Authors: Abigail Strom
He’d pictured her lying naked on those silk sheets with him above her, ready to bury himself inside her. Not since he was a teenager had he been so overwhelmed by the visceral power of a sexual fantasy.
At least until Jessica had made it clear that he was the only one with that problem.
There was nothing like a woman’s total lack of interest to calm a guy’s libido. With Jessica completely unaffected by the thought of their sleeping together—sleeping next to each other, anyway—he should have no trouble tamping down his own feelings.
No trouble at all.
Then he went down to the ocean and saw Jessica in her bathing suit.
There were dozens of vacationers on the beach. Among the women, the preferred suit choice was a bikini. Bikinis with straps, bikinis without straps, bikinis of all colors, styles, and varieties. And given Jessica’s predilection to be fashionable as well as to showcase her beauty, her suit should have been an unerring combination of classy and sexy.
But she was wearing a Speedo. A racing Speedo with thick cross straps—the kind worn by serious swimmers.
There was nothing enticing in the design of that suit. It conformed to Jessica’s slender body, but not with any intention to be provocative.
He was surrounded by women in skimpy bikinis, and there, standing at the water’s edge, stood a woman in a plain black one-piece.
And she was the woman he couldn’t take his eyes off.
He’d accused her of being too skinny in high school. She was still too skinny as far as he was concerned, even though he knew society would consider her proportions perfect.
She was too skinny, she was wearing a boring-ass bathing suit, and she’d informed him a few minutes ago that sharing a bed with him would be just like sharing a bed with her gay friend.
And he was staring at her like a starving man at the first meal he’d seen in weeks.
Her skin was the most touchable he’d ever seen—smooth and creamy and begging to be kissed. And even though he thought she should put on a few pounds, Jessica’s slim curves were undeniably appealing—including an ass so luscious it made his palms itch.
She was standing with her back to him, her hands on her hips, gazing out at the wide expanse of ocean. The beach was crowded and there were kids playing in the sand nearby, but she only had eyes for the vista before her.
He came up beside her. “Hey,” he said.
She turned her head, surprised. “I didn’t see you.”
“I know. What were you thinking, just then?”
She looked back at the water. “Just that it’s beautiful.”
He stood there with her for a few minutes, drawn in by her fascination to be still and observant himself.
The sound of the ocean waves filled the air. The horizon seemed endless; the colors were deep and beautiful. The briny tang of the sea was all around them.
He nudged her elbow with his. “Happy you came?”
She kept her eyes on the ocean, but she was smiling. “Yes.”
A memory of the last time the two of them had been swimming flashed before his mind’s eye. “Do you remember the pool at Shipley?” he asked.
Unexpectedly, her smile dimmed. “Don’t remind me.”
Her response confused him. “But you loved that pool. You went swimming every chance you got.”
“Yes, I did. Looking like a whale.”
“Hey!”
She looked at him, startled. “What is it?”
He held her eyes with his. “I hereby establish the first ground rule for this trip. You’re not allowed to body-shame yourself like that, even if it’s your past self. You were beautiful in eighth grade, Jess. You’ve always been beautiful.”
He could see her resistance to that notion in the ripple of tension that passed over her face, but he kept his gaze locked with hers.
Finally she shrugged. “Fine. But if you get to establish a ground rule, then so do I.”
“Fair enough. What is it?”
She blinked. “Well, I haven’t thought of it yet. But I will. And when I do, you have to obey it blindly.”
That made him smile. “Okay,” he said. “I will.”
She looked back at the water again. “I’m going in.”
She walked out into the waves, striding forward until she was waist deep. Then she dove in gracefully, swimming underwater long enough that Ben started to feel anxious. He breathed a sigh of relief when she popped up much farther out, swimming strongly.
He was so focused on watching her that he forgot he’d intended to swim himself. But before he could rectify that, he felt a hand tugging on his.
“Hey, mister? Will you play with us?”
“Huh?”
He blinked down at the kid who’d accosted him. He was about nine or ten years old, and he wasn’t alone. Another munchkin, maybe a year or two younger, was standing next to him.
“We want to play Frisbee in the water, but Gram says we can’t until our dad gets back. So will you play with us?”
The grandmother in question was relaxing on one of the lounge chairs higher up on the beach. Ben glanced out to where Jessica was doing an impeccable crawl and then back down at the little boy looking up at him so hopefully.
“Let’s go check with your Gram,” he said resignedly.
The elderly woman smiled when he introduced himself. “Have at it,” she said, waving her hand toward the water. “Just don’t go in too deep,” she added to her grandchildren.
They started a game of Frisbee with elaborate scoring rules he never quite understood. The kids, of course, were tireless, and so distracting that he didn’t notice that Jessica had swum up next to him until he heard her voice.
“Wow, that was fast,” she said, sounding amused.
“Hey,” he said, swiveling his head and consequently missing the Frisbee that had just been thrown at him.
He fished it out of the water and tossed it to one of the kids. Their father had joined them a few minutes before, so he took the opportunity to excuse himself from the game.
He kept his eyes on Jessica as they headed toward the shore. She looked like a mermaid with her fine blonde hair dripping down her back and droplets of water clinging to her pale shoulders.
“What was fast?” he asked her.
She gestured toward the boys he’d been playing with. “You’re such a kid magnet. It never fails. Give it five minutes, and every kid in the vicinity will be hanging off you.” She grinned at him. “Maybe they sense you’re a softy.”
He hadn’t seen her smile like that in years—like she didn’t have a care in the world.
“You think I’m a softy, huh?”
She ran her hands over her wet hair, twisting it into a long rope and wringing the water out. “Are you kidding? You’ve been a sucker for kids your whole life—not to mention stray animals and lost causes. You have a savior complex.”
They crossed the sand toward the lounge chair where she’d left her bag.
“I like kids, sure—that’s why I became a teacher. But you’re the one who’s a sucker for animals, and I don’t have a savior complex. And where are you getting the lost-cause thing?”
“Well, what do you call me?”
He stopped walking. When she realized it, she stopped, too, and turned to look at him.
“I don’t think you’re a lost cause,” he said. “I’ve never thought that.”
She looked skeptical. “Really?”
“Yeah. Really.”
“You thought I was so pathetic that you put your life on hold to come with me on this trip. You think I need saving, Ben.”
“Even if I did, that wouldn’t make you a lost cause.”
“Okay, then. What makes you think I’m
not
a lost cause?”
He ran a finger along one of her Speedo straps. “This.”
She stared at him. “What?”
“This bathing suit. It’s old and a little bit frayed here and there. It’s not fashionable. The only reason for you to wear it is because it makes you happy.
Swimming
makes you happy. And as long as there’s one thing in this world you do because it brings you joy, then you’re not a lost cause.”
Her gaze fell. She looked down at her toes curling in the sand, and didn’t say anything for a minute.
“You’re right,” she said finally.
“About what?”
“Swimming. I do love it. As long as I can remember, it’s been the one thing I do just because I enjoy it.”
“Okay, then. There’s your blueprint.”
She looked up again. “My blueprint? My blueprint for what?”
“For the rest of your life. Your life post wedding.”
“Post getting jilted at the altar, you mean?”
He grinned at her. “Exactly.”
She folded her arms. “All right, then. Tell me about this blueprint.”
“You carved out a tiny space for yourself with swimming. Something that’s an honest reflection of who you are, something you actually enjoy doing for its own sake. Now all you have to do is make that space a little bigger. For the rest of this trip, focus on doing things just because you want to do them.”
“And how will that help me?”
“On the plane you said you don’t know who you are. You need to figure that out. This will help.”
She froze for a second, and then she turned away and finished the walk to her lounge chair. She’d left a beach towel there, and now she draped it over her shoulders.
“I pissed you off,” he said, coming up behind her. “I’m sorry.”
She kept her back to him. “You didn’t piss me off. It’s just . . . I don’t need you to fix me. Okay?”
He walked around to the other side of the chair so he could look her in the eyes. “Okay,” he said.
A few seconds ticked by. Then:
“I’m going to go back to the cottage,” she said. “Would you mind staying out here for a bit? I’d love some privacy. If you give me an hour, I’ll return the favor.”
“Sure, I’ll stay out here for a while.” He smiled. “I hear they have a hot tub next to the bar. I’ll be fine.”
“All right. Thanks, Ben.”
As he watched her pack up her tote bag and go over to the spigot where you could wash the sand from your feet, he wondered what had just happened.
There had been a genuine moment of connection.
Jessica had seemed physically softer, as though the tension she always carried with her had lifted briefly. As though he’d found a way past her defenses.
Then he’d pushed her too far.
Maybe Jessica was right. Maybe he did have a savior complex.
He shook his head slowly. He should do what he’d told her to do: focus on having a good time for the next ten days.
It was time to visit the open-air bar and order the Bermuda rum swizzle he’d heard so much about.
C
HAPTER
S
IX
I
t felt luxurious to have the room to herself.
If she’d been braver, she could have come to Bermuda alone—and this beautiful suite would have been all hers. No awkwardness about sleeping arrangements . . . and nothing else she didn’t want to deal with, either.
You said you don’t know who you are. You need to figure that out.
But did she want to figure it out?
She’d never wanted to before. Because at the very core of herself, there were things she didn’t want to face.
Maybe that was why she’d let Ben come with her. Because when you don’t know yourself—or when you’re afraid to know yourself—the last thing you want is to be alone. That was one of the reasons she and Tom had decided to get married, after all. Because neither one of them wanted to be alone.
Being alone meant looking inside. And that, to her, was far more dangerous than spending ten days on an island with Ben Taggart.
Or so she’d thought.
You said you don’t know who you are. You need to figure that out.
No, she didn’t. What she needed to do was figure out a way to get through the days . . . to get through her life . . . now that her partner in cowardice had deserted her.
And she needed to get back to her mission statement for this trip: getting away from hard questions and painful memories and having a good time.
A few hours later, waiting for Ben in the hotel lounge, she decided that alcohol would help with that mission. She downed two martinis in quick succession, and waited for the warm flush of relaxation to follow.
But before the vodka had a chance to fully kick in, Ben joined her at the bar.
He was dressed, she was glad to see, in a charcoal-gray suit and maroon tie. He’d shaved, too.
After they were shown to their table—a spot next to a window with a view of the ocean—she said, “You’re wearing a suit for the second time in two days.”
He smiled. “Yeah. And both times because of you.”
“I’m amazed you even brought a suit—and that it came out of your carry-on looking so good.”
“I didn’t bring a suit. I bought this at the hotel boutique.”
“You did?”
He nodded. “I knew there was a dress code at this restaurant, and I didn’t want to embarrass you.”
That was surprisingly sweet. “Well, you look very nice.”
As she heard the words come out of her mouth, she winced a little. She sounded so . . . prim.
“You look nice, too.”
“Thanks.” She had put her accustomed armor back in place, in the form of a pink silk A-line Prada dress, a pair of Manolo Blahnik flats, and perfect hair and makeup. The French manicure she’d gotten for the wedding was still flawless, so her nails were perfect, too. She looked down at her hands now, her fingers tipped with those impeccable white crescents.
“You know what?” Ben said. “I take it back.”
His voice was different. Rougher. Startled, she looked up to meet his eyes.
“You don’t look nice, Jess. You look incredible. Beautiful. Stunning, even.”
Her heart beat faster. Was that the reason for the sudden warmth heating her cheeks, or were her two martinis finally kicking in?
She didn’t know what to say. Before she could say anything, their waiter came to the table and took their dinner order. After he was gone, Ben leaned forward again.
“In case you’re worried, I’m not coming on to you. I’m just being honest.” He paused for a moment. “After you shut me down this afternoon, I figured I wouldn’t push you. But when I thought more about it, I realized something. I realized that I might be the only person in your life willing to be honest with you right now—and who you can be honest with.”
A spasm of anxiety tightened her belly, and she tried to lighten the mood. “Come on, Ben—we haven’t even had appetizers yet. It’s too early in the evening to be this intense.”
He smiled a little. “We don’t have to be intense—just honest. And if that’s not something you want, okay. If you don’t like my proposal, I’ll get on a plane and out of your hair.”
She reached for a roll, trying to conceal how much she didn’t like that idea. “You have a proposal, huh? What is it?”
“That you think of this trip as a safe space. What happens in Bermuda stays in Bermuda.”
“That’s what you said on the plane. That I could say anything to you and it wouldn’t matter. That I could tell the truth without repercussions.”
“Exactly. If you’re willing to do that . . . to tell me what you really think about things, to try to be honest for the next ten days . . . then I’ll stay. But I’m not up for a week of small talk and polite lies.”
She felt frustration rising. “So all I have to do is tell you what I really think. But what if I don’t want to talk about whatever it is you want to talk about? What if
that’s
what I really think? You’re making it sound like if I don’t say what you want to hear, you’re just going to pack up and leave. That’s not fair.”
He shook his head. “That’s not what I’m saying. I just want our conversations to be real.”
“What does that mean? Give me an example.”
“Why did you stop being friends with me after eighth grade?”
She stared at him. “So being real means digging up the past?”
“Among other things, yeah. But I’ve wanted to ask you that question for fifteen years, and it seems like this is my chance.”
As she locked eyes with Ben, she flashed back to their younger selves. Her: overweight and insecure and damaged in ways Ben didn’t know anything about. Him: good-looking and athletic and rebellious . . . and one of her best friends.
Until he wasn’t.
Did she want to talk about this? Could she talk about this?
She didn’t have to. She could get up and leave right now. She could go back to the suite and order room service, and Ben, as true to his word as she was sure he would be, would pack up his things and head back to New York.
She took a deep breath. “There were a lot of reasons.”
“Give me one.”
She looked down at the roll she’d buttered so carefully. “I’d lost all that weight, and I was starting high school. I was tired of being a loser, and I wanted things to be different. I wanted to be popular. I know that never mattered to you, but it mattered to me. And it seemed like the best way to get there was to turn my back on the past.”
She couldn’t tell him everything she’d turned her back on. She could never tell him the whole truth. But this was part of the truth, and she hoped it would be enough.
It was all so long ago. It seemed silly that they were even talking about this, and yet . . .
Ben had wanted to ask her this question for fifteen years. When she thought about that, she realized there was something she’d wanted to say to him for fifteen years, too.
“I’m sorry,” she said suddenly.
“Sorry for what?” Ben asked, sounding genuinely surprised.
Somehow, that made her feel a little bit braver. Ben didn’t expect anything from her; he wasn’t demanding anything of her. He’d just wanted to know what had happened between them so long ago. He’d lost a friend back in junior high, and he’d never understood why.
She couldn’t tell him all the reasons why. But she could at least apologize.
“I’m sorry I pushed you away back then. I’m sorry we stopped being friends.”
The waiter arrived with their first course, and for a moment they focused on eating. Then:
“I’m sorry, too,” Ben said.
She finished a bite of her salad. “Sorry for what?”
“Sorry I didn’t fight for our friendship. I could have tried to talk to you about it, but I was too proud.”
“I don’t blame you for that,” she said, surprised that he would blame himself. “And anyway,” she added wryly, “I wouldn’t have listened to you. I’d made my decision, and nothing would have changed my mind.”
Ben looked thoughtful. “You changed so much that year. It was like you wanted to be a different person.”
She
had
wanted to be a different person. She’d done everything she could to bury her old life and reinvent herself as someone new.
Someone untouchable. Invulnerable. Safe.
And if that had meant severing ties with the person who’d been her friend through thick and thin—the boy who’d had her back when the other kids taunted her—well, that had been a price she was willing to pay.
But the same dark secret that made her willing to pay that price was the same secret she couldn’t share—not then and not now. Because of that, she could never be completely honest with Ben.
But she could give him as much truth as she was capable of.
“I hated myself when I was fat. When my parents sent me to that camp and I finally lost the weight, all I wanted to do was forget the person I’d been. And once I started it was hard to stop.”
“Started?”
“With the new crowd. With the whole popularity thing. It kind of sucks you in, I guess.”
“Like the Mafia?”
She smiled down at her salad. “Sort of.”
“I hated the people you hung out with in high school.”
She looked up again, raising one eyebrow. “Really? I never would have guessed.”
“Yeah, I know I wasn’t subtle. But you made some good friends in college. Your roommates, what were their names? Kate and Sharon?”
“Kate and Simone.”
“Right. I met them a few times, when you brought them to your parents’ parties.”
“Back in the day when Amelia could still drag you to those?”
He smiled. “Yeah. Anyway, they seemed nice.”
“They were. They are.”
Jessica felt a familiar pang. She’d always felt at a disadvantage with her two college roommates. On some level, she believed they were too good for her—although not in the way that her mother and her friends thought of themselves as “too good” for people. Kate and Simone were good in a deeper sense: principled, generous, honest, brave.
Kind of like Ben.
A wave of depression went through her. She could feel the weight of all the good people she didn’t deserve—Kate, Simone, Ben, Tom. People who knew who they were or who had the courage to try and find out.
“What’s wrong?” Ben asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You looked sad just then. What were you thinking about?”
Ben’s eyes were warm as he looked at her. Interested.
This was the way he’d looked at her on the plane, and at the wedding reception. He wasn’t asking questions just to make conversation.
He really wanted to know the answers.
And he’d promised her that what was said in Bermuda would stay in Bermuda. So why not talk about what she was thinking? What she was feeling?
Maybe it was the alcohol in her system, but she was starting to think it might not be such a terrible idea after all.
“You know what you said before? That I need to figure out who I am?”
He nodded.
She took a deep breath. “I’m afraid there is no me.”
Ben stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth. Then he set the fork back down on his plate. “What are you talking about?”
“If you spend enough time being someone you’re not, you lose who you are.” She groped for words to explain. “I’m afraid that if I go looking for who I am, there won’t be anything there to find.”
She’d half expected Ben to be horrified at her admission. Of all the people she’d known in her life, he was the least likely to lose touch with who he was.
But he didn’t look horrified.
One of her hands was clenched in her lap; the other was on the table. Ben reached out and covered that hand with his.
“So figure it out now.”
She thought about pulling her hand away, but the truth was, another person’s touch was comforting.
No—not just another person’s touch.
Ben’s touch.
But that didn’t change the fact that she couldn’t do what he wanted her to do.
“It’s too late,” she said.
“I don’t believe that. I’m not a big believer in fate, but maybe that’s why we ended up on this trip together.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I knew you when you were a kid. When you did things because you wanted to.” He paused. “When you had that Backstreet Boys poster, for example.”
That made her smile. “I don’t like the Backstreet Boys anymore. Remember?”
“Thank God. But remembering what you used to like is just a start. We’ll also figure out what you enjoy now.”
“We will? How?”
“We’ll experiment.”
The grin he gave her was probably perfectly innocent, but Jessica felt a quick rush of electricity. The words
we’ll experiment
, spoken in Ben’s smooth baritone voice, took on a double meaning.
But that was only in her head. Ben had made it clear he wasn’t coming on to her. He’d said so.
The waiter came by to clear their salads and deliver the main course, and once again their attention turned to food.
“How’s your fish?” Ben asked after a moment, and she glanced up at him.
“I thought we weren’t allowed to make small talk.”
“I didn’t mean we couldn’t make
any
small talk. I just don’t want our conversation to be
all
small talk.”
“Ah. Well, in that case, my fish is wonderful. How’s your steak?”
“Also wonderful.”
“And how is—”
The sound of a ringtone interrupted her, and Ben frowned. “Sorry,” he said, reaching into his breast pocket and pulling out his phone. “Let me—” He glanced at the screen and his expression changed. “Damn. Do you mind if I answer this? I won’t be long.”
“Of course. Go ahead.”
He hit Accept. “Jamal? I’m so sorry.” He listened for a minute. “Yeah, I know, but I have a really good excuse. I’m in Bermuda.” The person on the other end spoke again, and Ben’s eyes met hers for a moment. “A friend,” he said. “I’ll give you the whole story soon, okay? Good luck tonight, and I’m sorry I can’t be there.”
Jessica felt a rush of guilt as he slid the phone back into his pocket. “You’re missing something. What is it?”
“A friend of mine is reading at a poetry slam.”
She blinked. “A poetry slam? Really? I didn’t think people actually did those.”