My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon - Lauren Landish Page 0,48
She took my heart when she took my dick.” He shakes his head sadly, doing an advanced maneuver with his oar that has him spinning a slow three-sixty in the water. “I wanted to run away, and I saw an ad online for resort help. Thought for sure it was click bait or that I’d get here and they’d steal my kidneys.” He laughs. “But it’s been great. Two years and counting!” He finishes with a smile, but then it falls. “Shit. Those two are definitely part of the other fifty percent.”
At my blank look, Dylan explains. “Newlyweds? Fifty percent divorce rate? You can tell sometimes.”
I cringe. That’s awful, but looking over to where Dylan is slicing through the water toward Emily and Doug, I can see why he’d say that. They are struggling just to work together. In fact, they’re almost entirely working against each other and as a result are stuck in place and starting to argue.
Happy honeymoon, indeed.
Dylan is almost to their side when their rocking gets outrageous, and not in the good way like ‘if the boats a’rocking, don’t come a’knocking’, but rather like they are going to capsize. One way, then the other as they try to correct for balance. It’s too much by a significant amount and their weight isn’t evenly distributed.
And with a whoosh, they keel over. Emily’s scream turns to bubbles that pop loudly, but Dylan has made it to them now and reaches his paddle out for Emily to grab on to. Doug surfaces almost immediately, a grin on his face as he whips his hair out of his face.
That grin dissolves when he hears Emily sputtering, “Oh, my God! Look what you did! Dougie!”
“It’s fine, Em. We’ll climb back in and keep going. The island is right there.” He points to our destination, but Emily isn’t having it. She glares at him, eyes flashing fire, and he rolls his eyes. “Sorry, babe.”
Apology begrudgingly handed over, they start to work together to get back in their kayak with Dylan’s help. Eventually, they’re in place once again and Dylan reviews the timing of the paddle stroke.
“Synchronicity, man. It’s everything. As in water, as in life.”
Somehow, this lesson sticks, and we all make it to the private island without further incident.
We’re all set until Abigail and I climb out of the kayak. Though we’re in the shallows right up by the shore, the process of stepping out somehow eludes Abigail and she trips, falling face first into the water.
Emily barks out a laugh instantly. I drop down to grab Abigail. “Cazzo! Are you okay?”
She comes up sputtering much like Emily did, but instead of whining and screeching, Abigail is laughing . . . wildly. Swiping water and hair out of her face, she huffs out around braying and unladylike laughs, “Only I could manage to kayak just fine but then totally flop on the dismount.” She lays back in the water, a mermaid framed by a turquoise halo. “Come on in, the water’s great!” she jokes, still half-choking on whatever water she swallowed.
Emily harrumphs and sobers. I think she took twisted delight in Abigail’s fall and is disappointed at Abi’s good-natured tendencies.
I pull Abigail up out of the water, pressing our bodies together. Intending to help, I push her hair back and trace my hands over her shoulders and down her arms, checking for injuries. “I’m fine. Nothing hurt but my pride,” she reassures me.
I lift a brow and growl, “Maybe I just want to touch your wet body.”
She blushes the sexiest shade of pink, and it’s not from the sun but from the fire we create together.
“So, this is where I make myself scare for an hour or so and you’re free to do whatever. There are cabanas over there” —Dylan points to a few huts with white curtains pulled along the sides— “or sand basically everywhere.” He puts his hand to his mouth, talking around the backside of it as though telling us a secret, “Pro tip, sand in sensitive areas is abrasive and more for the movies than real life.”
“There are floats and snorkels if you wanna swim, a trail loop if you want to hike through the trees, and if you hold a hand up, the bartender will bring you beer or a glass of wine.” He pats his chest, indicating that he’s the bartender too.
With that, he jogs away as if the sand beneath his bare feet is his natural habitat.