cutlery, a coffee press filled with steaming coffee, mugs, a basket full of bread, as well as cold cuts and cheese. A very Spanish-style breakfast.
She sits down and gestures to the food. “Don’t be afraid. Sit. I didn’t poison you.”
“If you did, I’m sure I would have deserved it,” I tell her, taking the seat across from her.
I thought the comment would have been amusing to her, but instead her brows furrow and she seems to busy herself with the bread. “Anyway,” she says, tearing off a piece, “I felt bad for how nice you’ve been to me, so I thought I could repay the favor.”
“Consider it repaid,” I tell her, reaching for the coffee. “Hey, how come you don’t have a hangover?”
She shrugs. “I’m younger than you.” Then she gives me a quick smile. “I felt like garbage this morning. I couldn’t sleep, though I barely can anyway. I went for a long walk on the beach, past the bar we were at last night, the scene of the crime. I have to say I don’t remember that much except dancing with you.”
“You passed out in my arms, and I carried you home. And yes, before you ask, I was a perfect gentleman.”
“Pascal and gentleman are two terms that don’t really go together,” she comments, pretending to muse over it. “Anyway, I thought about going swimming, but I don’t have a suit, and it was so early, it didn’t seem inviting.”
“Then that’s what we’ll be doing today,” I tell her. “The perfect hangover cure is a jump from the cliffs into the water. I know just the spot too. We can stop by in town and get you a suit.”
“Is this part of the official work schedule?”
“As you know, this is a vacation, and there is no schedule. But yes, it’s part of it, and you have to do it.”
“Or what?”
“I’ll fire you?”
“For not going swimming?”
“Yes, and for hiding your culinary skills from me for too long. These eggs are amazing.”
Truly, it’s one of the best breakfasts I’ve had in a while. Usually I’m just having cigarettes and maybe a croissant. Sitting with her like this, just the two of us, in a bright and airy villa with the sun streaming in and the waves crashing below us, I could be tricked into thinking that this is my life now.
That’s the point of a vacation, isn’t it? A chance to pretend to live another life for a bit until you have to go back to the one you have. The funny thing is, deep in some part of me, I know I have so much ability, so much privilege to change everything. Maybe that’s what makes it worse. Knowing I could maybe have a life like this one day, quiet moments with someone I care about in some sunshiny place, a new way of existing that isn’t born of deception and greed, and yet I don’t have the balls to change any of it.
After breakfast, we grab some towels and head out in the car. There are a lot of cliffs in Mallorca that are popular for jumping off, but there’s one in particular I used to go to a lot as a child, when we’d spend summer vacations here.
First we stop by the nearest town to get some water and find Gabrielle a bathing suit. We luck upon a swimwear boutique, but to Gabrielle’s embarrassment, all the suits are of the teeny-weeny bikini kind.
Gabrielle’s embarrassment is my victory, of course, and she doesn’t have a choice.
“Let me see,” I call to her from outside the dressing room, where she’s been struggling and swearing at a suit for the last five minutes.
“No!” she yells back. “It’s too small.”
I give the salesperson, an older and overly tanned lady, a look, and she shrugs. “It is not too small,” she says in Spanish. “It is her size. She has a great figure; tell her to come on out so we can see.”
“Did you get that, Gabrielle?” I yell at her. “Get out here so we can see.”
“Up yours,” she says.
I grin.
She eventually comes out—not in the bathing suit—though she plunks it down on the cash register, about to pay. I gently shove her to the side so I can finish up the transaction.
“I’m not letting you pay for this,” I say, nodding at the suit, which the salesperson is sliding into the world’s tiniest bag. “I’m going to get a lot more pleasure out of it than you are.”