Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 115198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 576(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 576(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
“What’s up with your mother and pillowcases?”
“She’ll look for anything to hold over you.”
“Well, that was a dumb one,” I say, “given that every woman on this island likely colors their hair.”
“Yep.”
“Any other potential pitfalls to anticipate with her?”
He glances at me over his shoulder. “You’ll hate my answer,” he says.
“Let’s hear it anyway.”
“When it comes to me, defer to her. She thinks I will always love her the most. She’ll drink like a fish, but you should never have more than two drinks per evening. Smile a lot. Don’t ever finish what’s on your plate, even if I do.”
“Exactly how far back in history would you like me to go? Will I still be able to vote?”
He lets out a weary sigh. “Green. I warned you you’d hate my answer.”
“Fine. Fifties housewife it is.”
“Anna,” he says finally, very gently. “The truth is, you could just smile on my arm and be okay. I promise I’m not trying to leave you unprepared. The sad reality is that my parents are unlikely to pay you much attention regardless.”
I picture David Green meeting someone I was literally married to and not taking a very keen interest. I try to imagine him only now meeting someone I’d been married to for five years, and I just can’t. It would never happen. If I as much as mention a third date, Dad wants me to bring the guy over for dinner at home. We’d never set foot on a beach like this—would never in our lives be able to afford even the coach-class plane fare—but we have something much more valuable.
I glance up at West and feel a pang of sadness for him.
We continue in silence. At the edge of the beach, the soft sand gives way to craggy rocks, and a smooth wood-slat path has been built into the side of the cliff, making it easy to walk along the wide curve of the island. We come around a bend and now that we’re right in front of it, I gasp at the view: the wooden path branches off into five long, narrow bridges over the water, leading to the overwater bungalows. Each is about a city-block distance apart, making them incredibly private.
It’s this moment right here when it sinks in that we won’t just be sharing a room for ten days; we’ll be sharing a bed. “Ope,” I mutter, pulling up short at the bridge that we’ve been told is ours, the third down the path. “I should have anticipated this.”
“Anticipated what?”
“Unless that tiny, romantic hut has two doubles inside it, we’ll be sharing a bed.”
West shakes his head. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
But when we reach the end of our long, curved bridge and step onto the deck of the beautiful bungalow, we see the seating options: two round papasan chairs facing the ocean. Inside the long, narrow bungalow is a single enormous bed and along one wall a carved wooden bench that’s barely wide enough for West’s left thigh.
“I think that’s just meant to be decorative,” I whisper. “I’m not sure you’ll fit. Unless you sleep in a coffin perched on top.”
West frowns at the bench. “I’ll make it work,” he mumbles.
“The bigger problem is that.” I point down the length of the bungalow, which is essentially a long rectangle, with the bedroom portion taking up roughly two-thirds, a small half wall behind the headboard, and a bathroom occupying the very back third of the space. While the sinks and closet are hidden by the partial wall, the shower is gloriously open and visible even from the entrance. The only space that closes with an actual door seems to be the tiny room with a toilet inside. Help. I cannot imagine pooping in there when West is anywhere in this bungalow with me.
“I can shower in the spa,” West says.
“That won’t look suspicious.”
“We’ll just have to time it all strategically.”
“Or we’ll just have to decide to deal with it,” I say. “After meeting your parents, I can’t imagine seeing me naked will be the hardest part of this trip.”
“Point taken.”
I do have a point, but I can’t help the warm crawl of awareness that he is a man, and I am a woman, and we are going to be cohabitating in this very small, very romantic place. “Okay, let’s just put on our big-kid pants—or take them off, I guess—and deal with it.”
He stares. I stare back. West blinks a few times, rapidly. “What? Now?”
“West, we’ve been traveling for seven hundred hours. I need a shower. Don’t you?”
“Yes.” He sighs. “You go ahead. I’ll be outside.”
He walks out to the bi-level balcony, one level in the shade, and one in the sun accessible by a set of stairs on the side of the bungalow, and rests his arms over the railing of the lower level, looking out at the ocean. I follow him out and stand next to him for a moment, taking in the view. The horizon stretches forever and I’m not sure I could come close to capturing the feel of the undulating clear turquoise water. The tide rolls toward us, breaking against the wooden deck piles and stilts supporting the bungalow. We’re several feet above the surface, but it’s hard to wrap my head around the fact that the sea is directly under our feet.