The bathroom vanity and a small room for the toilet were inside, but the shower itself was outside. Gray slate stones stacked more than chest high provided some privacy from the beach beyond, and a waterfall-style showerhead hung from the center of the ceiling.
It was absolute heaven. With the gentle lull of turquoise waters lapping the shore and a steady ocean breeze to keep the hut comfortable, it was everything I imagined a South Pacific paradise would be.
During the trip, it was as though we were both trying extra hard to be the perfect couple, to not let Fiona’s warning haunt us or mark our time together. For ten days, we lounged in hammocks on the beach and sunned ourselves until we were a deep golden brown, despite our best efforts at slathering on sunblock. We swam, ate entirely too much, and sipped cocktails in the late-afternoon sun. There was no phone, no TV, no Internet. Just us. As much as I tried to ignore it, I couldn’t help but feel like a clock was ticking, marking down our time together. I wondered if Ben felt the same way. He was extra sweet and attentive.
My monthly cycle made an appearance, so I spent the entire week bloated and fighting off chocolate cravings. Ben was amazing, though, massaging my lower back, ordering dessert even when I insisted I didn’t need it, letting me sleep in, and generally being the world’s most responsive boyfriend.
Most mornings after waking late and eating a light breakfast in our room, we walked straight out of the front door and onto the sand to wade into the warm seawater for a morning swim. But this morning, Ben turned toward me, smoothing the hair back from my face and watching me as though mesmerized.
He looked at me like something big was on his mind, but for the time being he remained silent, just stroking my cheek, running his fingers through my hair and watching me.
“Did you sleep okay?” I asked, finally.
Ben
Emmy watched me curiously as I ran my fingers through her long, silky hair. “Did you sleep okay?” she asked finally.
“Fine.” I nodded. The truth was I hadn’t slept for shit last night. I laid awake thinking about the very real possibility that Fiona’s baby was mine. Could I really turn my back on her and the child? Growing up without a father figure¸ I’d vowed that I’d never be a deadbeat dad. And the more time I spent with Emmy, the more I began to worry about how close we were growing. Thoughts of Fiona and the baby weighed heavily on my mind. Somehow seeing her rounded belly this week made it all the more real. There was no denying she was getting bigger all the time. There really was a baby growing in there.
“Is something wrong?” Emmy asked, her forehead creasing as she watched me.
I didn’t answer for several long moments and Emmy pressed her palm to my cheek. “Everything’s fine,” I managed. “It’s probably time we got back to reality.”
“I suppose we should.” She rolled closer and stretched. “This has been perfect.” She rubbed her hands over my bare chest, absently, like her body dictated that we be touching anytime we could. “It’ll be almost Thanksgiving by the time we get home.”
“I suppose it will.” It was almost Thanksgiving, though you wouldn’t know it from the balmy eighty-degree days we’d grown used to in Fiji.
“What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” she asked.
“Ah . . . nothing, most likely. Last year my housekeeper, Magda, brought some me leftovers. The year before that I was in Brazil for a shoot.”
“So you won’t be with your mom in Australia?”
“Nah. Probably not. We haven’t discussed anything. And they don’t celebrate American Thanksgiving in Australia. Are you planning to go to Tennessee?”
“Yes. Would you . . . want to come home with me?” I could read the indecision in her eyes. I wondered if she worried it was too soon to bring me home, or if she worried that her parents wouldn’t like me.
“If you want me there, of course I will.”
Her eyes brightened. “You could meet my family, see where I come from.”
“I’d love that.” I lifted her hand to my mouth and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. Everything about my relationship with Emmy was uncharted territory for me, but I didn’t mind. I guess we’d find out if I was good with parents. It wasn’t her mom I was worried about—I was pretty sure I could win her over. It was her father who had me nervous. And it was the South. Didn’t they shoot first and ask questions later?
14
Ben
I’d always known Emmy had grown up differently from me, but this wasn’t what I had imagined. I pulled the rental car into the gravel driveway that Emmy pointed out and cut the ignition. Her parents lived in a rust-colored old trailer with a crooked front door and a bare patch of dirt where the grass had been trampled away over the years.
I glanced over at Emmy. She chewed nervously at her lip, watching for my reaction.
I grabbed her hand, lacing my fingers between hers. “Ready, babe?”
She gave a tight nod and climbed from the car.
Gravel crunching under my boots, I followed her lead to the front door. She hadn’t told me much about her parents, only that her mom and dad and younger brother would all be here for Thanksgiving. I hadn’t really had the typical experience of meeting my girlfriend’s parents before, so I wasn’t sure what to expect. The door opened when we got closer and Emmy’s mom came barreling out to launch herself into Emmy’s arms. They were sobbing and hugging and talking in animated voices while I stood there uselessly holding Emmy’s suitcase and my duffle bag.
She hugged her dad next then leapt into her brother’s arms, calling him, “Bubba!” He shook his head and her mom leaned over to explain it’d been her nickname for him since he was born. She’d been two years old and couldn’t say Porter.
Her mom had long brown hair like Emmy’s, with a few threads of silver in the braid hanging down her back. As soon as she released Emmy and wiped stray tears from her cheeks, she turned to face me. I couldn’t imagine such an emotional homecoming with my own mother. The last time I went to visit her two years ago she couldn’t even be bothered to come and pick me up from the airport. She sent a driver, with the excuse that she had a manicure appointment to keep.
“Heaven above, Emerson Jean. He’s hotter than the month of July.”
“Mom,” Emmy scolded, turning pink as her mom looked me up and down. “This is my mom, Sue.”
“Hi, Mrs. Clarke.” Before I had time to decide between a handshake and a hug, she was launching herself toward me. Twining her arms around my waist, she gripped me in a hug as I patted her back under the watchful scowls of Emmy’s father and brother.