How to Honeymoon Alone

I groan. “God, this place is filled with honeymooners.”

“They’re the worst,” he says.

“Something we can agree on?”

“Apparently, yeah.”

“You know why they’re so bad?” I say, feeling the nerves melt away a little at this sudden common ground. “It’s the constant announcing of it to everyone around them. Like them being newlyweds matters to the world at large.”

Phillip nods, his jaw tense. “At check-in counters,” he says. “To flight attendants.”

“To the waiters at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Do you know, when I checked in earlier, I overheard someone tell the bellboy… while he was carrying their heavy bags for them.”

“Basically, asking him to congratulate them while he’s helping them out,” Phillip says. “That’s low.”C0ntent © 2024 (N/ô)velDrama.Org.

“The lowest,” I agree. I take another sip of my nearly empty drink. I feel good. Better than I expected to feel on the first night of my solo trip. “Well, I’m not here on my honeymoon.”

“I figured, from your scathing critique of newlyweds,” he says. There’s dry amusement in his tone. Almost like he wants this conversation to end, but can’t quite bring himself to stop engaging.

“Subtle, right?” I say. “But I was supposed to be.”

“Oh.”

The waiter returns with our food. A steak for the gentleman, fish for the lady; both dishes smell amazing. I find that I’m hungrier than I felt. The flight, the stress-it all melts away when presented with hot food.

There’s another long, polite pause between us, and I take a bite of my fish. It’s delicious, well-seasoned, and warm.

“Should I say sorry?” Phillip finally asks.

“Oh, no. It was for the best. Good riddance and all that. But I couldn’t not go on a pre-planned, pre-paid holiday, you know? Especially not when it’s my dream destination.”

“I know,” he says with a sigh. “It would be a waste.”

“A colossal waste. So that’s why I’m here.”

“Hating on all the newlyweds.”

That makes me laugh again. “Yeah. Cynical of me, perhaps.”

He shrugs. It’s a single lift of his shoulder, dark-blue eyes on mine. “Cynics come out on top, to use your expression.”

“Then, I guess I’m a newly converted cynic.”

He huffs a half laugh and returns to cutting his steak. It doesn’t take long before he’s checking his emails again, and the frown is back, but I’m pleased. I got some emotion out of him. And I survived my first solo dinner, even if I know Becky won’t give me the win because I wasn’t technically alone.

He asks for the check as soon as we’re done, and when it arrives, he doesn’t give it a second glance.

“Put it on bungalow twelve,” he says.

“Phillip,” I say.

“Of course, sir,” the waiter responds.

“Phillip, I want to pay for my share.”

He shakes his head, pushing back from the table. “No.”

“No? Why not?”

“Because you were kind enough to let me crash your relaxing night out,” he says. “Thank you for tonight, Ms.…”

“Richards,” I say. He’s already forgotten? “It’s Eden Richards.”

“Eden. That’s right. Enjoy the rest of your trip.”

“Yeah, you, too. Don’t work too much.”

He gives another half snort of amusement and walks out of the restaurant-tall and stoic among the hordes of happy newlyweds.

So he’s staying in a bungalow. It’s the resort’s most expensive option, and one I had looked at briefly when researching. But a single glance at the price made it clear that it wasn’t for people like Caleb and me.

I take a sip of my drink, now watered-down and citrusy. Seems you can stay in a bungalow and still be miserable.

I might be in the cheapest room at the hotel. I might be nervous every single night I need to eat alone in a restaurant. But I’m here, in this beautiful place, and I owe it to myself to make the best of this experience.

Master of my own fate, I think again. These will be the best two weeks of my life. I deserve that.

I wake up to a brilliant sunrise. Clouds pass quickly over the sky, creating an ever-changing tapestry. From my hotel room window, I can see the neon-green colors of the resort’s garden. Everything seems just a tad brighter here. Even the flowers appear larger, their hues sharper.

Thanks to the incredible laws of jet lag, I’m down at the breakfast buffet early. Sampling all the wonders of the never-ending feast may be the hardest thing to accomplish during my two weeks on the island. Every fruit imaginable, omelets, pancakes, waffles, eggs, toast, croissants, and a granola spread are so impressive, I have to take a picture of it for posterity’s sake.

I grab a table by the boardwalk and spend my morning doing exactly four things: eating, watching the turquoise waves, reading my book, and keeping an eye out for Phillip Meyer.

Multitasking has always been my thing.

Even if I’m not sure if bungalow people actually go to the normal breakfast bar. They probably get the whole banquet delivered to their my-monthly-salary-a-night beachside villas.

But I keep my eyes peeled just in case.

I’m on my second glass of mango juice when I finally spot him. He walks through the breakfast bar with a single-minded purpose, stopping at the coffee station.

He’s wearing beige slacks and a blue polo shirt, looking like he’s about to close deals on a golf course. I leave my book at the table, get up, and stroll toward him.

Dark-brown hair has fallen over a face that already looks tanner today than it did yesterday, which is unfair on so many levels.

“Good morning,” I say.

He turns his head to the side, hands stilling on his coffee cup. “Hello,” he says. “Eden, right?”