Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98345 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98345 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
I realize now, in this unlikely moment with Phillip, that I don’t want an apartment back home. I don’t want to move on as if my grandmother never existed. I don’t want to simply trudge through and save face. I don’t want . . . any of it.
“Let me walk you to the clinic,” Phillip says, his voice gentle as if he’s realized he’s struck a nerve. He lowers the bag within reach, and I yank it away from him before turning on my heel.
“No need. I can find it myself.”
Chapter Nine
CASEY
It was harsh the way I left Phillip on the dock—a sort of don’t-kill-the-messenger situation where he got all the blowback from my newly realized quarter-life crisis. I didn’t like how deep he was delving, and so I stormed away in a huff. I’m already sorry for it. I looked for him after I left the clinic yesterday. After only an hour, I was as good as new thanks to a paste of baking soda and seawater the doctor applied to my calf. When I left, I was given clear instructions to take a hot shower and apply an ice pack if the pain worsened, though it never did.
I went to dinner in the dining hall, ready to offer Phillip an apology and a thank-you for carting me back to the boat, but he never showed. Or at least, I never saw him.
I carried my disappointment all the way back to my suite, where Sienna and I went to debate having our big night out.
Ricardo had asked us to meet him at his bar so he could show us some of Key West’s nightlife, but it was a quarter to nine, and neither of us was making the moves to get ready. In fact, Sienna was splayed out on the couch in my living room.
“It’s not that Ricardo isn’t nice . . . ,” I started.
“No, I know. I feel bad that we can’t phone him and offer an apology. It’s just I can’t manage to move a single muscle. Not one.” She strained to pick up her arm as if to prove her point and then, with a groan, let it drop back onto the couch beside her. Apparently, after I left the beach picnic, she got talked into playing a few rounds of beach volleyball. Sienna admitted she isn’t very good at the sport—or rather any sport—but Javier was playing, and so she forced herself to “give it a go.”
“I have aches in places I didn’t know could ache.” She forced herself up onto her side.
“But was it worth it? Did you get to talk to Javier?”
She grinned. “Oh yes. I have no idea what you told him when you two were out surfing, but he seemed to get the idea that I fancied him.”
“You do—”
“Yes, but he doesn’t need to know that!” She sounded exasperated.
“Well?” Guilt washes over me. “Did I completely ruin it or what?”
“No. Nothing’s been ruined,” she says, and I let out a relieved sigh. “I actually need to thank you. I feel like my usual MO is to make men squirm. Does she, doesn’t she? That whole game, but Javier cut straight through all that nonsense. Apparently, he feels the same way. We’ve arranged to have a drink tomorrow night after that show in the theater we’re all meant to go to.”
“A date?”
“Yes. A proper date. All thanks to you. Now hand me that bottle of Nurofen, will you? I’ll barely be able to stand up here in a second.”
On our third day on board, we left the Keys and started toward Turks and Caicos. With no port to explore, the crew planned an entire day of activities for us, starting with morning yoga, which Sienna skipped in favor of wallowing in bed (“Do you think I can manage a sun salutation right now? I can barely crawl to the loo!”), followed by a poolside lunch, and a ladies’ spa afternoon.
I’m having the best day. I enjoyed yoga almost as much as I’m enjoying hanging by the pool and working on my tan. I did manage to work a few hours, laptop open on my sun lounger. I typed up all the key points from the previous day, including my encounters with Phillip. It’s not that I suddenly think he’ll change his mind and give me the interview, but it’s better to get metaphorical pen on paper while everything’s fresh in my mind. It’s no coincidence that I can manage to type up pages upon pages of content about him, many more than I can compared to . . . say . . . the food offerings in the dining hall. It’s much more fun to wax poetic about Phillip’s jawline than it is to describe a sashimi roll.
Before I head to the spa, I shoot off an email to Gwen with another day’s worth of updates, pointedly leaving out the information about Phillip.