her temple in a mock salute. “I’ll try to keep it under control.”