Plot Twist In Paradise
by IAmHerEmma

 

 

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Acknowledgements

 

Before we get to the story, I want to take a moment to properly acknowledge the people who, in one form or another, have helped keep this story going. It's not entirely finished yet — I'm working hard to get there — but it wouldn't have made it this far without them.

Emma Anne Tate. You are one of the kindest people I have ever met in my life. And I say that knowing that all I know you through is a tiny profile picture on BCTS and our numerous conversations via DM or via email, which somehow makes it more remarkable, not less. When I posted my first story on the site, you were the first person to leave a comment. Not just once — you kept going, every part, every chapter. Then the second story — which, for the record, I'm not entirely proud of right now — was something you responded to just as positively, and that meant more than I knew how to say at the time. And now here you are, beta reading for me, giving me feedback that is so generous and so encouraging that I keep asking myself whether I actually deserve all of this. I don't know how to thank you enough. I'm not sure enough exists. But I need you to know that your presence in this journey has been a gift, and I feel genuinely blessed to have met you.

Rachel Moore. You were one of the next people, after Ms. Tate, who made me feel like I actually belonged on BCTS. You and Ms. Tate are very different people, but you are just as warm, just as fun, and someone I could connect with on a personal level almost immediately. And you were the one who kept saying you'd happily beta read anything I sent your way. Not once — you kept offering, unprompted, until I finally took you up on it. I am so glad I did, because I need to be honest about something: I don't think this story survives without you. Not the way it is now. Your feedback, your energy, your willingness to show up and help when I wasn't sure the story was worth it — that is what kept me going when I was ready to quit. So thank you, so so much, chica.

Natasha Black. You've been through so much with me. We talk about stories constantly and it never stops being fun — the back and forth, the theory-crafting, the wild ideas for different kinds of stories I wanted to try and for your own series on FictionMania. You've been a sounding board, a co-conspirator, and a friend through all of it. I truly could not have asked for a better one.

Blake Ashford. You are forever my mentor and my dear friend. You have always been patient. You have always listened — whether it was about writing, about stories, or about the personal stuff that had nothing to do with either. You guided me and calmed me down when I really needed it, and you were the one who told me to push my first story, TGIU, out into the world after a six-year gap — the worst case of writer's block I wouldn't wish on anybody. That push changed everything. I wouldn't be writing this acknowledgement if you hadn't given me that one.

Thank you to all of you for being who you are, and for helping me through this journey of telling stories for someone — or, well, everyone — out there to enjoy.

 

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Author's Note

 

This story almost didn't happen. Which, if you know anything about how my brain works, is probably not surprising.

I was working on something else — a slow-burn erotica piece that I'd even announced publicly. I was going to release it. It was going to be great. And then, the way these things sometimes go, it just… wasn't. The inspiration didn't fade gradually or give me a polite two-weeks' notice. It just packed its bags one morning and left without a forwarding address. I sat with it for a while, tried to resuscitate it, and eventually had to admit that the story wasn't broken — it was done. Not finished. Just done with me. So I shelved it and tried not to think about what that meant.

Then one day, uninvited and at the worst possible time, a new idea showed up.

Two characters. Complete opposites. The kind of dynamic that was dangerously close to romantic comedy territory, which was a problem because I had never written a romantic comedy in my life. Erotica was what I knew. Erotica was what I was comfortable with.

But the idea wouldn't leave. It started at a wedding — two people who couldn't stand each other, stuck in each other's orbit. The conflict was there, the chemistry was there, but the main character was just… someone with an ordinary job, and I couldn't figure out what made her tick. I had a meet-cute that kept replaying in my head — this one specific moment that I knew had to be in the story — but it wasn't clicking with the setting. The pieces were all on the table and none of them fit together.

Then — and I genuinely cannot tell you how this happened — my brain, which has a well-documented history of going completely off the rails, asked: What if she's an erotica author?

The wedding setting didn't survive the revelation. My brain, having already committed to chaos, went further: What if it's a vacation? An island resort? What if she doesn't even want to go?

And that was it. That was the story.

Except — and I cannot stress this enough — knowing what the story was did not mean I was confident I could actually go through with it. I wanted it to be funny. Not just warm or charming, but genuinely funny. And that terrified me.

I'm going to be honest with you: I gave up on this story more than once. I hit walls. I got sick in the middle of drafting. It wasn't anything serious, just enough to knock the momentum out from under me, and once you stop moving it's dangerously easy to start wondering whether the whole thing was a mistake.

But somehow, chapter by chapter, it kept going. And when I had enough of it written to feel like it might actually be something, I did the scariest thing a writer can do — I gave it to other people to read.

Ms. Emma Anne Tate and Ms. Rachel Moore, my beta readers, are the reason this story made it as far as it has. Though it's still not finished. Their feedback gave me the confidence to believe the story was worth improving. I owe them more than I can put into words.

So here it is. Plot Twist in Paradise. A story I almost didn't write, in a genre I'd never tried, about a character who can't write — which, in hindsight, feels like exactly the kind of irony my brain would find hilarious.

I hope you give it a chance. I hope it makes you laugh. I hope it makes you feel something. And I would love to hear what you think. Stories don't really exist until someone reads them, and I'm grateful you're all here.

Thank you for everything.

P.S. Chapter 1 drops tomorrow. Saturday. And I'm nervous as f—

*play funny instrumental theme song*

Plot Twist In Paradise
by IAmHerEmma

 

 

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This one is for everyone who's ever had the whole story living rent-free in their head — every scene, every line, every beat — and then opened a blank document and suddenly couldn't remember a single word of it.

For those of you who've been having a rough go of it lately. And for those of you who've been on the shit end of the stick long enough to start wondering if maybe the stick only has the one end. It doesn't. The other end is coming. It's just taking the scenic route.

This is for you.

 

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Chapter One: Mascara Won't Fix This

 

I woke up the way I always did — badly.

Not dramatically. No nightmares, no cold sweats, no falling off the bed in a tangle of sheets like some romantic comedy protagonist who was about to meet the love of their life at a farmers' market. Just the slow, grinding return to consciousness that came from staying up until 3 a.m., staring at an empty Word document, and then lying in bed for another hour thinking about all the words you didn't put in it.

My phone said almost ten. The sun was doing its best to get through the blinds, which I'd bought specifically because the listing said "total blackout" and which had never, not once, blacked out a single thing. Fraudulent blinds. I should have left a review.

I sat up, scrubbed a hand over my face, and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror across the room. Adrian Moore, ladies and gentlemen. Twenty-eight years old. Hair doing something unfortunate from the pillow. Old t-shirt with a coffee stain that I was fairly sure was from two days ago but might have been from last week — the full portrait of a bestselling author at the height of their creative powers.

I padded to the kitchen in boxers and that same stained shirt, because mornings didn't require dignity, and started the coffee machine. My apartment was a study in contradictions — or, less charitably, a mess with good taste. The living room had a velvet loveseat I'd spent way too much money on, positioned next to a side table currently buried under unopened mail, three empty La Croix cans, and a paperback I'd been "almost finished with" for six weeks. The bookshelves were styled — genuinely styled, I'd spent a whole Sunday on them — but the kitchen counter looked like a crime scene if the crime was "person who keeps buying groceries and then ordering Thai food instead."

I leaned against the counter while the coffee machine did its thing and scrolled my phone with the glazed focus of someone who wasn't really awake yet but needed the simulation of activity.

Fourteen new emails. Most of them from my publisher's mailing list, a couple from brands wanting to know if I'd be interested in "a collaboration opportunity" which was corporate speak for "post about our product for less money than you'd think." One from my aunt Karen with the subject line "Saw your book mentioned on the internet!!" — two exclamation marks, which for Aunt Karen was practically a standing ovation. I'd read that one later. Or possibly never.

The coffee machine beeped. I poured a cup, added enough cream to make a barista cry, and took the first sip standing up because sitting down felt like a commitment to the day that I wasn't ready to make.

I ate breakfast the way I ate most meals alone — standing at the counter, scrolling my phone, consuming something that technically qualified as food. Today it was toast with peanut butter, because I'd forgotten to buy eggs again. I'd also forgotten to buy milk, dish soap, and the specific brand of conditioner that my hair had decided was the only acceptable option after I'd made the mistake of buying it once. My grocery list existed as a note on my phone that I updated religiously and then left at home every single time I went to the store. The system was flawless.

The toast was slightly burnt on one side because the toaster had a personal vendetta against even browning, and the peanut butter was the fancy kind that separated if you looked at it wrong, so the first bite was mostly oil and sadness. I ate it anyway, standing at the counter in my boxers with one hip against the edge, scrolling through Twitter with the specific posture of someone who knew they looked like a disaster and was choosing not to care. Fine. It was fine. I wasn't performing for anyone.

This was what I looked like when no one was around. Adrian. Not in some grand philosophical sense — I didn't wake up and think ah yes, now I am in my masculine presentation, how fascinating for my sense of self. It wasn't that deliberate. It was just that alone, with nowhere to be and no one to see me, this was where I started. Hair unbrushed, jaw rough, body moving through the apartment in a way that was functional rather than considered. Not thinking about how I looked or how I carried myself because the only audience was the toaster, and it already hated me.

I finished the toast, washed it down with coffee, and headed for the shower.

The bathroom mirror was fogged by the time I got out, which was a kindness I hadn't asked for. I wiped a stripe through the condensation with my palm and looked at the face underneath. Same face. Always the same face. It was just a question of what I was going to do with it.

Some days the answer was "nothing." Some days Adrian stuck around, and that was fine — jeans, a plain tee, minimal effort, maximum comfort. Those days had their own ease to them, a kind of off-duty looseness that I genuinely liked. But today wasn't one of those days. Today I could feel it — that particular itch at the back of my brain, the one that wasn't about dysphoria and everything to do with wanting. Wanting to be seen a certain way. Wanting the mirror to show me the version of myself that felt most like the point.

I wrapped the towel around myself, wiped the rest of the mirror clear, and got to work.

I had a system. Not the kind of system you see in YouTube tutorials with seventeen steps and a ring light — just a routine that I'd built over years of practice, trial and error, a brief and regrettable period of orange foundation, and the slow accumulation of products that actually worked versus products that were beautiful in the store and betrayed me at home.

Foundation first. I'd been doing this long enough that the steps were automatic — primer, a light-coverage foundation because I wasn't building a mask; I was just evening the terrain. Concealer under the eyes because 3 a.m. had opinions about my under-eye situation, and I was overruling them. I worked it in with a sponge, blending at the jawline with the focused calm of someone defusing a bomb. This part was meditative. No music, no podcast, just the quiet focus of turning raw material into something deliberate.

Eyebrows next. Mine were decent on their own — one of the few genetic gifts I wasn't going to argue with — but a little pencil work gave them the kind of arch that said I have thoughts and they're sharper than yours. Eyeshadow was minimal today, just a wash of warm bronze across the lids and a thin line of brown along the lash line. Not dramatic. Not yet. The day hadn't earned dramatic.

Mascara. Blush — just a touch, swept across the cheekbones and blended up toward the temples so it looked like I'd been mildly complimented rather than painted. Lips were a tinted balm in a shade the brand called "Desert Rose" which was a very poetic way of describing "your lips but like they've been gently bitten."

I looked at the mirror. Getting there.

The hair took longer than any of it. I had good hair — thick, cooperative when it wanted to be, a length that sat just past my shoulders and could be convinced into a few different shapes depending on the day. Today I worked some product through it, let it fall into loose waves, and pinned one side back with a clip that was subtle enough to not look like a statement but intentional enough to not look accidental. The kind of thing where if someone said "I like your hair clip" you could say "oh, this?" as if you hadn't spent four minutes placing it.

Then the clothes. This was the part people assumed was frivolous, and maybe it was, but it was also the part where everything clicked. I stood in front of the closet — which was organized by color because I was that person and I was not apologizing for it — and let the day tell me what it wanted.

The rust-colored silk blouse first — the one with a neckline that showed collarbone without trying too hard — and the cream wide-legs that made my legs look like they went on for longer than they strictly did. A thin gold chain, lying flat. Small gold hoops, the pair I reached for when I wanted to feel put together without announcing it.

I slid into all of it like stepping into a warmer room. It wasn't that Adrian was cold. It was just that Adrianna was the temperature I wanted to be today.

I looked at the mirror one final time. She looked back. Same eyes, same bone structure, same person who'd been eating sad toast in boxers forty-five minutes ago. But settled. Like everything that had been slightly out of focus had sharpened into place.

"Morning, gorgeous," I said to my reflection, because if you couldn't gas yourself up in your own bedroom, what was the point of anything?

Then I walked to my desk, sat down, opened my laptop, and watched the cursor blink at me like it had been waiting.

I should have been used to this by now. The empty page. The blinking cursor. The quiet little standoff between me and a document that had nothing in it because I had put nothing in it. But the thing was — and here was where it got stupid — it hadn't always been like this.

The thing about being a writer that no one told you, or rather, everyone told you but you didn't believe it until it was happening to you: success made the next page harder, not easier. You'd think selling well would be a confidence boost. You'd think having actual readers — people who bought your book with money they earned at real jobs and then spent hours of their limited time on earth reading words you arranged — would make you think I can do this. And it did, briefly, in the way that a shot of espresso made you think you could reorganize your entire apartment. The feeling was real and it was lying to you.

My Husband, My Bride was my fourth book. Not my first. That was an important distinction because people kept treating the viral moment like a debut, like I'd stumbled out of nowhere with one lucky manuscript. I had three other books. Three perfectly decent, modestly selling erotica novels that had paid my rent and earned me a small, loyal readership of people who liked kinky stories with teeth. I was proud of those books. They hadn't set the world on fire, but they'd kept the lights on, and there was a specific kind of pride in that — the pride of someone who's been doing the work for years without anyone making a fuss about it.

Then My Husband, My Bride happened.

I still wasn't entirely sure why it happened. The book wasn't fundamentally different from my others — same genre, same voice, same me. But something about it caught. Maybe it was the title, which people kept screenshotting and posting with captions like "EXCUSE ME?" and "I need to read this immediately." Maybe it was the cover, which my publisher had actually invested in this time — a striking image that managed to be tasteful and provocative in exactly the right proportions. Maybe it was just timing. The internet was hungry for bold, kinky erotica that didn't apologize for itself, and my book walked into the room at exactly the right moment wearing exactly the right outfit.

Whatever the reason, it took off. Not gradually. Not in the slow, building way that my publisher's sales projections had optimistically suggested. It just — went. One week I was checking my royalty dashboard and doing mental math about whether I could afford to replace my spiteful toaster, and the next week I was watching numbers climb in a way that made me refresh the page three times because I was sure it was a glitch.

It was not a glitch.

I opened my browser, because that was what I did every morning instead of writing. The ritual. The procrastination liturgy. Step one: check email. Step two: check sales dashboard. Step three: check social media. Step four: feel a complex cocktail of emotions. Step five: fail to write.

The sales dashboard loaded and the numbers were still good. Not launch week good — that particular surge had settled into something steadier — but good. Solidly, undeniably good. Good enough where my accountant had recently used the phrase "you might want to think about quarterly estimated taxes" which was apparently what happened when you made enough money for the government to start paying personal attention to you. Wonderful. I'd always wanted a closer relationship with the IRS.

I closed the dashboard and opened Instagram.

New followers overnight. Not the tidal wave of the first few weeks, but a steady trickle that showed no signs of stopping. I scrolled through the notifications with the detached compulsion of someone checking a weather app — I wasn't going to do anything about what I found, but I needed to know.

DMs first.

@sapphicreads_maya: OMG I just finished My Husband My Bride and I am DESTROYED. The scene in chapter 14?? I had to put my phone down and stare at the wall for ten minutes. You are an evil genius and I mean that as the highest compliment.

I smiled. That was a good one. Chapter fourteen was the scene where the husband stopped pretending submission was something being done to him and started admitting it was something he wanted. The pegging scene. The one where he asked for it — where he'd finally stopped performing reluctance and let himself want what he wanted. I'd rewritten it four times because getting that moment right meant walking the line between vulnerability and eroticism without letting either one swallow the other. Hearing that it worked felt like being told the parachute opened.

@book.boyfriend.energy: Hi Adrianna! I run a book blog with 40k followers and would love to feature an interview with you. We focus on diverse voices in romance and erotica. DM me if interested!

Maybe. I starred it for later, which was what I did with things I was probably never going to respond to but felt guilty about ignoring.

@lena_k_writes: Your book made me feel seen in a way I wasn't expecting. I don't want to get too personal in a DM but just — thank you. The feminization scenes were handled with so much care and honesty. It mattered to me.

That one stayed with me for a moment. Those were the messages that made the whole thing feel worth it — the ones where someone wasn't just saying they liked the book, they were saying it meant something. I wanted to respond with something worthy of what they'd shared, which meant I'd probably spend twenty minutes drafting a reply that still didn't feel adequate. I starred that one too, but differently.

Then I made the mistake of checking the comments on my latest post.

Mostly good. Mostly enthusiastic, generous engagement that I was still getting used to — heart emojis, people tagging friends with "you NEED to read this," the occasional comment in all caps that I chose to interpret as affection rather than aggression. I scrolled through them feeling something warm and unfamiliar, a feeling that wasn't quite satisfaction but was in the same neighborhood.

@realtalk_brenda: Am I the only one who thinks this is just smut dressed up as literature? Like congrats on writing about sex I guess but let's not pretend this is actual writing.

I stared at that one.

I stared at it the way you stare at a parking ticket — you knew getting angry wouldn't undo it, you knew engaging was pointless, you knew the correct response was to take a breath and move on with your day. You knew all of this. You knew it with the full weight of your rational adult mind.

And yet… Smut dressed up as literature. As if those were mutually exclusive categories. As if writing about desire and power and vulnerability and the messy complicated ways people want each other was somehow less valid than writing about — what, exactly? What was @realtalk_brenda reading that was so elevated? What literary high ground was she standing on while typing that comment with her whole chest?

I scrolled down.

@j_marcus_74: Not my thing personally but the writing quality is undeniable. The prose style alone puts most "serious" fiction to shame.

Thank you, @j_marcus_74. A measured take. A reasonable human being. I appreciated you.

@dirtypageturner: The way she writes submission is SO good like it's not just about sex it's about trust and identity and I am UNWELL

I appreciated you too, @dirtypageturner. Unwell in the best way.

@keepitclean_karen: This is what passes for "empowering" now? Writing graphic sexual content? Sorry but I don't see how this helps anyone.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

Two of them. Two in one scroll. I could feel the irritation building, a small, hot coal that wasn't going to become a fire but was going to sit there and smolder all morning anyway. The rational part of my brain — the part that had read every article about not engaging with negative comments, the part that understood these people represented a tiny fraction of my readership, the part that could deliver a perfectly calm TED Talk about the validity of erotica as a literary form — that part of my brain was fully operational and completely irrelevant.

Because the irrational part of my brain, the part that wrote the books in the first place, was busy composing a twelve-paragraph response that I was never going to send, explaining in devastating detail exactly why @keepitclean_karen's reductive understanding of sexual expression in literature revealed more about her own discomfort than it did about my work.

I did not send it. I did not even type it. But I composed it, mentally, in its entirety, and it was magnificent.

Then I closed Instagram, because I was a grown-ass adult with self-control and also because continuing to scroll was going to ruin my whole morning.

I took a breath. I took a sip of coffee that had gone lukewarm while I was busy having a parasocial argument with strangers. I set the mug down, positioned my fingers over the keyboard, and looked at the document I'd opened before I'd fallen into the social media vortex.

The cursor blinked at me.

I'd been looking at variations of this same empty page for three weeks now. Three weeks of opening the document, staring at it, and closing it again like I was checking on a patient who was never going to improve. The document had a title — "Untitled" — which felt like it was mocking me. I'd tried giving it a real title once, thinking that might help, like naming a plant to make yourself more committed to watering it. It had not helped. The plant was still dead.

I typed a sentence.

She walked into the room with the kind of confidence that—

Delete.

No. Absolutely not. That was the opening line of every book I'd ever read that I didn't finish. "She walked into the room with the kind of confidence that—" that what? That made people notice? That hid her insecurity? That the author couldn't think of a better way to introduce a character? Garbage. Into the trash.

I tried again.

The first time I saw her, I—

Delete.

Worse. Now I was writing a prologue, which was the literary equivalent of clearing your throat before saying something and then not saying it. Nobody wanted a prologue. I didn't want a prologue. I didn't even want a "first time I saw her." I wanted to be past the seeing and into the feeling but I couldn't get to the feeling because the feeling required a character and the character required a first line and the first line required me to commit to something and committing to something required — what? Confidence? Certainty? The knowledge that the sentence I chose was the right one and not a waste of everyone's time?

I typed again.

She had the kind of mouth that made you—

No. No, no, no. I was not starting a book with a mouth. I wasn't starting a book with any body part. That was the kind of opening that made people think erotica writers couldn't construct a sentence that wasn't about anatomy, and I had spent four books proving that I could, even if the anatomy eventually showed up and had a great time.

Delete.

I sat back in my chair and stared at the screen.

The problem wasn't that I didn't have ideas. I had ideas. I had a notes app full of them — half-formed concepts, character sketches, scenes that had arrived fully formed at 2 a.m. and looked completely incoherent by morning. "Woman discovers her ex is dating her dentist — explore power dynamics." What power dynamics? Whose power? The ex? The dentist? The woman in the chair with her mouth open while someone she's not speaking to is spoken about? I'd written that note three weeks ago and I still had no idea what I'd meant by it.

The real problem was that none of the ideas felt like the idea. The one that would justify sitting down every day for six months — that would prove My Husband, My Bride wasn't the ceiling — that there was another book in me that was just as honest, just as sharp, just as willing to go to the places that made readers put their phones down and stare at walls. Every idea I had felt thin next to that standard. Every opening line felt like it was trying to audition for a role it wasn't right for.

The cursor blinked. Blink. Blink. Blink. Patient. Unhurried. Taking absolutely no responsibility for the fact that the page was empty. That was the cursor's whole deal — just standing there, blinking, like a very passive-aggressive personal assistant waiting for you to dictate a letter. I'm ready whenever you are. Well, I wasn't. Clearly. I had been not-ready for three weeks and the cursor didn't seem to be taking it personally, which was somehow worse than if it had.

I typed one more time.

Chapter One.

I looked at it. Two words. The most generic, zero-commitment two words in the English language. I couldn't even get past the heading.

I deleted them.

I closed the laptop.

Not gently. Not with the measured calm of someone who was going to come back to it later with fresh eyes and a positive attitude. I closed it the way you would close a door on a conversation you were losing — firmly, with just enough force to communicate that you were choosing to leave and not being driven out, even though everyone in the room knew the truth.

Then I sat there, in my beautiful rust-colored blouse and my cream trousers and my carefully placed hair clip, looking like a woman who had her entire life together, and I thought about how I was going to explain to my editor that the new book was going great when the new book was not going at all.

Three weeks. Twenty-one days of this. I'd rearranged my desk twice, convinced that the problem was environmental. I'd bought a new candle — cedar and bergamot, because apparently creativity smelled like an expensive man — and burned it every writing session, accomplishing nothing except making my apartment smell like a spa that was closed for renovations. I'd tried writing in coffee shops, which had worked exactly once and produced a single paragraph that I'd deleted the next morning. I'd tried writing at night, in the afternoon, first thing in the morning before the coffee. I'd tried writing longhand in a notebook like some kind of Brontë sister, and all I'd gotten out of it was a hand cramp and the realization that my handwriting had deteriorated to the point of being genuinely illegible.

The tools were fine. The desk was fine. The candle was fine. The problem was the person sitting at the desk, and she was rapidly running out of things to rearrange.

As if the universe had been listening — and the universe, in my experience, had terrible comedic timing — my phone rang.

The screen said MARIBEL GRANT with a contact photo from two years ago in which Maribel was pointing at me across a restaurant table with a breadstick, mid-sentence, looking exactly the way Maribel always looked: like she had a plan and you were already part of it whether you'd agreed or not.

I considered not answering. I considered it the way you would consider jaywalking when you could already see the cop — technically an option, practically suicidal.

I picked up.

"Adrianna." Not a greeting. A statement of fact. Maribel didn't greet people, she acknowledged their existence and then got to work.

"Maribel. Hi. Hello. Good morning."

"It's almost twelve."

"Good late morning."

"How's the writing?"

And there it was. Three words, delivered with the casual precision of someone who already knew the answer but was going to make you say it anyway. How's the writing. The question I'd been dreading from the one person I couldn't bullshit, delivered on a random Tuesday with no warning, as if she'd been monitoring my laptop activity and had timed the call to the exact moment I'd slammed it shut.

"Great," I said. "Really, really great. Flowing. Words are just — flowing."

"Flowing."

"Like a river."

"Which river?"

"I — what?"

"Because some rivers are wide and powerful and some rivers are mostly mud. I'm trying to gauge which type of flowing we're talking about."

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Maribel."

"Adrianna."

"The writing is going fine."

"The writing is going fine," she repeated, in the same tone a doctor might use when a patient says they've been "basically" taking their medication. "That's wonderful to hear. I'm so glad. In that case, you won't mind telling me what the new book is about."

Silence. Heavy, textured silence that was doing more work than any sentence could.

"It's still... taking shape," I said.

"Taking shape."

"Things are in the early stages."

"Ade." The nickname landed with the gentle thud of someone setting down something heavy. "You haven't written a word, have you?"

I opened my mouth to deny it. I really did. I had a whole defense prepared — I'd been doing research, I'd been brainstorming, I'd been letting ideas marinate, which was a real and valid part of the creative process and not, despite how it looked, the same thing as doing nothing. But Maribel had this quality — this deeply inconvenient quality — where lying to her felt like lying to someone who was holding a printout of the truth. Not because she was intimidating, exactly, but because she cared enough to actually listen, which meant she would actually hear the lie, and then she would wait, and the waiting would be worse than whatever she was going to say next.

"I've written several words," I said. "I've just also deleted them."

"All of them?"

"To date, yes."

I heard her exhale. Not a sigh — Maribel didn't sigh, sighing was for people who hadn't already moved on to solutions — but a measured breath that said okay, this is what we're working with.

"We need to talk," she said.

"We're talking right now."

"We need to talk in person. Over food. Somewhere I can see your face while you explain to me how a woman who wrote four books is suddenly incapable of writing a fifth."

"That feels aggressive."

"That feels like lunch. Are you free at one?"

"I might have plans."

"You don't have plans."

She was right. I didn't have plans. My plans for the day had been: wake up, fail to write, spiral quietly, and possibly order Thai food for the third time this week. Maribel slotting herself into that schedule was, if anything, an improvement, though I wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of saying so.

"Fine," I said. "One o'clock. Where?"

"Sorrentino's. I'll get us the corner booth."

"The corner booth is for when you're about to say something I don't want to hear."

"The corner booth is for when I want to have a conversation without your face being visible to the entire restaurant in case you get dramatic."

"I don't get dramatic."

"You once knocked over a water glass because I suggested a title change."

"That was an involuntary physical response to a bad idea."

"One o'clock, Ade. Eat something before you come, you get prickly when you're hungry."

She hung up. No goodbye, because Maribel didn't do goodbyes, she did conclusions. The conversation was concluded. The plan was in motion. My attendance was not optional.

I set the phone down and looked at my closed laptop and then at my apartment and then at the mirror by the door, where Adrianna Moore looked back at me — perfectly dressed, impeccably made up, absolutely killing it in the earrings department, and completely, comprehensively unable to write a single sentence that she was willing to let live.

"Great," I said to no one. "This is going to be fun."

I grabbed my bag, checked my reflection one more time — because even creative despair didn't excuse leaving the house without confirming the eyeliner was still sharp — and headed for the door.

Lunch with Maribel. A conversation about the book that didn't exist. A cheerful interrogation over Italian food in a corner booth specifically chosen so no one could see me when I inevitably got dramatic about it.

Just another Tuesday in the glamorous life of a writer who couldn't write.

I locked the door behind me and walked toward the elevator, already composing the version of "it's going great" that I was going to try on Maribel next, knowing full well she was going to see through it in under thirty seconds.

She always did.

Plot Twist In Paradise
by IAmHerEmma

 

 

---

 

Chapter Two: Wine Won't Fix This Either

 

 

 

Sorrentino's was the kind of restaurant that wanted you to know it had opinions about olive oil. The walls were exposed brick, the lighting was warm enough to make everyone look like they were in a perfume ad, and the menu used words like "drizzled" and "nestled" as if the food had been gently tucked into bed before being served. I'd eaten here enough times to know the pasta was worth the pretension, but every time I walked through the door I had the distinct feeling that the restaurant was quietly judging whether I deserved to be there.

The maître d' was a tall man with a neat beard and the kind of rigid stillness that suggested he'd been personally assembled rather than born. He looked up from his podium as I approached and gave me the smile — the one they taught at whatever school produced people who stood behind podiums at overpriced restaurants. Polished. Professional. Absolutely no warmth behind it.

"Good afternoon. Do you have a reservation?"

"I'm meeting someone. Maribel Grant? She's probably already here. She's probably been here since twelve forty-five because she thinks arriving on time is the same as arriving late."

He blinked at me. Just once. A blink that said I am paid to be pleasant to you and I am earning every cent of it right now.

"Right this way."

I followed him through the dining room, weaving between tables of people who all seemed to be having more productive Tuesdays than I was, and there she was. Corner booth. Sparkling water already half finished. Sitting with the composed stillness of a woman who had never once in her life looked at her phone while waiting for someone because she considered it a waste of perfectly good thinking time.

Maribel Grant. Five foot six of absolute certainty in a cobalt blouse that probably cost less than it looked like it cost, because Maribel was the type who found quality on sale and considered it a personal victory. Her short hair was sharp and precise, the kind of cut that said I have things to do and my hair is not going to be one of them. Her posture was, as always, the posture of someone who had been raised by a woman who believed sitting up straight was a moral position.

She looked up as I approached and her mouth did the thing it always did when she saw me — a slight tightening at the corners that could have been a smile or could have been an assessment. With Maribel, it was usually both.

"You're on time," she said, as if reporting a minor miracle.

"I'm three minutes late."

"For you, that's early."

I slid into the booth across from her and set my bag down with the careful nonchalance of someone who was absolutely not nervous about this lunch. I was not nervous. I was a professional. I was a published author with four books and a viral hit and I was here to have a perfectly normal conversation with my editor over Italian food and nothing about this was going to be stressful.

I was very nervous.

"You look nice," Maribel said, and she meant it — Maribel didn't offer compliments she didn't mean, which made the ones she did offer feel like they'd been peer-reviewed. "The blouse is new?"

"Six months old. First time wearing it."

"Saving it for a special occasion?"

I smoothed the sleeve like it owed me something. "Saving it for a day I needed to feel like a person who had her life together."

"And how's that working out?"

"Ask me after the second glass of wine."

Maribel signaled the waitress with an economical hand gesture she'd probably been doing since birth. A young woman appeared almost immediately — dark hair pulled back, crisp white shirt, the eager competence of someone who could probably recite the specials in three languages and was hoping someone would ask.

"I'll have the branzino," Maribel said, without looking at the menu. Of course she wouldn't look at the menu. Maribel had probably decided what she was ordering while she was driving here. Possibly while she was calling me. Possibly last Tuesday. "And another sparkling water, please. Ade?"

I hadn't opened the menu. I'd been too busy trying to look like someone who didn't need to look at the menu, which meant I now had to actually order something without any information whatsoever.

"The, uh —" I scanned the first page with the panicked focus of a student who hadn't done the reading. "The rigatoni. With the —" I waved my hand vaguely at the menu as if the gesture would fill in the details I hadn't read. "Whatever's on it."

"The rigatoni alla vodka?" the waitress offered, with the diplomatic patience of someone who had seen this exact performance before.

"That one. Yes. And a glass of the Montepulciano."

The waitress nodded and disappeared.

Maribel reached for the bread basket and tore a piece off with the efficient precision of someone performing surgery. The butter went on in one smooth pass, corner to corner, no second stroke. I'd been buttering bread wrong my whole life and hadn't known until this moment.

"So my assistant quit," she said.

"Another one?"

"The exit email was passive-aggressive. She said she needed to 'prioritize her growth in a less demanding environment.' As if demanding is an insult."

"To most people, it is." I took a sip of wine with the calm of someone who had never terrorized an assistant in her life.

"To most people, comfort is a career goal. That's why most people don't get anywhere."

"What did you do to this one?"

"I gave her constructive feedback on a filing error."

"Your version of constructive feedback makes most people update their résumé, Maribel."

"I told her that her organizational system looked like it had been designed by someone who alphabetized by vibes. Which was true. The S section had a folder labeled 'Stuff.'"

Third assistant in two years. Working for Maribel was like being an air traffic controller for a woman who believed she was the only plane in the sky. I loved her, but I would sooner chew glass than manage her calendar.

I took a sip of wine to hide the smile. This was the Maribel that people outside her orbit didn't get to see — the one who was genuinely funny when she wasn't trying to be, who could deliver a devastating observation with the same calm tone she used to order fish. The professional world saw the editor, the dealmaker, the woman with impeccable posture and a reputation for being difficult to impress. I got this version — the one who was still difficult to impress but would occasionally let you see her being amused by her own impossibility.

She'd been to a publishing conference in Chicago last month and described the keynote speaker as "the human equivalent of a LinkedIn post." I laughed, and she looked pleased with herself in the restrained way she had — a slight lift of the chin, a flicker of satisfaction that disappeared before it could be accused of being smug.

"How's David?" I asked, because I was genuinely curious and also because every minute we spent talking about her life was a minute we weren't talking about mine.

"David is fine. David is always fine. David has the emotional range of a golden retriever and the same enthusiasm for routine. He's training for a half marathon now, which means I have to hear about hydration strategies at dinner."

"That sounds romantic."

"It sounds like a man who has replaced one obsession with another. Last year it was sourdough. The year before that it was chess. I give the running until March."

The food arrived. My rigatoni was excellent — rich and creamy with just enough heat to justify the price tag. Maribel's branzino looked like it had been arranged by someone with a degree in architecture. She cut into it with surgical precision, ate three bites, set her knife and fork down in perfect parallel, and said:

"So. The book."

And there it was.

"The book," I repeated, picking up my wine glass because holding something felt better than having my hands just sitting there, available for nervous fidgeting.

"Where are we?"

"We're in a great Italian restaurant having a lovely lunch."

"Ade."

"Fine." I took a sip. Then a slightly longer sip. "We're... in the early conceptual phase."

"You told me that six weeks ago."

"And the concept has been developing beautifully. It's ripening. Like a cheese."

Maribel's face did not change, which was worse than if she'd rolled her eyes. An eye roll would have been engagement. What she was doing instead was just looking at me, steadily, with the patient focus of someone who had decided to wait me out and had brought enough composure to do it all afternoon if necessary.

"Okay," I said. "What if I told you I had several strong ideas and I was in the process of narrowing them down?"

"I'd ask you to name one."

"I don't want to jinx it."

"You can't jinx something that doesn't exist."

Fuck. She was good at this.

I caught the waitress's eye and raised my empty glass with the universal gesture for another one, please, and quickly. She nodded. Maribel watched this transaction with the expression of someone making a mental note.

"It's still the afternoon," she said.

"Time is a construct, Maribel."

I twirled rigatoni around my fork and shoved it in my mouth, which bought me approximately eight seconds of chewing time during which I did not have to speak.

Maribel waited. She was content to watch me eat pasta while formulating a lie. She probably found it educational.

I swallowed. "Okay, I don't have a book. I don't have a concept. I don't have a first line. I barely have a genre at this point. Are you happy?"

"I'm not happy. But I appreciate the honesty."

"Great. The honesty feels terrible. Can I go back to lying?"

"No." She picked up her fork again and took another precise bite of branzino. "Tell me what happens when you sit down to write."

"Nothing happens. That's the whole problem."

"Walk me through it."

"I open the document. I stare at it. I type something. I hate it. I delete it. I type something else. I hate that more. I delete it faster. Then I check my email, then I check Instagram, then I read a comment from someone named Brenda who thinks I'm ruining literature, then I compose a ten-paragraph response I never send, and then I close the laptop and contemplate a career in food service."

Maribel cut another precise bite of branzino without looking down at it. "How many words are we talking about? Total, across three weeks."

"Written or surviving?" I asked, already knowing which answer was going to be worse.

"Written."

"Maybe... a few hundred? Across all the attempts?"

"And surviving?"

"Zero. Absolute zero. The heat death of the literary universe."

Maribel set her fork down again.

"Look," I said, leaning forward because I was going to need both hands for the amount of gesturing I was about to do. "I know there's momentum. I know the numbers are strong. I know there's a window and I know windows close and I know every day I'm not writing is a day the algorithm or the zeitgeist or whatever is moving on to the next thing. I know all of this, Maribel. I am excruciatingly aware of all of this."

"Good. Then you also know that what made My Husband, My Bride work wasn't the algorithm. It wasn't the cover, it wasn't the timing, and it wasn't the zeitgeist." She said the word "zeitgeist" the way someone might handle a piece of fruit they suspected was overripe. "What made it work was that you wrote something emotionally specific. Something raw and honest that people could feel. And what I'm watching you do right now is avoid that exact quality like someone's going to grade you on it."

That landed. It landed because it was true, and Maribel had this deeply inconvenient habit of being true in ways that I couldn't deflect with a joke because the joke would just prove her point.

"I'm not avoiding anything," I said, which was itself an avoidance, and we both knew it.

Maribel's fork paused mid-cut. "When was the last time you wrote something that scared you?"

"Chapter fourteen scared me."

"Chapter fourteen was eight months ago. What's scared you since?"

Nothing. The answer was nothing. Because I hadn't written anything since, which meant nothing had the opportunity to scare me, which was — if I was being honest, and I really didn't want to be honest about this — sort of the point. You couldn't be scared of a blank page. You could only be scared of what you might put on it.

"I'm stuck," I said. The words came out quieter than I meant them to. "I'm really, actually stuck, Maribel. I have ideas but none of them have any heat. None of them feel like they could carry a whole book without collapsing halfway through. And the longer it goes on the worse it gets because now I'm not just trying to write a book, I'm trying to write a book that proves the last one wasn't a fluke, and I can't do both at the same time."

I stopped. I hadn't meant to say all of that. I'd meant to say something controlled and professional — something that acknowledged the problem without sounding like I was drowning in it. Instead I'd just laid the whole thing out on the table between the rigatoni and the sparkling water like a body at a crime scene, and now it was just sitting there, being honest, being embarrassing, being true.

I stabbed a piece of rigatoni with more force than the pasta deserved and ate it in silence.

Maribel listened to all of that without interrupting, which was how I knew she'd been expecting it. She picked up her sparkling water, took a sip, and set it back down with the careful placement of someone who was about to say something she'd been planning to say since before I'd walked through the door.

"Can I ask you something that isn't about the book?"

"That depends on whether the something is secretly about the book."

"It's adjacent."

"Adjacent is just 'about' in a nicer outfit."

Maribel pushed her plate forward half an inch — done with the branzino, done with the warm-up. "When was the last time you left your apartment for something that wasn't groceries or a lunch you were dreading?"

"I go places."

"Where?"

"The coffee shop on Seventh." I said it like I was presenting evidence in my own defense. "I tried writing there last week."

"That's four blocks from your apartment."

"It's a different environment. There are plants."

"When was the last time you did something fun? And I don't mean fun like a glass of wine in front of Netflix. I mean actually fun. Something that involved other human beings and at least one moment where you forgot you were a person with a deadline."

"I have fun," I said, and even as the words left my mouth I could hear how unconvincing they sounded. Like someone insisting they were a morning person while yawning.

"Name the last fun thing."

"I went to Sasha's birthday."

"That was in October." Maribel didn't even blink, just let the math do the work.

"It was very fun. The fun has lasted."

"Ade, it's January."

I picked up my wine glass and took a sip that was closer to a gulp. Maribel wasn't wrong. The gap between October and now was three months, and I couldn't point to a single thing in those three months that qualified as actually living rather than just maintaining. I'd been feeding myself, paying my bills, keeping the apartment at a survivable level of chaos, and sitting in front of a laptop accomplishing nothing. That wasn't a life. That was maintenance.

"When was the last time you did something that had nothing to do with writing or thinking about writing or feeling bad about not writing?"

I opened my mouth to answer and then closed it, because the honest answer was genuinely embarrassing. I couldn't remember. Not in a dramatic, I've-lost-all-sense-of-time way. More in a quiet, creeping way — the days had just started looking the same. Wake up, fail to write, scroll, fail to write some more, order food, watch something I'd already seen, go to bed too late, repeat. The apartment had become a holding pattern and I'd been circling in it for weeks without noticing that I'd stopped trying to land.

I looked out the window. Across the street, a woman was walking a dog that was clearly walking her — a big, dopey golden retriever that was towing her toward a fire hydrant with the determination of someone who'd been waiting for this moment all day. The woman was laughing, stumbling along behind it, not caring that she looked ridiculous. Just letting the day happen to her.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd let the day happen to me.

"Ade." Maribel's voice pulled me back. Not sharp — softer than her usual register, which was somehow more alarming. Maribel being soft meant she was genuinely concerned, and Maribel being genuinely concerned meant things were worse than I'd been admitting to myself.

"I'm fine," I said, turning back to her. "I was just watching a dog commit a crime against a fire hydrant. I'm fine."

She looked at me for a moment — really looked, the way she did when she was deciding whether to push or to let something sit. Then she reached into her bag.

What she pulled out was a brochure. Not a business card, not a printed email, not a contract — a glossy, tri-fold brochure with turquoise water on the cover and the kind of palm trees that only existed in places where people went to pretend their real lives weren't waiting for them back home.

She slid it across the table toward me.

I looked at it. Then I looked at her. Then I looked at it again.

"What the hell is this?"

"Pick it up."

"We were just having a serious conversation about my career and you're handing me a —" I picked it up, turned it over. Turquoise water. Palm trees. Italic script. "A vacation brochure? Are you firing me? Is this severance? A tropical island instead of two weeks' notice?"

"Just read it, Ade."

The Whispering Palms at Coral Key. Your Most Authentic Self.

"My most authentic self," I read aloud, in the tone of someone who had been personally insulted by a piece of marketing. "That's what they're going with? That's the tagline?"

I opened the brochure. Inside was more turquoise water — they were really committed to the turquoise — along with photos of sun-drenched bungalows, a beachfront bar with string lights, and a group of people who were laughing in the specific way that people only laughed in stock photos. Adults-only. LGBTQ+ focused. Private island accessible only by boat. The whole thing was dripping with the kind of curated paradise that existed specifically to look good on someone's Instagram story.

There was a quote on the inside flap from a previous guest: "I came for a week and left a different person." Underneath it, in smaller text: "— Sarah M., Portland." Sarah M. from Portland. Thank you, Sarah. Very helpful. Very specific. I was sure Sarah M. had a wonderful time becoming a different person on her tropical island, but some of us were already more than one person on a good day and didn't need a resort to complicate things further.

"It's a resort," I said.

"It's an experience."

"It's a resort that calls itself an experience, which is worse." I flipped the brochure over as if the back might contain a retraction.

Maribel turned her water glass a quarter turn, the way she did when she was about to say something she'd rehearsed. "I know the manager. Emmett Hale. We were at Columbia together — different programs, but we stayed in touch. He built this place from the ground up and he takes the community aspect seriously. It's not a theme park, Ade. It's genuinely a space where people go to be themselves."

"You keep saying that like it's a selling point. 'Be yourself.' 'Your most authentic self.' What does that even mean? I am myself. I'm myself right now. I'm sitting here being deeply, authentically resistant to this idea and I feel very genuine about it."

"People can be themselves anywhere, sure. In theory." Maribel tilted her head, and the question that followed wasn't rhetorical. "But can you? Because from where I'm sitting, you've been locked in your apartment for six weeks being no one at all."

That was mean. That was accurate, but it was mean.

"I've been working," I said, unconvincingly.

"You've been hiding. And the work is suffering because you've forgotten what it feels like to be around actual humans who aren't on a screen saying something you're trying not to read."

I looked at the brochure again. A woman in a sundress was drinking something with an umbrella in it, smiling at someone off-camera with the relaxed ease of a person who had never once in her life stared at a blinking cursor for three weeks straight. Good for her. Good for her and her umbrella drink and her off-camera friend and her complete lack of existential professional dread.

"Coral Key," I said. "Where even is that?"

"Off the Gulf Coast. Small island. You take a boat from the mainland."

"A boat." I said it the way someone might say a root canal.

"A short boat."

"I don't do boats."

Maribel reached for her water, perfectly calm, perfectly aware she'd just drawn blood. "You don't do anything right now. That's the problem."

I put the brochure down. "Maribel, I appreciate the thought. I do. But I'm not going to fix my writer's block by sitting on a beach drinking out of a coconut. That's not how creativity works."

"How does it work?"

"I don't know. If I knew, I'd be doing it."

"Exactly." She leaned back slightly — a rare concession to casualness from a woman who usually sat like she was being painted. "You don't know. You've tried everything you can think of from inside your apartment and none of it has worked. So maybe the answer isn't inside your apartment."

"Maybe the answer is more time. Maybe the answer is patience. Maybe the answer is accepting that the muse works on her own schedule and I can't rush —"

"If you say 'muse' I'm going to —"

"Fine. No muse. But a tropical island, Maribel? What am I going to do there? Sit on a beach and hope the ocean tells me a story? Write erotica inspired by a palm tree?"

"You're going to be around people. Real, actual people who aren't on a screen. You're going to have conversations that have nothing to do with your word count. You're going to eat food you didn't order from the same three delivery apps. And maybe — maybe — you'll remember what it feels like to be a person first and a writer second."

"I don't know how to be a person first and a writer second. I've never done it in that order."

"I know. That might be the whole problem."

I pushed a piece of rigatoni around my plate. "Or maybe the answer is that I'm a one-hit wonder who peaked at twenty-eight and should start looking into careers that don't require creative inspiration. Data entry. Accounting. Something where the blank page doesn't fight back."

"You're not a one-hit wonder."

"You don't know that."

"I do know that." There was no hesitation in it. No performance, no flattery, no professional obligation. Just Maribel saying something she believed with the same certainty she brought to everything else. "I read your first three books before I agreed to work with you, Ade. And I didn't take you on because I thought one of them might go viral. I took you on because you write like someone who understands what people are afraid to want. That's a rare thing. It doesn't disappear because you're having a rough stretch."

The words settled over the table between us. I wanted to make a joke — something sharp and deflective that would let us both pretend the moment wasn't happening. But I couldn't find one. Or maybe I didn't want to find one. Maribel had just said something genuinely kind, in her direct, undecorated way, and undercutting it would have been worse than sitting with it.

So I sat with it.

"You don't have to go," she said, after a moment. "I'm not going to force a vacation on you. But I think getting out of your own head — physically, not just creatively — might remind you what it feels like to actually experience something instead of just sitting in your apartment trying to write about experiencing things." She paused. "And who knows. Maybe something out there sparks something in here." She tapped her temple. "Stranger things have happened to worse writers."

"That's a very diplomatic way of saying I've become a hermit."

"You've become a hermit, Ade."

I picked up my wine glass, took a slow sip, and looked at the brochure sitting on the table between Maribel's sparkling water and the remains of my rigatoni.

Your Most Authentic Self. What a load of shit. What a gorgeous, turquoise, palm-tree-lined load of shit.

I picked it up. Folded it. Slid it into my bag.

Maribel's mouth did the thing again — the tightening at the corners. This time it was definitely closer to a smile.

"Don't," I said.

"I didn't say anything."

"You're being smug. I can hear you being smug. You're sitting there in your cobalt blouse being silently smug and I want you to know that I see it."

"I'm not being smug. I'm being hopeful. There's a difference."

"There really isn't."

"Are you going to think about it?"

I looked at her across the table. Maribel Grant, who had believed in my writing before anyone else had, who had read my first messy manuscript and seen something worth investing in, who was currently sitting across from me with her perfect posture and her half-finished sparkling water and her quiet, stubborn refusal to let me give up on myself.

"I'll think about it," I said. "That's all. I'll think about it."

"That's all I'm asking."

It was not all she was asking. We both knew it. But we let it sit there, the polite fiction that I was still making up my mind, and Maribel signaled for the check with the same decisive gesture she used for everything — one small movement, maximum result.

She paid. She always paid. I'd tried to argue about it once, early in our working relationship, and she'd looked at me with the expression of someone who had been briefly entertained by a puppy trying to open a door. I hadn't argued since.

We stood, gathered our things, and walked out of Sorrentino's into the afternoon sun. The street was busy with the usual Tuesday traffic — people going places, doing things, living lives that presumably involved fewer blinking cursors and existential crises over Italian food.

Maribel stopped on the sidewalk and turned to face me. In the daylight, outside the restaurant's flattering lighting, she looked a little tired herself — a detail I might not have noticed if I hadn't been looking for it. Even Maribel Grant, the most composed woman in publishing, had her own version of a long week. She just wore it better than I did.

"Take care of yourself," she said, and it sounded like she meant it in at least three different ways.

"I always do."

"You never do. But I admire the consistency of the lie."

She gave me a look — warm and pointed and impossible to argue with — and then she turned and walked toward her car with the purposeful stride of a woman who had accomplished what she'd come to accomplish and was already thinking about the next thing on her list.

I stood on the sidewalk for a moment, watching her go. Then I reached into my bag and pulled out the brochure.

Turquoise water. Palm trees. Bungalows with white linens. A beachfront bar. A group of suspiciously happy people laughing in the sun.

Your Most Authentic Self.

"Bullshit," I muttered, and started walking.

The walk home took about twenty minutes, which was twenty minutes of me holding a brochure I had no intention of acting on while my brain did the thing it always did after a conversation with Maribel — replayed every moment, assessed every exchange, and reluctantly admitted that she'd been right about at least seventy percent of it. Maybe eighty. I wasn't going to give her ninety even in the privacy of my own thoughts.

The part I kept circling back to wasn't the resort pitch. It was the other thing she'd said — the part about why she'd taken me on in the first place. You write like someone who understands what people are afraid to want. I'd sat with that at the table and I was still sitting with it now, turning it over, trying to decide whether it made me feel better or worse. Better, because Maribel believed it. Worse, because if it was true, then the block wasn't about skill or ideas or timing. It was about the fact that I'd stopped being willing to go to those places in my own head. The places where the good writing lived. The scary, honest, vulnerable places that made chapter fourteen the kind of scene people had to put their phone down and stare at a wall after reading.

Somewhere along the way I'd decided that those places were too expensive to visit, and I'd been circling the parking lot ever since.

I stopped at a crosswalk and opened the brochure again. The turquoise water glinted up at me from the glossy paper. Sarah M. from Portland grinned at me from her testimonial with the serene confidence of someone who had never composed a furious mental response to an Instagram comment.

An adults-only LGBTQ+ sanctuary where connection, creativity, and self-discovery meet the shore.

Who wrote this copy? Who sat down and typed "self-discovery meets the shore" and thought, yes, that's the one? Someone got paid for that sentence. Someone got paid and I couldn't even write one for free.

I closed the brochure. Opened it again. Read the part about the private bungalows and the beachfront activities and the "curated social experiences designed to foster meaningful connection." Closed it again.

Fuck.

I read it twice before I got home.

Plot Twist In Paradise
by IAmHerEmma

 

 

---

 

Chapter Three: Turquoise and Smug

 

The brochure was following me.

Not literally. I wasn't losing my mind. But in the four days since the lunch with Maribel, that glossy tri-fold piece of turquoise propaganda had somehow migrated across my apartment with the quiet determination of something that wanted to be looked at. Day one, I'd dropped it on the kitchen counter next to the mail and the La Croix graveyard, where it could be safely ignored. Day two, it was on the coffee table, which I attributed to having moved the mail. Day three, it was on my desk, leaning against the laptop like a passive-aggressive coworker who'd left a note instead of having a conversation. And now, day four, it was on my nightstand.

I had no memory of putting it there. None. I had not, at any point, consciously decided that the last thing I wanted to see before falling asleep was a stock photo of turquoise water and a tagline that sounded like it was written by a yoga instructor having a spiritual emergency. And yet there it was, propped up between my phone charger and a half-empty glass of water, looking at me with the serene confidence of something that knew it was winning.

I was not interested. I was a grown-ass adult with a career and a deadline and a perfectly functional apartment, and I did not need a tropical island to sort out my professional life. People who needed tropical islands to sort out their professional lives were people who put inspirational quotes on their bathroom mirrors, and I had too much self-respect for that. I had a water stain on my ceiling instead. Much more grounding.

Maribel had texted once, two days after the lunch. Just a link to the resort's Instagram page and a single word: Thinking? I'd replied with Working which was a lie so transparent that I was fairly sure she could see through it from across the city. She hadn't responded, which was worse than if she'd pushed. Maribel's silence was strategic. She knew that leaving me alone with the idea was more effective than arguing for it, because arguing gave me something to push against and silence gave me nothing to do but sit with it.

Four days of not writing. Four days of opening the laptop, staring at the cursor, typing something terrible, deleting it, and closing the laptop again. Four days of checking my sales dashboard and my Instagram and my email and finding nothing in any of them that made the blank page any less blank. It was starting to feel personal — like the empty document wasn't just empty but actively refusing to cooperate, sitting there with the quiet confident patience of a villain who knew the hero wasn't ready for the fight. The routine hadn't changed. The only thing that had changed was that now, every time I closed the laptop, the brochure was somewhere in my peripheral vision, being turquoise and smug.

I'd tried to distract myself. I'd reorganized my bookshelf — by color this time, because alphabetical had stopped feeling like enough and genre was a political decision I wasn't prepared to make. I'd deep-cleaned the bathroom, which was the kind of task I only undertook when avoiding something truly terrifying. I'd watched four episodes of Love Lagoon: Second Chances which was a reality dating show about exes being stranded on an island together, and yes, the irony of watching people trapped on an island while avoiding going to an island was not lost on me. I'd even called my mother, which was how I knew I was genuinely desperate — not because I didn't love my mother, but because calling her inevitably led to the question "how's the writing going?" and I'd used up all my good lies on Maribel.

The apartment was cleaner than it had been in months. My browser history was a graveyard of half-read articles about overcoming creative blocks, each one offering advice I'd already tried ("change your environment," "write badly on purpose," "try morning pages") and none of them acknowledging the fundamental problem, which was that my brain had apparently decided it was done producing words and had not consulted me about the decision. Whatever was sitting on the other side of that blank page — whatever invisible, stubborn thing had parked itself between me and a first sentence — it wasn't budging. And it had more patience than I did.

I was on the couch in sweatpants and an oversized hoodie — the outfit of someone who had officially given up on the day — when my phone buzzed.

Sasha's face filled the screen before I'd even finished accepting the video call. She was in her apartment, cross-legged on her bed, pulling apart a rotisserie chicken with her bare hands over a paper towel like some kind of beautiful, well-adjusted caveperson. Her curly hair was pulled back in the kind of loose knot that looked effortless and probably was, because Sasha was one of those people whose default state was somehow put-together even when they were eating a whole chicken in bed.

"You look terrible," said Sasha, by way of greeting.

"Thank you."

"I mean it. You look like you've been indoors for a week."

"Four days."

"Same thing. When was the last time you went outside?"

"I went to Sorrentino's on Tuesday."

"That was four days ago. Have you left the apartment since?"

I considered lying. Sasha's face made it clear that she already knew the answer and was asking purely so I could hear myself say it out loud.

"I went to the bodega yesterday. I needed cream for my coffee."

"The bodega is downstairs."

"It's still outside. There was wind and everything."

Sasha pointed a greasy finger at me through the screen. "What's going on? And don't say 'nothing' because you texted me three separate times today and one of them was just a picture of your ceiling."

She was right. I had texted her a picture of my ceiling. In my defense, I'd been lying on the floor at the time because I'd read somewhere that changing your physical position could unlock creative thinking, and the only thing it had unlocked was a profound sense of my own ridiculousness and an angle on the light fixture I could have gone my whole life without seeing.

"Maribel wants me to go to a resort," I said.

Sasha's hand paused midway to the chicken. "A resort."

"An LGBTQ+ adults-only resort on a private island somewhere off the coast. It's called The Whispering Palms, which sounds like a spa that's also haunted, and the tagline is 'Your Most Authentic Self' which I'm fairly sure is a threat."

"Hold on." Sasha wiped her hands on the paper towel and held up a hand. "Adults only?"

"Yes."

"LGBTQ+?"

"Yes."

"On a private island?"

"Yes, Sasha. On a private island. In the ocean. Where islands typically are."

"That sounds amazing." Sasha was already grinning.

"It sounds like a place where people go to find themselves and come back with crystals and new dietary restrictions," I said.

"Those things aren't mutually exclusive," said Sasha, tearing off another piece of chicken. "Crystals are pretty and some dietary restrictions are legitimate."

"You're missing the point."

"You're burying the lead." Sasha leaned closer to the screen. "Why does Maribel want you to go to a resort?"

"Because I can't write, and she thinks if I go sit on a beach for a nine days I'll magically become inspired and produce a bestselling manuscript. She knows the manager. A guy named Emmett something. They went to Columbia together. She showed me a brochure with turquoise water and a stock photo of people laughing like they'd just been told the funniest joke in the history of human civilization."

"Back up." Sasha held up a hand. "How was the lunch?"

"The lunch was fine. The lunch was an ambush disguised as Italian food."

"What did she say?"

"She said the usual Maribel things. The window is closing. The momentum needs to be maintained. My emotional specificity has gone missing. She told me I'm avoiding vulnerability like someone's going to grade me on it, which is — okay, it was annoyingly accurate, but she didn't have to say it while I was eating rigatoni."

Sasha's eyebrows went up. "She said that?"

"She said it and then she sat there with her perfect posture and her sparkling water and waited for me to agree with her."

"Did you?"

"I ordered a second glass of wine. So, basically, yes."

Sasha snorted. "And then she pulled out the brochure?"

"And then she pulled out the brochure. Like a magician producing a rabbit, except the rabbit was a tropical island and the magic was making me feel like a dysfunctional hermit over lunch."

"I mean... are you a dysfunctional hermit?"

"That's not the point."

"That's entirely the point," said Sasha.

"Okay." Sasha pushed the chicken aside, which meant she was taking this seriously. Sasha only stopped eating for serious conversations and fire alarms. "And what do you think?"

"I think it's ridiculous. I think you don't fix writer's block by going on vacation. I think I'm not the kind of person who goes to a resort and does — what, group activities? Beach yoga? Trust falls with strangers? I don't do trust falls, Sasha. I have trust issues that preclude falling."

"You have trust issues that preclude a lot of things," said Sasha, like she was reading from a file she'd been keeping.

"That's not helpful."

"It's accurate. Keep going. What else?"

"What else is that it's probably expensive — it's a private island, those things aren't cheap — and it's impractical and I should be here working, not doing trust exercises on a beach and pretending that relaxation is a creative strategy," I said, aware that I was listing objections at a speed that suggested I'd been rehearsing them.

"Are you done?" Sasha asked.

"I might have a few more points."

"You've been thinking about this for four days," said Sasha.

"I have not been —"

"You texted me a ceiling photo, Ade. You're spiraling. You've been sitting in your apartment thinking about this resort you claim you don't want to go to, and the most interesting thing you could share with me was plaster."

I opened my mouth. Closed it. She had me.

"The brochure is on my nightstand," I said quietly.

Sasha's eyebrows went up. Not a lot — just enough to communicate that this was, in her professional opinion as my best friend, extremely telling.

"I didn't put it there on purpose."

"Ade."

"It migrated."

"Brochures don't migrate," said Sasha, with the patient calm of someone talking a stranger off a ledge.

"This one does. I think Maribel gave me a haunted brochure."

Sasha was smiling now — the specific smile she reserved for moments when I was being ridiculous and she loved me for it but was also going to say something I didn't want to hear.

"You want to go," said Sasha.

"I absolutely do not."

"You want to go and you're mad about it," said Sasha, like she was announcing the weather.

"I'm not mad. I'm resistant."

"Ade, you put a brochure on your nightstand. That's not resistance. That's foreplay."

I pulled a throw pillow into my lap and squeezed it, because my hands needed something to do that wasn't picking up the brochure and reading it for the fifth time in four days.

"Even if I wanted to go — and I'm not saying I do — what would be the point? I go sit on a beach for a days. I come back with a sunburn and some photos for Instagram and I'm still the same person who can't write. The location doesn't change what's happening in my head."

Sasha tilted her head. "Maybe the location isn't supposed to change what's in your head. Maybe it's supposed to put something new there."

"That's very philosophical. Did you get that from a podcast?"

"I got it from four days of texts that were either complaints about your toaster or photos of your ceiling. Ade, when was the last time you talked to someone who wasn't me or Maribel?"

I started to answer and then stopped, because the answer was embarrassing enough in my own head and saying it out loud was going to make it real.

"Exactly," said Sasha. "You've been living in a bubble. You, your laptop, your apartment, and the same two people who've been in your life for years. That's not a life, that's a holding pattern. And I love you, but you can't keep pulling from the same well and expecting it to fill back up on its own."

"I'm not pulling from a well. I'm not pulling from anything. That's the problem."

"Right. Because you've been alone. And I don't mean alone like single — I mean alone like isolated. When was the last time you had a conversation with someone who didn't already know you? Someone who didn't know about the book or the block or the apartment or any of it?"

"I talk to people."

"The barista at the coffee shop doesn't count."

"We have a rapport."

"She knows your order. That's not a rapport, that's a transaction." Sasha shifted on the bed, tucking her legs underneath her and leaning forward in a way that meant the chicken portion of the evening was over and the truth portion was beginning. "You used to be the person who could walk into a room full of strangers and walk out with three stories and someone's phone number. Remember that? Remember when you actually let people in instead of sitting in your apartment judging brochures?"

That one landed. I didn't have a joke ready for it, which was how I knew it was true.

"I don't judge brochures," I said weakly.

"You called the tagline a threat."

"It is a threat. 'Your Most Authentic Self' is corporate for 'we're going to make you do something uncomfortable and charge you for it.'"

Sasha leaned back against her headboard, arms crossed, letting the silence do the work she'd already started.

"Go meet people," Sasha said finally. "Not for the book. Not because Maribel told you to. Just — go be around humans you haven't met before. Have a conversation that surprises you. Let someone say something you didn't expect. That's all. Just let some new air into whatever room you've locked yourself in."

"And that's going to fix my writer's block?"

"I don't know. Maybe not." Sasha shrugged. "But it might remind you that you're actually interesting when you're not hiding in your apartment being miserable about it."

"I'm not miserable. I'm... creatively constipated."

"That's the worst thing you've ever said."

"I stand by it."

"Please don't." Sasha laughed — the real one, not the polite one she used when she was being diplomatic. "Look. I'm not going to sit here and pretend I know how to fix your writing. That's not my department. But I do know you. And the version of you that hasn't left her apartment in four days is not the version of you that wrote that book. That version of you was out in the world, talking to people, collecting experiences, being brave enough to feel things and then put them on a page. You can't do the last part if you've stopped doing all the parts that come before it."

"When did you get this wise?" I asked, mostly to stop her before she made me feel anything else.

"I've always been this wise. You just don't usually sit still long enough to hear it."

"Fine. I'm a little miserable."

"And," said Sasha, leaning forward with the grin that meant she was about to say something I was going to hate, "if you happen to meet someone out there who makes you stop thinking about word counts for five minutes... that wouldn't exactly hurt either."

"Oh, absolutely not," I said. "We're not doing that. This is not a romantic comedy. I'm not going to a tropical island and falling in love with some mysterious stranger by the pool."

"I didn't say love," said Sasha, with the kind of grin that absolutely meant love.

"I can see your face, Sasha. I know what that grin means."

"I'm saying go have a conversation with an interesting person. Maybe someone buys you a drink. Maybe you buy someone a drink. Maybe you just sit at a bar and someone says something that makes you laugh and for five minutes you're not Adrianna Moore, blocked writer, you're just a woman having a drink and talking to another human being."

"That sounds suspiciously like the setup to a romance novel," I said.

"Everything sounds like the setup to a romance novel to you because you write romance novels."

"I write erotica, not romance."

"Ade, your characters fall in love. They just also happen to have orgasms while they do it."

I opened my mouth to argue this point and then closed it, because she was right and I knew she was right and arguing would just prove her point faster.

"But fine," Sasha continued. "Go for the sunsets and the self-discovery. Ignore any attractive humans you encounter. Very healthy plan."

"Thank you. I think so too."

We looked at each other through the screen. Sasha was smiling. I was trying not to.

"I haven't even looked at the website," I said, as if this was evidence of something.

"Look at the website."

"I don't want to."

"Look at the website. I'll wait."

"This feels like a trap."

"It's a website, Ade. It's not going to reach through the screen and drag you onto a plane."

I stared at her. She stared back, unbothered, unblinking, radiating the calm patience of someone who had already won this argument and was just waiting for me to catch up.

"Fine," I said, and opened my laptop.

The Whispering Palms had a website that looked exactly the way you'd expect it to look. The homepage featured an aerial shot of the island that made it look roughly the size of a postage stamp in a very large ocean.

"It's a small island," I said. "And you have to take a boat to get there. I already told Maribel I don't do boats."

Sasha squinted at me through the screen. "Since when do you not do boats?"

"Since I found out this place requires one."

I scrolled past the bungalows before they could do any more damage to my resistance.

"There's a philosophical argument to be made that any location you can only leave by boat is functionally a prison with better towels."

"There is not a philosophical argument to be made about that. Show me the rooms."

I clicked on the accommodations page. The bungalows were, objectively, beautiful. White walls, wooden shutters, beds that looked like clouds had been pressured into rectangular shapes. Each one had its own porch — a real porch, with chairs and a little table and a view of either the ocean or the gardens. The kind of porch where you'd sit with a coffee in the morning and feel like a person in a movie about finding yourself.

"Those are nice," said Sasha, leaning closer to her screen. "Those are really nice, Ade."

"They're fine."

"They're gorgeous and you know it."

"They're rooms. They have beds and walls. All rooms have beds and walls."

"Most rooms don't have a view of the ocean and a ceiling fan that costs more than my rent," said Sasha.

I scrolled past the bungalows before they could do any more damage to my resistance.

The beachfront bar had its own page, which felt excessive for a bar but was admittedly well-photographed. Warm wood, open sides, barstools facing the water. The kind of place where you'd order something you couldn't pronounce and pretend you'd been drinking it your whole life.

There was a list of activities: guided nature walks, beach yoga, kayaking, snorkeling, game nights, karaoke, bonfires, cooking classes, and open mic nights.

"Open mic nights," I said aloud.

"Don't."

"An open mic night, Sasha. On a private island. Where you can't leave. So you're just trapped there while someone reads their poetry about the ocean, and you have to clap, and you can't even pretend you need to be somewhere else because you're on an island and there is nowhere else."

"You're spiraling about a hypothetical open mic," said Sasha, clearly delighted by it.

"I'm a writer who can't write. An open mic night is not a fun activity for me. That's a public execution."

"You don't have to do the open mic."

"I know I don't have to do the open mic. I'm not going."

"You're still scrolling."

She was right. I was still scrolling. And the worse thing — the thing I wasn't going to say out loud — was that with every page I scrolled past, the resistance was getting thinner. Not disappearing. Just wearing down, like a sweater you'd washed too many times. The shape was still there but you could see through it if the light hit right.

I stopped scrolling. The cursor hovered over a photo of two women walking along the beach at golden hour, laughing, barefoot, the water catching light around their ankles. It looked warm. It looked easy. It looked like the kind of moment that happened to people who weren't paralyzed by their own expectations.

"What if I go and nothing changes?" I said. The joke was gone from my voice and I didn't bother putting it back.

Sasha's expression changed. The teasing dropped away and what was left was just my best friend, looking at me like she could hear everything I wasn't saying.

"Then you come home with a tan and some good meals and nine or ten days away from that apartment. That's not nothing."

"And if I still can't write?"

"Then you still can't write, and we figure it out. But at least you'll have tried something different instead of staring at the same walls hoping they start talking back."

"What if it's just over a week of me sitting on a different surface being blocked? Instead of my desk chair it's a beach chair. Same problem, better weather."

"Maybe. Or maybe your brain needs something it can't get from your apartment. Different air, different people, different everything. You've been running on the same fumes for weeks, Ade. At some point the tank is empty and you need to go somewhere and fill it back up."

I didn't say anything for a moment. The apartment was quiet around me — the hum of the fridge, the faint sound of traffic from the street below.

"You're going to make me cry and I just did my skin care routine," I said.

"Then cry pretty. You know how."

She was right. She was annoyingly, undeniably right.

"I hate you," I said.

"You love me. Book the trip."

"I'll think about it."

Sasha didn't blink. "You've been thinking about it for four days. Book the trip."

"Goodnight, Sasha."

"Book the trip, Ade."

"Goodnight."

"I swear to god if you don't —"

"Goodnight!"

I ended the call. The apartment felt quieter than before.

I went through the motions of ending the day. Brushed my teeth. Washed my face. Changed into the oversized t-shirt I slept in — the one with a hole in the collar that I refused to throw away because it had reached the stage of softness that only came from years of wear, and finding a replacement would require emotional energy I didn't have. Got into bed. Turned off the light.

I thought about Sasha's words. Your brain needs something it can't get from your apartment.

I thought about Maribel tapping her temple. Stranger things have happened to worse writers.

I thought about the cursor blinking on an empty page, patient and unhurried, taking no responsibility for anything.

I turned the light back on.

I opened the laptop. Clicked on the booking page before I could talk myself out of it.

The page loaded in three seconds. Dates, room selection, payment. A private bungalow for nine days, starting next Friday. The calendar showed availability in green — plenty of open dates, as if the universe had cleared its schedule specifically to accommodate my breakdown.

I selected the dates. A bungalow with an ocean view, because if I was going to run away from my problems, I wasn't going to stare at a garden while I did it. The total appeared at the bottom of the screen and it was enough to make me wince — not enough to use as an excuse, the royalties from My Husband, My Bride had made sure of that, but enough to feel like a significant financial commitment to a decision I wasn't sure I was making.

I filled in my name. My email. My phone number. Each field felt like another step across a bridge I wasn't sure I wanted to be on.

My finger hovered over the confirmation button. My brain offered one last round of objections: this was impulsive, this was avoidance, this was spending money to run away from a problem that would be waiting for me when I got back. This was a woman in an oversized t-shirt with a hole in the collar sitting in bed at nearly midnight about to book a tropical vacation because her best friend told her to and she couldn't think of a good enough reason not to.

That was either the saddest thing I'd ever done or the bravest. I couldn't tell which, and I was too tired to figure it out.

I clicked it.

Booking confirmed. We can't wait to welcome you to The Whispering Palms at Coral Key.

Underneath, in smaller text: A confirmation email has been sent to the address provided. Please review our packing guide and pre-arrival checklist at your convenience.

A packing guide. There was a packing guide. I'd just committed to a vacation that came with homework.

I stared at the confirmation screen for a long time. Then I picked up my phone, screenshotted the email, and texted it to Sasha.

It was 11:47 PM.

Her reply came in under thirty seconds.

Sasha: Tell the island I said you're welcome

Me: I hate you

Sasha: You love me. Goodnight, Coral Key girl.

I put the phone down, turned off the light for the second time that night, and lay there in the dark — relieved, annoyed, and absolutely certain I'd just made either the best or the worst decision of my life.

Plot Twist In Paradise
by IAmHerEmma

 

 

---

 

Chapter Four: Two Kilos Is Not A Character Flaw

 

The apartment looked like it was judging me for leaving.

Not in any dramatic way — the furniture hadn't rearranged itself into a disapproving formation, the velvet loveseat wasn't weeping. But there was something about the stillness of a space you were about to abandon for over a week that made it feel like it had opinions. The coffee machine, freshly cleaned for the first time in a month, sat on the counter looking like a pet that knew it was being left behind. The bookshelves — still organized by color, still the only area of the apartment that reflected a functioning adult — watched from the living room wall like an audience that had already decided how this was going to end.

I was standing by the door in a black shirt dress and flats, hair down, makeup done but not overdone, looking like a woman who had a plan. Which I did. The plan was: get in a taxi, get to the airport, get on a plane, take a boat to a small island in the middle of the ocean, and sit there for nine days hoping my brain remembered how to form sentences. Perfectly normal. Very sane. The kind of thing well-adjusted people did all the time, presumably.

My phone buzzed. The taxi app informed me that my driver, Dmitri, was twelve minutes away. Silver Camry, 4.7-star rating. Good enough.

Three bags sat by the door like they were waiting for a job interview. The tote was manageable — the kind of soft, overstuffed bag that said I am a person who carries things and does not apologize for how many things I carry. Phone, sunglasses, wallet, a few things I'd want on the flight without digging through a carry-on, and a paperback called Tides of Temptation that I'd grabbed off the shelf at the last minute. The cover featured a shirtless man emerging from the ocean with the kind of abs that only existed on book covers and in the imaginations of people who had never been to an actual beach. I'd bought it at a drugstore six months ago in a moment of weakness and it had been sitting on my shelf ever since, silently daring me to open it.

The carry-on was a sensible rolling case that held my laptop, chargers, and a notebook I'd packed with the vague optimism of someone bringing a gym bag to a hotel. The notebook was new — unlined, leather-bound, the kind of thing a person bought when they wanted to feel like a writer without actually having to write anything.

And then there was the suitcase.

The suitcase was a problem I was choosing not to acknowledge. It was a large hard-shell roller in navy blue — a perfectly reasonable piece of luggage that I had owned for years and that had never once given me trouble. The trouble was not the suitcase. The trouble was what was inside it, which was approximately twice as much clothing as any human being needed for nine days, because I had made the mistake of taking Sasha shopping with me.

Taking Sasha shopping had been like inviting a general to a pillow fight. I'd walked into the store with a list — a sensible, curated list of things I actually needed. Lightweight tops. A couple of sundresses. Maybe a swimsuit. Sasha had looked at my list, looked at me, and then put the list in her pocket and never mentioned it again.

What followed was ninety minutes of Sasha pulling things off racks with the decisive authority of someone defusing a bomb, holding them up against me, saying "yes," "no," "absolutely not," or "trust me," and depositing them into a basket I hadn't been consulted about. I'd tried to argue. I'd held up a perfectly nice linen shirt I'd picked out myself and Sasha had taken it from my hands, examined it for roughly one second, said "you'd look like someone's aunt at a vineyard," and put it back on the rack.

She'd pulled bikini tops that were meant to be worn with shorts — the kind that looked casual but were clearly designed by someone who understood that "casual" was just "deliberate" with better marketing. Sundresses in colors I wouldn't have reached for on my own. A wrap dress for dinners that Sasha had called "the closer" and refused to elaborate on. Accessories I hadn't asked for and a pair of sandals that were objectively beautiful and that I was mildly furious about because they were exactly right and I hadn't found them myself.

The result was a suitcase that closed only because I'd sat on it, and that rolled like it wanted me to know it was carrying more than it had signed up for. It made a sound on the hardwood that I chose to interpret as judgment.

I did one last lap of the apartment. Kitchen — coffee machine off, fridge emptied of anything that would become a science experiment while I was gone, countertop wiped to a standard I would never normally maintain but felt necessary when you were leaving for nine days.

Bedroom — bed made with a precision I usually reserved for absolutely nothing. Blinds closed. The fraudulent blackout blinds that had never blacked out a single thing, now tasked with the simple job of existing while I wasn't here to be disappointed by them. They'd probably manage that.

Bathroom — everything I needed was packed, everything I didn't need was in its place, the mirror was clean and reflecting an empty room back at itself. Good. Fine. The apartment was ready to be abandoned. It looked better than it had in weeks, which was the kind of irony I was trying not to think about — that the space looked its best the moment I was leaving it.

My phone buzzed again. Dmitri was seven minutes away.

I walked back to the door and stood there, looking at my three bags and the apartment beyond them. Nine days. Nine days on a tropical island with strangers, because my editor had given me a brochure and my best friend had told me to stop being a hermit and I'd booked a bungalow at midnight like a person making sensible life choices.

I still wasn't entirely sure what I was expecting to happen out there. Not a miracle. I wasn't stupid enough to think that a change of scenery was going to magically unstick whatever had gone wrong in my head. But somewhere underneath the disbelief there was something quieter. Something I wasn't going to examine too closely, because examining things too closely was how you ruined them.

The itinerary was: taxi, airport, plane, boat, island. In that order. One step at a time. That was plenty to think about.

I picked up my phone, confirmed the taxi, and texted Sasha.

Me: Leaving now. If I don't come back, the apartment is yours. Sell the loveseat.

Her reply came before I'd even put the phone down.

Sasha: Don't sell the loveseat. Have fun. Send pictures.

Me: Of what? The ocean? You've seen an ocean.

Sasha: Of you outside. For science.

I pocketed the phone, grabbed the tote, and took a handle in each hand — carry-on left, suitcase right. They rolled behind me like hostages.

That made two of us.

I pulled the door shut, locked it, and walked toward the elevator without looking back — because looking back was for people in movies, and this wasn't a movie. This was a woman in a black shirt dress dragging an unreasonably heavy suitcase toward a silver Camry driven by a man named Dmitri, hoping that a vacation on an island would fix something she couldn't fix in her own apartment.

It wasn't romantic. It wasn't cinematic. But it was, at least, a different direction than the couch.

Dmitri was leaning against the Camry, arms folded, in no particular rush about anything. He straightened when he saw me come through the lobby doors.

"Ms. Moore?" he said.

"That's me."

"Good morning, ma'am. Let me get those for you."

Ma'am. I was twenty-eight. But sure, Dmitri. Ma'am it is.

Dmitri had already taken the suitcase handle from me — smoothly, without asking twice — and was rolling it toward the trunk. He lifted it in with one clean motion and then paused, just slightly, in a way that made me think the weight had registered. He didn't say anything. Professional. I respected that.

The carry-on went in next. He closed the trunk and opened the rear door for me.

I slid into the backseat. It smelled like air freshener — the pine tree kind that hung from rearview mirrors and promised a forest experience that no car had ever delivered. The seats were clean. There was a bottle of water in the cup holder that I was pretty sure was complimentary but wasn't confident enough to open.

Dmitri got in, adjusted his mirror, and pulled away from the curb.

"Airport, yes?"

"Yes. Thank you."

He nodded once, merged into traffic, and for a few blocks the car was quiet, neither of us reaching for conversation. The city scrolled past the window in the gray-gold light of a morning that hadn't fully committed to being sunny. Storefronts with their gates still half-down. A man walking a dog that was significantly more awake than he was. A woman in scrubs waiting at a bus stop, coffee in hand, staring at nothing with the focused blankness of someone conserving energy for whatever was coming next.

"Going somewhere nice?" Dmitri asked, glancing at the mirror.

There it was. The question. Polite, harmless, the kind of thing taxi drivers asked because silence was fine but conversation was also fine and they'd learned to let the passenger decide which one.

"An island holiday," I said.

It sounded ridiculous out loud. In my head I could dress it up with context — the block, the brochure, the combined insistence of everyone I knew. Out loud it was just a woman going on holiday. Like someone who did that sort of thing on purpose.

"That's nice," Dmitri said. "Everyone needs a break sometimes."

"Yeah," I said. "Sometimes."

He left it there. A polite acknowledgment and then back to driving. I liked Dmitri. Dmitri understood boundaries.

The city thinned as we moved toward the expressway. The brownstones and bodegas gave way to wider roads and the kind of low, flat buildings that existed in the transition zone between a city and its airport — storage facilities, rental car lots, a hotel that looked like it had been built in the seventies and hadn't been updated since because no one staying there was doing it by choice. The skyline shrank in the rearview mirror. I watched it go without the poetic wistfulness that a better writer would have mustered. It was just buildings. They'd be there when I got back.

The airport appeared on the horizon the way airports always did — gradually, then all at once, a sprawl of concrete and signage and the particular chaos of a place designed to move thousands of people in different directions simultaneously while pretending to be organized about it.

Dmitri pulled up to the departures curb and put the car in park. He was out and at the trunk before I'd finished unbuckling, lifting the suitcase out with the same smooth motion as before, setting the carry-on beside it.

I got out and stood on the curb with my bags, feeling the familiar airport rush of people and luggage carts and announcements bleeding through the terminal doors.

"Thank you, Dmitri," I said.

He gave me a small nod. "Have a good trip, ma'am."

Ma'am again. I tipped him through the app — generously, for the bags and the silence — and watched him pull away from the curb.

I grabbed a handle in each hand, adjusted the tote on my shoulder, and started toward the terminal entrance. The automatic doors were maybe fifteen steps away.

I made it about four steps before impact.

A hard bump at my shoulder, the ugly crunch of roller bags tangling like they'd decided to elope, and my tote sliding off my arm fast enough to scatter half my life across the pavement.

Sunglasses, wallet, phone, and — because the universe had a sense of humor — Tides of Temptation, cover-up for the whole world to see.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," I said, already crouching.

"I'm so sorry — are you okay?"

I looked up ready to commit a murder. Dark hair past her shoulders, pulled back loosely, a sundress that looked like she'd actually thought about it before leaving the house. Already crouching to help, which would have been nice if she wasn't the reason I needed it.

"I'm fine," I said, in a tone that made it clear I wasn't.

"You sure? That was —"

"I said I'm fine."

She handed me my sunglasses, my wallet. I took them without looking at her. Then she reached for Tides of Temptation.

Time slowed down the way it only did during moments of genuine, soul-deep embarrassment. I watched her hand close around the book. I watched her lift it. I watched her eyes move — briefly, involuntarily — to the cover. To the shirtless man. To the abs. To the title, which was printed in raised gold lettering across his chest like a dare.

She looked at the book. She looked at me. Her expression didn't change, exactly, but something behind her eyes shifted — the faintest flicker of something she had the good grace not to let out.

I pulled the book out of her hand with more speed than the situation required.

"Thank you," I said, in a way that meant the opposite.

"Interesting choice," she said, like she was commenting on the weather.

"It's research," I said, which was a lie so instant and so baseless that I almost impressed myself.

"Research," she repeated, in a tone that made it clear she was not impressed.

I shoved the book into the tote and started gathering the rest of my things with the focused urgency of someone who needed this interaction to end. "You know, most people who knock someone over at least have the decency to look sorry about it."

"I said I was sorry."

"You said the words. There was no feeling behind them. I've heard more convincing apologies from automated emails."

"Would you like me to try again with more emotion? I can add a tremor if it helps."

I stood up, tote back on my shoulder, dignity in the process of being reassembled. She was standing too, roller bag in hand, slightly taller than me — just enough that I had to angle my chin up, which did absolutely nothing for my mood.

"I'd prefer," I said, "if people watched where they were going."

"I was watching where I was going. You just happened to be in the way."

"Oh, I was in your way. On a public curb. At a public airport. Where I was publicly standing. Minding my own business."

"With a lot of bags."

"Excuse me?"

"You had a lot of bags. I'm just saying — the footprint was considerable."

"The footprint was —" I opened my mouth, closed it, opened it again. "Did you just blame the collision on my luggage?"

"I'm saying it was a factor."

"A factor."

"Contributory."

I stared at her. She held it — composed, steady, with just the faintest crack of something at the corner of her mouth that might have been a smile if she'd been a different person in a different situation. She was enjoying this. Not openly, not warmly, but somewhere behind the composure she was absolutely enjoying watching me sputter on an airport curb about luggage footprint.

"You know what," I said. "Forget it. I hope wherever you're going they have a class on spatial awareness."

"I hope wherever you're going they have a luggage limit."

I opened my mouth to respond but nothing came out fast enough.

She tilted her head, just slightly. "Enjoy your research," she said. Then she turned and walked through the doors, roller bag trailing behind her.

I stood there on the curb, tote on my shoulder, handles in my hands, staring at the automatic doors that had just swallowed her.

"Ughhh."

I said it out loud. To nobody. At an airport. Like a person who was having a completely normal start to her vacation.

I closed my eyes, took a breath, and opened them.

Fine. Just a stranger. Just a collision. Just a minor, meaningless interaction with a woman I was never going to see again.

I straightened my tote, grabbed my handles, and walked through the doors.

The terminal was the usual controlled chaos — screens cycling through departures, families moving in confused clusters, a man in a suit walking so fast he was essentially jogging. I scanned the overhead signs, found my airline, and followed the arrows toward the check-in counters, still composing better comebacks in my head. Contributory. Who talked like that? Who used the word "contributory" in a sidewalk argument and walked away like they'd just settled a legal dispute?

The line was eight or nine people deep. I parked my bags and joined it, letting the slow shuffle forward do its work. By the time I reached the front, I'd mentally won the curb argument three times, each version more devastating than the last. None of them had happened. All of them were magnificent.

The agent behind the counter was a woman with her hair in a tight bun and a name badge that read GLORIA. Her smile was professional and well-rehearsed, but not unkind.

"Good morning," Gloria said. "Passport and booking confirmation, please."

I fished my passport out of the tote, pulled up the confirmation on my phone, and handed both over.

Gloria took the passport, opened it, looked at the photo, looked at me. There was a beat — brief, barely a pause, but I felt it the way I always felt it.

"So, Mr. Moo—" She caught herself. Looked at me again. "I'm sorry. Ms. Moore."

"That's me," I said. It wasn't the first time, wouldn't be the last. I was used to it.

Gloria moved on without fuss, tapping at her keyboard, scanning the confirmation. Then she gestured toward the scale beside the counter.

"Could you place your check-in bag on the scale for me?"

I lifted the suitcase onto the scale with confidence. The digital display flickered and settled.

Gloria looked at it. Then she looked at me.

"Ms. Moore, your bag is two kilos over the limit."

"Two kilos? That's nothing. Two kilos is not a character flaw."

"The allowance is twenty-three kilograms and your bag is coming in at twenty-five," Gloria said, unmoved. "The excess charge would be seventy-five dollars, or you're welcome to redistribute some items into your carry-on." She glanced at the rolling case beside me. "It looks like you might have some room."

Seventy-five dollars. For two kilos.

"I'll move some things," I said.

"Of course. Just step to the side and come back when you're ready."

And so began the most dignified moment of my morning. Which, given how the morning had gone, was saying something.

I wheeled both bags to the side, crouched down, opened the suitcase, and started the transfer. The backup sundress went first — because this was Sasha's fault and the sundress was going to answer for it. Then a pair of wedge heels that I'd packed on the theory that I might want to feel tall at some point during my stay, a theory that now seemed wildly optimistic.

I was shoving the wedges into the carry-on, knees on the terminal floor, when I heard it.

"Luggage trouble?"

I knew the voice before I looked up.

She was walking past — same stride, same roller bag, same composure — like the curb incident had been a minor blip in an otherwise seamless morning.

"Just a minor reorganization," I said, without looking up. "Totally normal. Happens to everyone."

"Looks like quite the redistribution."

I looked up. "Do you just circle airports looking for people to comment on, or am I special?"

She almost smiled. Almost. "You're memorable. I'll give you that."

And then she was past me, disappearing into the terminal with her single, correctly weighted bag and her single, correctly weighted opinion.

I stared after her for a beat too long, then looked down at the open suitcase, the overstuffed carry-on, and the wedge heel still in my hand.

"I hate this airport," I muttered.

I zipped everything shut, hauled myself up, and rolled back to Gloria's counter. She weighed the suitcase again.

"Twenty-two point eight," she said. "You're all set."

She tagged the bag, printed my boarding pass, and slid it across the counter.

"Boarding starts in about an hour and a half. Have a nice flight, Ms. Moore."

"Thank you, Gloria."

I took the boarding pass, grabbed my carry-on and tote, and walked away from the counter with whatever was left of my composure.

Security was the usual exercise in organized humiliation. Shoes off, laptop out, belt off — except my belt was built into the dress, which meant it wasn't coming off, which meant I was about to have a conversation about it.

I loaded my carry-on and tote into the bins, slid them onto the conveyor belt, and stepped through the scanner. It beeped. Of course it beeped.

"Ma'am, could you step to the side, please?"

A male TSA agent gestured me toward the secondary screening area. I stepped over.

"We're going to need to do a patdown. Would you prefer a private screening or are you comfortable here?"

"Here is fine," I said. "Could I get a female agent?"

"Of course." He turned and called over his shoulder. "Ramirez, patdown."

Agent Ramirez appeared — a woman in her forties with a no-nonsense ponytail. She pulled on a fresh pair of gloves and gave me a quick rundown.

"I'm going to use the backs of my hands along your torso and waistband. I'll tell you before I touch anything. Sound good?"

"Sounds like a Friday morning," I said.

She almost laughed. Almost. "Arms out to the side for me, please."

I stood there, arms extended, in the middle of an airport security checkpoint, being professionally patted down because my shirt dress had a buckle and the scanner had feelings about it. Around me, other travelers moved through their own screening lanes with the glazed efficiency of people who had done nothing to trigger a beep. Good for them. Good for them and their beltless outfits and their uncomplicated mornings.

Ramirez worked quickly — shoulders, sides, waistband, the belt buckle that had started all of this. Professional, thorough, completely unremarkable. She paused at the buckle, ran a finger along the edge to confirm it was just metal and not whatever else scanners were worried about these days, and stepped back.

"You're all clear," she said, pulling off the gloves. Then she paused, looking at me — not at the buckle, not at the screening form, at me — and her voice dropped half a register, just enough that it became a conversation between two people instead of an agent and a passenger.

"Where are you headed, if you don't mind me asking?"

"A place called The Whispering Palms," I said. "At Coral Key. Which sounds like either a resort or a cult, and honestly I'm still not a hundred percent sure which."

Ramirez laughed. "I'm sure it's the resort." She folded the gloves in her hands. "My niece is trans. She's been wanting to travel for years but she keeps putting it off. The airports, the security lines, the ID checks — it all stresses her out. She worries about moments like this." She gestured vaguely at the screening area. "Good for you for just going."

That caught me off guard. Not the words — the words were simple enough. It was that she'd said them here, in the middle of a security checkpoint, gloves still in her hand, like it was the most natural thing in the world to tell a stranger something that mattered.

"Tell her to book the trip," I said. "That's what my friend told me. Just book it and figure out the rest later."

Ramirez smiled. A real one, not the professional version. "I might just do that."

She gave me a nod — warm, brief, the kind that said everything it needed to without overstaying — and turned back to her station.

I collected my things from the bins, put my shoes back on, and walked into the terminal on the other side of security. I pulled out my boarding pass and checked the gate. B14.

B14 was already surrounded by a growing crowd of passengers — people standing, sitting on the floor, leaning against walls. The departure board said I still had over an hour until boarding.

A café sat across from the gate — one of those airport places with overpriced pastries behind glass and a menu that charged six dollars for what was essentially hot water and a tea bag. I joined the short line, ordered an iced coffee and a blueberry muffin, and paid an amount that I chose not to think about because thinking about it would ruin the muffin.

I found a small table near the window with a view of the gate and sat down. The coffee was cold and sweet and exactly what I needed after the morning I'd had.

I pulled out my phone and texted Sasha.

Me: Made it through security

Sasha: Still alive?

Me: Barely. Some woman literally crashed into me outside the terminal

Sasha: Crashed??

Me: Knocked my tote right off my shoulder. Everything went flying. And THEN she had the audacity to blame ME for it

Sasha: How is that your fault

Me: Apparently my luggage had a "considerable footprint"

Sasha: She said that to you???

Me: With a straight face. Then told me to enjoy my day and walked off like she'd won something

Sasha: I kind of love her

Me: You're supposed to be on MY side

Sasha: I am! But "considerable footprint" is objectively funny

Me: It's not funny when you're the one on the ground. Anyway. Curbside Karen can have the airport.

Sasha: Curbside Karen LOL

Sasha: Was she hot though?

Me: Irrelevant

Sasha: So yes

Me: I'm about to eat my muffin and ignore you

Sasha: Tell Curbside Karen I said hi

I put the phone down and took a bite of the muffin. It was dry. Airport muffins were always dry. I ate it anyway because I'd paid for it and because spite was a valid motivator.

I had an hour. I had coffee. I had a table. I had no excuse. I pulled the laptop out of the carry-on and opened it.

The document was still there. Still empty. The cursor blinked at me with the same patient indifference it had been blinking at me for weeks — unhurried, unbothered, content to wait me out until one of us died.

I put my fingers on the keys.

Nothing.

I shifted in my chair. Took a sip of coffee. Tried again.

She —

I stared at the single word. Three letters. One pronoun. No idea what came after it.

She walked —

No. Walking? Everyone walked. My characters were always walking somewhere in the first line like I was writing pedestrian fan fiction.

Delete.

The —

The what? The morning? The woman? The author, sitting in an airport café, typing single words and deleting them like the world's slowest typist?

Delete.

A man at the next table was watching something on his tablet. Without headphones. The audio leaked across the café — some kind of comedy podcast or YouTube video, punctuated by bursts of his own laughter that arrived at full volume and without warning. He laughed the way some people sneezed: loudly, involuntarily, and with no concern for the people around him.

I looked back at the screen.

The morning had —

Two kids sprinted past my table screaming, one of them clipping the edge of my chair hard enough to jolt my coffee. I flinched, grabbed the cup, and watched them tear across the café like tiny agents of chaos. Their mother appeared three seconds later, moving at the particular speed of a woman who was too tired to run but too responsible to stop.

"Miles! Ava! Get back here right now, I am not playing with you!"

Miles and Ava did not get back there. Miles and Ava had found the pastry display and were pressing their faces against the glass with the focused intensity of tiny art critics evaluating a gallery show.

I looked back at the screen.

The cursor blinked.

The man laughed at his tablet again.

A barista called out someone's name — "Decaf oat latte for Trevor!" — and Trevor did not come, so she called it again, louder, and then a third time with a tone that suggested Trevor's latte was about to become her latte.

Miles ran past again. The man laughed again. The barista called Trevor's name again. The cursor blinked again.

I closed the laptop.

Not gently. Not the quiet surrender of someone who'd accepted the situation. I closed it the way you'd hang up on someone who'd put you on hold for too long — with the controlled force of a person who was choosing not to throw something and wanted credit for the restraint. Everything was on my last nerve and my last nerve was considering a career change.

The PA system crackled overhead.

"Attention passengers. We will now begin boarding for flight 714 with service to —"

Thank god.

I shoved the laptop into the tote. The plane would be better. The plane had to be better. At the very least, nobody on a plane had ever chased a sibling into my kneecap while a stranger provided the laugh track. I tossed what was left of the muffin, grabbed my coffee, and headed for the gate.

Boarding was the usual slow funnel of people pretending they understood the zone system. I waited for my group, shuffled down the jet bridge with everyone else, and stepped onto the plane.

The cabin smelled like recycled air and cleaning solution — the specific combination that said you are now inside a tube that is about to leave the ground, and there is nothing you can do about it. I checked my boarding pass. 24A. Window seat. Small mercy.

I made my way down the aisle, dodging elbows and overhead bins and a man who had stopped in the middle of the row to remove something from his bag with the urgency of someone disarming a device. My row was about two-thirds of the way back. I found it, checked the number twice because I was not about to sit in the wrong seat and add that to the day's list, and started getting settled.

The carry-on needed to go in the overhead bin. I lifted it — or tried to. The thing was heavier than it had been this morning, courtesy of the sundress and wedge heels that were now living in it, and my arms made their opinion known immediately. I got it to chest height, which was not overhead height, and stood there holding it like an offering to a god who was not interested.

"Need a hand?"

The voice came from behind me. I turned. A man — mid-thirties, polo shirt, smile that arrived a beat too fast — was already reaching for the bag without waiting for an answer.

"I've got it," I said.

"It's no trouble." He was already lifting it, sliding it into the bin with the ease of someone who wanted you to notice how easy it was. "There you go."

"Thanks," I said, in a tone calibrated to communicate gratitude and absolutely nothing else.

"Anytime." His eyes lingered a half-second too long. "Traveling alone?"

"With my thoughts. They're very demanding company."

His smile faltered, just slightly — the micro-expression of a man recalculating — and he moved on down the aisle. I slid into my window seat, buckled my seatbelt, and exhaled.

The window showed the tarmac — grey, flat, busy with luggage carts and ground crew in high-vis vests doing whatever ground crew did. Beyond it, the sky was pale and wide and going somewhere I couldn't see yet. I leaned my head back against the headrest and let the noise of the cabin wash over me — the rustle of bags, the murmur of conversations, the distant thud of overhead bins closing one by one.

For the first time all morning, something in me loosened. Not a lot. Just enough to notice. The airport was behind me. The entire morning was behind me. Ahead was just the trip. Ahead was nine days of sun, water, and the possibility, however slim, of something unsticking.

I closed my eyes. Let out a long breath.

Maybe this would be okay. Maybe this was exactly what I needed. Maybe Maribel and Sasha had been right all along and I'd been too stubborn to —

"What the —"

The voice came from right beside my seat. Close. Familiar.

My eyes opened.

I turned.

"Son of a b-."

Plot Twist In Paradise
by IAmHerEmma

 

 

---

 

Chapter Five: Gaslit by My Own Bestseller

 

No.

No, no, no, no, no.

This was not happening. This was absolutely, categorically not happening. I had done everything right today. I had packed my bags, gotten in the taxi, survived the curb, survived the check-in counter, survived security and a dry muffin and a café full of feral children and a man who laughed at his tablet like he was being paid by the decibel. I had earned this seat. I had earned four hours of peace in a window seat with nothing to do but stare at clouds and pretend I was a person whose life was going well. And the universe, having apparently decided that my morning had been insufficiently terrible, had sent her.

Curbside Karen. Standing in the aisle. Boarding pass in hand. Looking at me, and then at the seat next to me, and then back at me, with an expression that made it very clear she was doing the same math I was and arriving at the same answer.

"You," I said.

"You," she said.

We stared at each other. The kind of stare where neither person blinks because blinking would be a concession, and neither of us was in a conceding mood.

"This is a joke," I said. "This has to be a joke. The universe is actively, deliberately messing with me."

"With you?"

"Yes, with me. Every time I start to relax today, you appear."

"I'd say it's been mutual."

"It has not been mutual. It has been targeted. I was sitting here, I was finally — I was having a moment — and then you —"

"I what? Walked onto a plane I booked three weeks ago?"

"You showed up. Again. For the third time today. At what point does coincidence become harassment?"

"Harassment," she repeated, flatly. "You think I'm stalking you. On a commercial flight. That I paid for."

"I think the universe is stalking me and using you as the weapon."

"That might be the most self-centred thing I've ever heard."

"Self-centred? If I'm self-centred, you're the orbit."

She blinked once, quickly, and I watched the composure flicker — just for a second — before she pulled it back into place. She looked at her boarding pass, looked at the seat next to me, and looked back at the boarding pass, as if checking it again might change what was printed on it.

A blonde flight attendant with a neat ponytail and the professionally pleasant expression of someone who had handled worse appeared from a few rows up.

"Ma'am, could I help you find your seat?"

"I've found it," Curbside Karen said. "I was hoping I could switch to a different one."

"I'm sorry — is there a problem with your seat?" The flight attendant looked between us.

"Not with the seat itself," the woman said. "More with the... proximity."

"The proximity," I repeated. "Interesting word choice."

The flight attendant's expression shifted into the particular careful neutrality of someone who was not paid enough for this. "I understand. Unfortunately, this is a completely full flight, so we can't accommodate a seat change at this time."

"Nothing at all? I'm not particular."

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I really can't do anything. I do need you to take your seat so we can keep boarding moving."

"Fine," she said, and exhaled through her nose.

The flight attendant gave us both a smile that was ninety percent professional and ten percent please do not make this my problem for the rest of the flight and moved on down the aisle.

"Proximity," I said.

"Don't."

"Should I put up a sign? A little warning notice on the headrest? 'Caution: difficult seatmate'?"

"Given how this morning has gone, yes. Possibly laminated."

She sat down next to me and buckled her seatbelt.

I stared at her for a second, waiting for something clever to arrive. Nothing did. I turned to face the window. The tarmac stretched out beyond the glass, flat and grey and completely unhelpful. Neither of us spoke. The boarding shuffle continued around us — bags, elbows, the slow parade of people finding seats — and we sat in our little two-seat block like a pair of strangers who had already used up a day's worth of words on each other.

My phone buzzed.

Sasha: Update??

Me: SOS

Sasha: What

Me: Curbside Karen is in the seat next to mine

Sasha: You're joking

Me: Do I sound like I'm joking

Sasha: You sound like you're spiraling

Me: I AM spiraling. This woman is NEXT TO ME for the entire flight

Sasha: This is the greatest thing ever

Me: I hate you

Sasha: You love me. Tell Curbside Karen I say hi

"Curbside Karen?"

I turned.

"Are you reading my messages?"

"You're holding your phone three inches from my arm. It's not reading, it's unavoidable."

"It's private."

"Then close your eyes."

"For the record," she said, "my name isn't Karen."

My face felt warm. I turned back to the window.

Neither of us said anything. The cabin noise filled the gap — bags being stowed, the low murmur of a hundred conversations bleeding into one. I watched her from the corner of my eye. Her jaw was still tight, arms folded, but after a few seconds her shoulders loosened and she leaned back in her seat with her eyes half-closed. Hours. We had hours of this.

The PA system crackled.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the doors have been closed and we are preparing for departure. Please ensure your seatbelts are fastened and all electronic devices are switched to airplane mode."

I put my phone in my lap, leaned back against the headrest, and closed my eyes.

The plane began to move. A slow, heavy roll backward, then a wide turn that pressed me gently into the window. The taxiing was fine. Taxiing was just driving with more optimism. I kept my eyes closed and let the hum of the engines fill the space where conversation used to be, and for about ninety seconds it was almost peaceful. Two strangers sitting in mutual silence, pretending the last twenty minutes hadn't happened. I could do this. I could sit here for an entire flight and simply not engage. I was an adult. I had self-control. I had —

The engines pitched up. The plane surged forward, pressing me back into the seat, and I felt the acceleration in my stomach before I heard it in the cabin. That was normal. That was fine. That was just physics doing its job.

Then the plane shook.

Not gently. Not the polite little rattle you got on most flights, the one that lasted two seconds and made the overhead bins creak. This was a full-body tremor that ran through the fuselage like the aircraft had just remembered it was held together with rivets and optimism. The cabin lights flickered. My hand shot out and grabbed the window ledge with a grip that could have cracked a walnut.

"You can use the armrest if you want," she said.

"I'm fine."

"You're holding the window ledge like it owes you money."

"It does."

"What did it do?"

"Provided insufficient emotional support during takeoff."

She pressed her lips together.

"Do you always fly like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like the plane is personally trying to kill you."

"It shook."

"They all shake."

"This one shook aggressively."

"It shook the normal amount. You grabbed the window like you were trying to take it with you."

The plane levelled out, the engines settled into a steady hum, and the seatbelt sign dinged overhead as if nothing had happened. I released the window ledge, flexed my fingers, and placed my hands in my lap.

Outside the window, the ground was already shrinking away.

The first twenty minutes passed in loaded silence. The engines hummed. The cabin settled into the low, steady rhythm of a flight in progress.

The armrest started it.

Neither of us had claimed it. It had been sitting there between us, neutral territory, since she sat down. But as the flight wore on and we both shifted and resettled, elbows started drifting. Mine found the armrest first. Then hers bumped it — lightly, just enough to register. I held my position. She adjusted. Our elbows touched again. I moved mine forward. She moved hers back. I moved mine back. We collided.

We didn't speak, didn't look at each other — just kept making micro-adjustments, shifting angles, reclaiming half-inches, in complete silence, like two people playing chess without a board.

The drinks cart saved us from whatever that was becoming.

It rolled up the aisle with the slow, inevitable approach of something that couldn't be avoided. The flight attendant, a man with a neat beard and a practiced smile, stopped at our row.

"Can I get you ladies anything?"

"Apple juice, please."

Of course. Decisive, efficient, no browsing. She probably knew what she was ordering before she got on the plane. She probably had a spreadsheet.

"And for you?"

"Coffee, please."

He poured it, handed it to her, and nodded for her to pass it along. She turned toward me and held it out. I reached for it — and the plane jolted. Just a small bump, nothing dramatic, but enough. The coffee lurched in the cup. A few drops spilled over the rim onto her hand.

She looked at me like I'd done it on purpose. Like I had summoned a pocket of turbulence through sheer force of will just to inconvenience her.

"That wasn't me," I said.

"I didn't say it was."

"Your face said it."

She shook her hand once, then held the cup out again. I took it with both hands.

"You're welcome," she said flatly.

I took a sip of coffee. Not great, not worth complaining about, and at this point in the day I'd take any small victory that came in a cup.

The coffee ran out before the silence did. I stared at the seat back in front of me for a while, then at the window, then at my hands, then at the seat back again, and then I ran out of things to stare at.

I still had hours left in this seat and I could either spend them doing nothing or I could do the thing I'd come on this trip to fix in the first place.

I pulled the laptop out of my tote, opened it on the tray table, and started typing before I could talk myself out of it.

She walked into the —

Into the what? The room? The bar? The void of my creative bankruptcy? Delete.

The morning light caught —

Caught what? Her face? Her attention? A bus? Delete.

There was something about the way —

There was something about the way I kept starting sentences I couldn't finish. Very meta. Very unhelpful. Delete.

I tried again. Slower this time.

The hotel room was smaller than the photos had promised. She dropped her bag by the door and stood there for a moment, taking in the bed that swallowed most of the floor, the window that faced a brick wall, and the bathroom that was optimistically described as "ensuite" but was really just a shower with ambitions.

I stopped. Read it back. That was... not horrible. I kept going.

She hadn't planned on being here. The trip had been someone else's idea — her sister's, or her therapist's, or possibly both, she couldn't remember whose voice had said "you need to get away" first because everyone in her life had apparently formed a committee about it.

Two paragraphs. A voice. A character. Something that almost had a pulse. I typed faster, leaning into it, chasing whatever thread had appeared before it disappeared again —

I read the whole thing from the top.

Garbage. Complete, irredeemable garbage. The character was flat, the hotel room could have been in any book written by anyone, and the voice I thought I'd found was just a bad impression of myself.

I highlighted everything. All of it.

Delete.

"Is it supposed to do that?"

I turned.

"Do what?"

"The typing and then the deleting. Over and over. Is that — is something wrong with it?"

"Nothing's wrong with it."

"You've been doing the same thing for ten minutes. You type, you stop, you erase it all. Then you start again. It's like watching someone fill a glass and pour it out."

"It's a process."

"It sounds like a process. A loud one."

"I don't type that loud."

"You type like you're punishing the keyboard for something it did to you personally."

"And you breathe like you're being paid by the inhale, but you don't see me filing a complaint."

I closed the laptop. Firmly. With feeling.

The laptop went back into the tote. The tray table went up. And I was back to having nothing to do, which was becoming the theme of this flight and possibly my entire creative career.

I leaned back in my seat. The cabin had settled into that mid-flight lull where half the passengers were asleep and the other half were staring at screens with the glazed focus of people trying to make time move faster.

I watched the clouds for a while. They were doing nothing interesting but they were better company than the woman next to me.

Then my body made an announcement.

I needed the bathroom.

I looked at the aisle. I looked at the woman between me and the aisle. I weighed my options. There were no options. There was only one way out of a window seat and it went directly through her.

"Excuse me."

She looked up.

"I need to —" I gestured toward the aisle.

She unbuckled her seatbelt and stood up without a word. Efficient. No fuss. She stepped into the aisle and pressed herself flat against the seat in front to give me room, which was generous of her in theory and completely insufficient in practice. The gap between her and the seat was designed for a person roughly the width of a broomstick, and I was not, despite my best efforts in life, a broomstick.

I squeezed through. There was a moment — brief, awful — where we were facing each other in the gap and I could smell whatever she was wearing. Something clean and faintly warm. I did not want to notice that. I filed it under things that were irrelevant and moved on.

"Thanks," I muttered, already walking.

The bathroom was at the back of the plane. Three rows. Then four. Then the little curtained area where the flight attendants kept the cart, and then the door with the green VACANT sign that was the most beautiful word in the English language.

I locked the door behind me and stood there for a second in the tiny fluorescent box that airlines had the audacity to call a lavatory.

I did what I came to do, which took about thirty seconds and involved a flush mechanism that sounded like the plane was swallowing something it disagreed with.

The sink was approximately the size of a cereal bowl. The soap dispenser required the kind of precise hand-eye coordination that should not be expected of anyone at thirty-five thousand feet. I washed my hands, dried them on a paper towel the thickness of a promise, and checked my reflection in the mirror. It was the size of a hardcover book and lit from above with the kind of lighting that made everyone look like they were recovering from something. My makeup was holding up, which felt like a small personal victory given the day I was having.

Still here. Still trapped on a plane with a woman who had opinions about my typing volume.

I unlocked the door and headed back up the aisle. A man in the middle section had fallen asleep with his mouth open and his head tilted back at an angle that was going to cost him his neck for the next three days. A woman near the front was reading to a small child in a whisper that carried further than she probably realised.

I reached my row. Curbside Karen was reading something. She looked up when I stopped, stood without being asked this time, and stepped into the aisle.

I squeezed past again, dropped into my seat, and buckled my seatbelt.

A minute passed. Maybe two. Then I glanced over.

She was deep in the book now. Holding it with one hand, the other resting on the armrest — which she had apparently claimed while I was gone, but that was a battle for another time. Her eyes were moving across the page at a steady pace, and there was something on her face I hadn't seen before. Focus, but a specific kind of focus. The kind where you forgot where you were because the page had pulled you somewhere else.

I looked at the cover.

I looked at it again.

I looked at it a third time because my brain was refusing to process what my eyes were telling it.

She was reading My Husband, My Bride.

My book. This annoying woman was sitting next to me reading my book.

I stared at the cover. The striking image that my publisher had actually invested in. My name — ADRIANNA MOORE — printed across the bottom in clean white letters.

My eyes kept sliding back to the book, to her hands holding it, to the page she was on — which, from the thickness of what she'd already read, looked like she was maybe a third of the way through. Chapter six or seven. Before the good stuff but past the point where most people decided whether they were going to keep going.

She was still going.

I glanced at her again. Then again. I was leaning slightly toward her now, watching her read, and I could feel my face doing something I hadn't authorised. Something smug and satisfied and probably deeply weird-looking from the outside.

"What?"

I blinked. She was looking at me. The book was still open in her hand but her eyes were on my face and her expression had shifted from reading-focus to something more like suspicion.

"Nothing."

"You're staring at me."

"I'm not staring."

"You're smiling and staring. You've been doing it for the last two minutes."

I adjusted in my seat and tried to look normal, but the grin kept creeping back.

"Is that a good book?" I asked, aiming for casual and landing somewhere around transparent.

She looked down at the cover, then back at me. "Why?"

"Just asking. Making conversation. That's what people do on planes."

"We haven't made conversation this entire flight. We've argued."

"Right. And now I'm trying something new. Is it good?"

She studied me for a second. I could see her trying to figure out what I was doing and not liking that she couldn't.

"It's fine," she said.

"Fine?"

"I'm reading it, aren't I?"

"You don't seem that enthusiastic."

"I don't perform enthusiasm for strangers on planes."

"Fair enough." I paused. Then, because I apparently had no self-control: "I wrote that."

She looked at me.

"That book," I said. "I wrote it."

She looked at the cover. She looked at me. She looked at the cover again.

"You wrote this."

"Yes."

"You."

"Me."

"You're telling me you're Adrianna Moore."

"That is what I'm telling you, yes."

She closed the book, keeping her finger in the page, and turned to face me fully. Her expression was something between amused and unconvinced, like I'd just told her I was secretly a duchess and she was waiting for the punchline.

"You're Adrianna Moore. The author of this book."

"The very same."

"The book that's been on every bestseller list for the past four months."

"That's the one."

"And you just happen to be sitting next to me. On this flight. In this seat."

"The universe works in mysterious and deeply irritating ways."

She looked at me for a long moment. Then she opened the book again, found her page, and settled back in her seat.

"Sure you are," she said, and went back to reading.

"I — excuse me?"

"Mm-hm."

"You don't believe me."

"I believe you believe it."

"That's — that is the most condescending thing anyone has ever said to me."

"It's a popular book. I'm sure you're a big fan."

"I'm not a fan. I didn't read it. I wrote it."

"Mm-hm."

"Stop saying 'mm-hm' like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you're humouring me."

"I'm not humouring you. I'm reading." She turned a page. "Or trying to."

I stared at her. She didn't look up. She was already back in the book, turning a page with the calm indifference of someone who had just ended a conversation and felt no need to revisit it.

I sat there for a moment, jaw tight, fingers drumming on the armrest — the armrest she'd claimed while I was in the bathroom, which I was now too irritated to fight over. She was reading my words. Right there. Right next to me. Words I had agonised over, rewritten four times, stayed up until three in the morning getting right. And she had just "mm-hm"ed me like I'd told her I once met a celebrity at a grocery store.

I thought about spoiling the ending. Just casually dropping what happened in chapter twenty-two, watching the words register, watching the book close. But I wasn't that person. I was petty, sure, but I wasn't a monster.

I turned away from her.

Fine. She didn't believe me. That was fine. I didn't need the validation of a woman whose name I didn't even know. I didn't need her to look at me with sudden respect or awe or any of the things that would have been nice but were absolutely not necessary for my continued existence as a human being.

It was fine.

It was completely, absolutely fine.

Neither of us spoke for the rest of the flight. I leaned back, closed my eyes, and let the hum of the engines fill the space where the argument had been.

At some point the seatbelt sign dinged. The captain's voice crackled through the PA — something about beginning the descent, local weather, thanking us for flying with them as if we'd had a say in it. I opened my eyes. The land below had changed — greener, flatter, broken up by rivers and the occasional cluster of buildings that got smaller and more spread apart the further south we'd gone.

The plane began its descent, and I felt the pressure shift in my ears as the ground got closer.

The landing was not gentle. The wheels hit the tarmac with a jolt that sent my stomach somewhere it didn't belong, and everything roared and shuddered as the plane fought to slow down. My hand found the armrest and gripped it. Her arm wasn't there anymore — at some point during the flight she'd given it up, though I doubted it was out of generosity. When the shaking stopped I let go.

We taxied for what felt like longer than the flight itself, rolling past terminals and parked aircraft and ground crew waving orange batons, and then finally the plane stopped and the seatbelt sign dinged off.

The cabin erupted. Every single person stood up at exactly the same time as if a starting pistol had gone off. Overhead bins opened. Bags appeared. A man three rows ahead was already wrestling his suitcase out of the bin like his life depended on it, even though the door was still closed.

I stayed in my seat, and so did Curbside Karen.

She was still reading. The chaos of a hundred and seventy people scrambling to stand in an aisle they couldn't walk down yet, and this woman had found another paragraph she wanted to finish. She turned a page, adjusted the book in her hand, and kept going as if the plane hadn't landed, as if the bins weren't slamming, as if the man three rows up wasn't now holding his suitcase over his head like a trophy he'd earned in combat.

Eventually the crowd thinned and the aisle started to move. Passengers shuffled forward in the slow, stop-start procession of deplaning, and Curbside Karen closed the book, slid it into the bag at her feet, and stood. She stepped into the aisle and merged into the shuffle without looking back. I grabbed my tote, pulled my carry-on from the overhead bin, and followed the stream toward the front of the cabin.

The jet bridge smelled like fuel and warm concrete. I followed the stream of passengers into the terminal, which was smaller than the one I'd left — lower ceilings, fewer gates, the particular energy of a regional airport that knew it wasn't anyone's final destination. Signs pointed toward baggage claim and I followed them.

I found my carousel in baggage claim and joined the crowd already gathered around it, staring at an empty belt with the collective patience of people who had nowhere else to be but would very much like to be there sooner.

Bags were already coming through and people were stepping forward to claim them, one by one, with the satisfied efficiency of passengers whose luggage had not betrayed them. Mine was not among them. The crowd around the carousel thinned as everyone else collected their things and headed for the exit, and I stood there watching the same few unclaimed bags make their slow, sad loop, wondering what I had done to personally offend the baggage handling system.

I spotted her across the carousel. Curbside Karen, standing on the opposite side. Her bag appeared just as I noticed her — because of course it did — and she stepped forward, lifted it off the belt, set it on its wheels, and turned to leave.

She glanced across the carousel, saw me still standing there bagless, and something crossed her face — dry, unreadable, an expression I was starting to associate specifically with her. Then she turned and walked away.

The carousel hummed its way through the last few unclaimed bags, and then finally my navy blue suitcase appeared through the rubber flaps like a student arriving late to class and hoping no one would notice.

I grabbed it, set it on its wheels, and headed for the exit.

The pre-arrival checklist had mentioned a transfer desk inside the terminal. I scanned the signs — car rental, taxi rank, ground transportation — and then spotted it. A small desk near the far wall with a printed sign that read THE WHISPERING PALMS — GUEST TRANSFERS in the same turquoise font that had been haunting me since the brochure.

And standing in front of it, roller bag at her side, was her.

I stopped walking. Because at what point does a reasonable person accept that the universe has a personal vendetta against them? Three encounters at the airport. A four-hour flight. A baggage carousel. And now this woman was standing at my resort's transfer desk like she'd been placed there specifically to test whether I was capable of committing a crime in a public terminal.

I considered turning around. I considered going to the bathroom, hiding for ten minutes, and hoping she'd be gone by the time I came back. I considered emigrating.

Instead I walked up to the desk and set my bag down next to hers, because I was a grown-ass adult and I was not going to be chased out of a transfer desk by a person who thought "proximity" was a valid complaint.

She turned her head. Saw me. Her expression went through three stages in about two seconds — recognition, disbelief, and something that settled into a flat, resigned irritation that I found deeply satisfying.

"Oh, Jesus Christ, not you again," she said.

"Trust me, I'm not thrilled either."

"This is ridiculous."

"The universe is doing this. Take it up with management."

She opened her mouth to respond but before she could get a word out, a young man appeared from a door behind the desk wearing a resort polo in — what else — turquoise, with a name tag that read JASON. He had the tanned, slightly rushed look of someone who'd been doing three things at once and was about to start a fourth.

"Hi there! Sorry for the wait," he said, setting down a clipboard and a set of keys. "My name is Jason. Are you both here for The Whispering Palms transfer?"

"Apparently," I said, at the same moment she said, "Yes."

Jason looked between us, picked up his clipboard, and clicked his pen. "Great. I just need to check you in. Can I get your names?"

"Renee Miller."

Renee Miller. So Curbside Karen had a real name. And it was annoyingly elegant. The universe couldn't even give me the satisfaction of her being called something ridiculous — a Gertrude, a Bernice, anything I could hold over her in my head. No. She had to be a Renee. Smooth, French-sounding, the kind of name that looked good on a wine list. I hated it immediately.

Jason checked something on his clipboard and nodded, then turned to me. "And you must be Ms. Adrianna Moore?"

"That's me."

I looked at her. She was already looking at me — and then at the clipboard, and then at me again. I could practically hear the gears turning.

"Wait," she said. "You're —"

"Mm-hm," I said.

Jason checked something on his clipboard. "Perfect. If you'd both like to follow me, the shuttle is just outside. It'll take us to the marina and then we'll get you on the boat over to Coral Key."

I gave Renee one long look, slid my sunglasses down from the top of my head, and turned to Jason.

"Lead the way," I said, and walked ahead without looking back.

After a moment, I heard the reluctant click of a roller bag behind me.

For the first time all day, the universe and I were on the same page.

Plot Twist In Paradise
by IAmHerEmma

 

 

---

 

Chapter Six: Telenovela on Wheels

 

The heat was the first thing.

The doors opened and it hit me — the actual, physical assault of a climate that had been waiting for me on the other side of the glass. Thick, wet, immediate — the kind of heat that didn't introduce itself so much as move in and start rearranging the furniture. My sunglasses fogged. My carefully maintained hairstyle, which had survived a four-hour flight and a baggage carousel standoff with its dignity mostly intact, immediately began negotiations with the humidity. I could feel my hair making decisions I hadn't approved.

Jason walked ahead with the easy stride of someone for whom this heat was just another day. He was carrying a clipboard and talking about shuttle timing and marina logistics, and I was absorbing approximately fifteen percent of it because the other eighty-five percent of my brain was occupied with the fact that my skin had decided to become a water feature.

I could hear her behind me. Her bags, the footsteps, the particular silence of a woman who had just found out she'd spent four hours being condescending to the actual author of the book in her lap. It was, without exaggeration, the best walk of my life.

"Adrianna."

I kept walking. My own luggage rolled smoothly behind me across the pavement. The sun was doing something aggressive to the top of my head.

"Adrianna Moore."

That was the full name. She was using my full name like a teacher about to assign detention. I allowed myself a small, private smile behind my sunglasses.

"That's me," I said, without turning around.

"You actually wrote that book."

"You're a writer?"

"What gave it away?" I said, still walking.

"You wrote My Husband, My Bride?"

There it was. The you. She wasn't questioning the book. She was questioning me — whether someone like me, who she'd been stuck next to all day, could have possibly written something worth reading.

I stopped walking. The block flickered somewhere at the back of my mind — weeks of blank screens and false starts, the words I'd written and deleted and written and deleted — and for one brief, awful second, she'd landed a hit she didn't even know she'd thrown.

But only for a second.

I turned around.

"I'm sorry, is there an audition process I missed? Should I have brought references? A writing sample, maybe a dramatic reading right here in the parking lot? Because I'd really love to know what exactly about me says 'couldn't possibly write a book.'"

She opened her mouth and nothing came out. I watched it happen — the false start, the slight press of her lips, the recalibration behind her eyes — and I enjoyed every second of it. Renee Miller, who had spent the entire flight with an answer for everything, was standing in a parking lot in the blazing heat with absolutely nothing to say.

"That's what I thought," I said, and turned to follow Jason.

I didn't rush it. I took my time. I let my luggage roll behind me at a leisurely, unhurried pace, because when you finally win one against a woman who has been out-talking you all day, you don't sprint away from it. You stroll.

Behind me, after a long and deeply gratifying pause, her bags clicked into motion.

Jason led us across the pickup area toward a white minivan with the Whispering Palms logo printed on the side. A minivan. For a resort that charged what this one charged, they really were committed to keeping expectations flexible.

I could feel Renee falling into step beside me as we got closer — not next to me, exactly, but no longer trailing four steps behind either. She'd closed the gap without closing it all the way, which felt like the most Renee Miller thing I'd learned about her so far. Even her walking had conditions.

Jason reached the van first and pulled the sliding door. It stuck halfway. He gave it a second tug — the kind that suggested this was a daily negotiation between him and this vehicle — and it slid open to reveal a man already seated inside, who looked at the two of us like Christmas had arrived early and brought backup.

He was stepping out before Jason could finish his gesture.

"Hi. Hello. Welcome. I'm Milo." He said it like one word — hihellowelcomeimmilo — already extending a hand toward me while the other one gripped the door frame for balance. He was medium build, late twenties maybe, with a smile that took up most of his face and a shirt that looked like a tropical greenhouse had exploded during a sunset. He shook my hand with both of his. "I love that dress. The belt detail? Incredible. You understood the assignment and then some."

I hadn't been complimented with that much conviction since Sasha told me my eyebrows could end marriages. I laughed before I could stop myself.

"Adrianna," I said.

"Adrianna. Beautiful name. Beautiful dress. We're already winning." He let go of my hand and turned to Renee, who had stopped a step behind me with the expression of someone watching a weather event approach. "And you — I'm sorry, are you a model? Because you have a face that makes me want to apologize for mine."

Renee looked at him the way she might look at a stain that had appeared on her shirt in public — not angry, just deeply inconvenienced by its existence.

Most people would have backpedalled. Milo didn't even blink. "Okay, noted, we're not doing compliments yet. That's fine. I come on strong. My therapist says it's because I externalize affection to avoid sitting with my own vulnerability, but I think it's because I have great taste and no filter." He shrugged. "We can revisit the model thing later when you trust me."

Something happened to Renee's mouth. It wasn't a smile. But something in the architecture of her expression shifted about two millimetres in a direction that was not entirely hostile.

Milo saw it. His whole face lit up like he'd found buried treasure.

"Did you see that?" He looked at me. "I almost got a smile. I'm counting it."

Jason gestured toward the van. "If you're all ready, we can get the bags loaded and head to the marina."

Renee turned to follow him without a word. Milo watched her go with his mouth slightly open.

"Excuse me — I called you a model, almost got murdered for it, and we haven't even done introductions?"

Renee stopped. She looked back over her shoulder. "Renee," she said, and kept walking.

Milo turned to me. "She's fun. I can tell."

Jason helped us with the bags while a driver I hadn't noticed before loaded everything into the back. Renee and I ended up on the same row, close enough that I was aware of the space between us, and Milo took the row in front of us, already twisting around in his seat so he could face us both. Jason climbed into the passenger seat, the driver started the engine, and we pulled out of the pickup area.

"So," Milo said, settling into his seat like he was hosting a talk show. "How was everyone's flight?"

"Fine," I said.

"Uneventful," Renee said.

Milo looked between us. "You two fly in together?"

"No," I said.

"Same flight," Renee said, at the same time.

I looked at her. She looked at me.

"We were on the same flight," I said. "We didn't fly together."

"I didn't say we did."

"You kind of implied it."

"I stated a fact. We were on the same flight. That's all I said."

"It's not—" I stopped myself. I was not going to do this. Not here. Not in a minivan. Not in front of a man in a floral shirt I'd known for two minutes.

Milo watched the whole thing without blinking. His eyes moved from me to Renee and back again, slow and delighted, and he pressed his lips together like he'd just been handed a gift he was choosing to unwrap later.

"Okay," he said, nodding slowly. "Okay."

He let it sit just long enough to be polite. Then, deciding to be generous, he moved on.

"So I'm Milo. I said that already but I feel like the first one didn't count because we were standing in a parking lot and nobody was comfortable yet. I'm a nurse. Been doing it six years, love it, wouldn't trade it, but it does mean I spend most of my life around people who are either in pain or heavily medicated, so when I get a vacation I become—" he gestured at himself, "—this. Amplified. Sorry in advance."

"You don't seem sorry," Renee said.

"Oh I'm not, honey. That was performative." He pointed at her with genuine approval. "See, you're paying attention. I appreciate that."

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning. Milo seemed like the kind of person who walked into a room and rearranged everyone's plans for the evening without asking, and somehow you thanked him for it afterward.

"I've been single for two years," he continued, unprompted. "Which at this point feels like a personal attack from the universe. The first year, fine, I was healing. But this last year? I've just been cute and available and absolutely wasted on nobody, which is frankly a crime. So I'm here because the universe owes me a man, and if it doesn't deliver, I'm filing a formal complaint."

I didn't know if he was always like this or if this was just his vacation setting. Either way, there was something about a man demanding the universe owe him a boyfriend that was hard not to like.

"What about you?" He looked at me. "What do you do?"

"I'm a writer," I said, and the word came out easier than it had any right to, given that I hadn't written anything worth keeping in weeks.

"A writer!" Milo said it like I'd told him I was an astronaut. "What do you write? What's the book? Tell me everything."

"I've written a few novels," I said. "Five, actually. The first four did okay — nothing crazy. But the last one kind of took off."

"Took off how?" Milo said. "Like, your-mom-bought-copies took off, or like, actual took off?"

"Bestseller lists for four months took off."

"Shut up." He slapped the back of his seat. "What's it called?"

"My Husband, My Bride."

"What's it about?"

"It's erotica," I said, and it came out easier than I expected. "It's about a marriage where both people are discovering things about themselves — desires, kinks, parts of their identity they never had language for. And instead of blowing up the marriage, they figure it out together. Messily. Honestly. With a lot of sex."

"Oh, this is the best thing I've heard all month." Milo looked like he'd been personally blessed. "How spicy are we talking?"

I laughed. "Pretty spicy."

"I'm buying it the second I get Wi-Fi."

"Although, funny enough, certain people don't even believe I wrote it. Like I'd just walk around claiming someone else's book for fun. As if that's a thing people do."

I didn't look at Renee. I didn't need to. I could practically feel the eye roll from the seat next to me, radiating off her like heat from a stove.

"People are the worst," Milo said sympathetically.

"They really are," I said, still looking at Milo, still smiling, still not looking at the woman beside me who had gone so quiet you could hear the air conditioning.

Milo let the silence sit for about three seconds, which I was starting to suspect was his absolute limit. Then he turned to Renee.

"Okay, I've been rude. I know your name, I know you're not a model — even though you are — but what do you do?"

"I'm a physical therapist," Renee said.

"Oh, so we have a writer and a healer. This van is full of talent." He looked between us. "And me. I bring the personality."

A physical therapist — so she spent her days telling people what was wrong with them and how to fix it. Figures.

"So have either of you been to this place before?"

"First time," I said.

"Same," Renee said.

"What are you most looking forward to?"

"Quiet," I said. "And maybe some time to work."

"Work?" Milo looked at me. "You're bringing work to a tropical island? Honey, that's depressing."

"I'm a writer. It follows me."

"That's even more depressing. You need to learn how to turn off." He swung his attention to the other end of the row. "And you? What's your big island plan?"

"Peace," Renee said, and offered nothing else.

"Peace. Fun. Relaxation. Sun." Milo counted them off on his fingers. "That's four things that are not work. Take notes," he said to me.

"We'll see," I said.

"That's a yes. That is absolutely a yes disguised as being chill." Milo pointed at me. "You're going to be on a beach with a laptop. I can already tell."

"I have a deadline. The next book isn't going to write itself."

"From what I saw, neither are you," Renee said, still looking straight ahead.

"That's called a process."

"That's called a blank page."

"Oh, so now you're an expert on writing?"

"I know what a finished page looks like. That wasn't one."

Milo's head was swivelling between us like he was courtside at a tennis match. He hadn't said a word in about thirty seconds, which I was learning might be a personal record for him.

"Okay," he said, holding up both hands. "I have a question and I need both of you to not get mad at me."

"That's never a good start," Renee said.

"What is happening between you two?"

"Nothing," I said, too fast.

"Nothing," Renee said. Half a second behind me.

"See, that." Milo pointed at both of us. "You just said the same word at the same time and neither of you looked at each other. I've been watching you two since the parking lot and the tension is giving full-on telenovela. What is going on with you two?"

"We sat next to each other on the flight," I said, as if that explained everything.

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"Really? That's it?" Milo asked.

"I have been through an ordeal today," I said.

"That is wildly dramatic," Renee said.

We looked at each other. She had the audacity to look annoyed — she was annoyed, as if I was the one who'd been impossible all day. I gave her my best "are you serious right now" face, she gave me one right back, and then we both turned toward our respective windows like two people who had absolutely nothing left to say to each other.

Milo clapped his hands together once. "Oh, this is going to be so much fun."

The minivan couldn't get to the marina fast enough. I needed air, space, and approximately two hundred feet between me and the self-appointed skeptic sitting next to me.

We slowed, and through the glass I could see the marina opening up ahead of us — the dock stretching out over the water, the late afternoon light doing something golden across the surface, and a catamaran with the Whispering Palms logo on its hull tied up alongside it. It was mid-sized, white, with an enclosed cabin and an open deck at the back where a row of seats faced the water. We were here.

Renee was on the door side, which meant my escape involved waiting while she gathered her things at a pace I can only describe as deliberate. By the time my feet finally hit the pavement, I had a whole speech prepared.

Then the salt air hit me, and the speech went somewhere I didn't bother following. Cleaner than the airport, warmer, the breeze coming off the water — I stood there for a second and let it settle. The warmth on my skin, the breeze coming off the water, the way everything here seemed to move a little slower than I did. For the first time all day, I wasn't annoyed or anxious or composing a sarcastic internal monologue. I was just standing somewhere beautiful, breathing.

Maybe Maribel and Sasha were right to push me into this. I wasn't going to tell them that. But standing here, salt air in my lungs and the water ahead of me — yeah. Everything was going to be okay.