I still had two months and three weeks left ahead of me in this tropical paradise. The thought of returning to the fast-paced life I’d led back in Los Angeles made my stomach queasy. There was too much noise, too many people who needed things from me, and too much fucking concrete.
And there was no Katie in California.
I smiled as I thought about her. She’d been on my mind all night last night, so I’d gotten up early and headed into town to find a cute cafe with tiki torches and colorful umbrellas on their patio. I ordered two coffees and two cinnamon rolls and left a bag and one of the coffees outside Katie’s hotel room this morning. Or rather, I’d left the goodies at the front desk for her because the employees there had steadfastly refused to let me onto the grounds since I wasn’t a visitor.
That was something I’d noted for later. With Katie living in the El Cartana, I wouldn’t be able to walk up and knock on her door.
Regardless, I was sure she’d received the little care package, and I hoped it started her day on the right foot. Based on everything we’d talked about on our date last night, I’d learned just how hard of a worker she was and my suspicions were confirmed. She was a workaholic.
I didn’t necessarily buy into the trend these days that workaholism was entirely bad. For some people, their careers were extremely rewarding. But I also wasn’t blind to the fact that for other people it was a way to ignore something in their life they weren’t willing to confront. So the question lingering in the back of my mind was a simple one.
Was Katie hiding, or was she thriving?
By looking at her and hearing her laugh, I would have assumed thriving. However, there was no way to truly know, and I’d known her for a grand total of roughly eight hours. At least, that was how much time we’d spent together.
I was hopeful for a lot more in the near future.
With my mind still on Katie, I rounded a gentle bend in the road and hugged the right side of the dirt. Bushes dragged softly along the passenger side of the truck while I lifted my coffee to my lips and took a sip.
Suddenly, the front end of the truck dipped.
Shit.
The left front tire hit a pothole. I didn’t get enough speed in time and the truck bounced back up out of the hole. Coffee spewed out of the lid of my cup and sprayed my mouth, chin, neck, and chest with piping hot liquid.
“Son of a bitch!” I bellowed. My hands were burning and I dropped the coffee. It spilled all over the worn leather seat and the carpet at my feet. Still cursing foully under my breath, I pulled over to the side of the road, peeled my soaking wet and hot shirt off, and wrung it out through the open driver’s side window.
“Just my luck,” I seethed. My shorts were wet too, but I didn’t dare take them off. I didn’t want to be known as the guy on the island who liked to strip on the side of the road and terrorize tourists.
My phone buzzed as I tossed my shirt on the seat.
I stared at my brother’s name as it flashed across my screen.
Mike, what do you want?
I hadn’t heard from my little brother in a couple of weeks. When he found out I was heading to the Virgin Islands for some much needed R&R, he’d all but blown his top and accused me of being a shitty brother and a shittier son. We’d argued, but he hadn’t changed my mind. I needed out. I was being crushed under the weight of my father’s health and everything that went along with moving him into assisted living and making sure his needs were being met.
That on top of work, crippling loneliness, and a complete lack of purpose was what drove me here.
I considered letting the call go to voicemail.
“No,” I muttered, shaking my head at myself. That wasn’t the way to fix anything. So I answered the call. “Hey, Mike.”
“When are you coming home?”
“Good to hear from you too. How are things?”
Mike sounded distracted. Wherever he was, he was doing something while he was on the phone with me. It sounded like he was moving boxes. Or rummaging through the back of a closet. “There’s still lots of shit