How to Honeymoon Alone

“Come on,” Phillip mutters behind me and puts a hand on my waist. I’m tugged backward, and then I’m there, sitting on his lap.

I turn. “Sure this is okay?”

There’s a yes somewhere close to my right ear. The half-open window sends air through my hair, whipping it back. It’s hard to think over the loud music.

“I’m sorry,” I say and tug it around to my right shoulder. “You okay?”

There’s no response, probably because he can’t hear me. I’m perched on the very edge of his knees. This must be so uncomfortable, and I’m abruptly regretting this whole thing. Suggesting it, bringing him along, being so set on this. He must be wondering how the hell he ended up in a packed minivan with a weird girl sitting on his lap.

A hand curves lightly around my waist, and then his voice is by my ear. His breath tickles my skin. “Sit back properly, Eden,” he says. “It’s safer.”

The words send a shiver down my spine. I’m about to ask him again if he’s sure about that when the hand at my waist tugs, just slightly. So I do what he says. I shift over his thighs and rest my back against his chest.

I’m mortified.

I twist my head to say that I’m sorry only to find the sharp edge of his jaw. I twist further toward his ear, and the scent of shampoo and cologne hits me.

“I’m sorry about this,” I say.

He shakes his head. It’s a tiny movement. “It’s fine.”

“Sure? I’m not too heavy?”

His scoff reverberates through my body. “No.”

I settle back against him as one song blends into another; this one has a beat that rattles the sides of the van.

We drive past houses and hotels and take a curve. I shift sharply to the right, only to be stopped by an arm around my waist. Phillip’s hand rests lightly on my upper stomach.

“This okay?” he murmurs.

I can’t breathe. “Uh-huh.”

He’s warm behind me and big, and the strong thighs under me carry my weight. I tilt my head back and rest it against his shoulder. As if in response, the arm around my waist tightens a bit more. That’s okay, too, I imagine him saying.

It’s the first time I’ve touched him, I realize, if you don’t count the hand he’d given me back up onto the fishing boat. The tanned arm around my waist feels strong. Fitting.

“You’re my seatbelt,” I say.

“Huh?”

I have to tilt my head again, my lips close to his ear. “You’re my seatbelt,” I murmur. It sounds even stupider a second time.

But he gives a small chuckle. “Yeah.”

The loud music drowns out most of the sounds from the engine and surrounding traffic. At the next turn, we shift together, like a unit, rocking sideways. His left hand lands on the side of my thigh.

I glance down only to see it still there. His fingers are long enough to reach the hem of my dress and brush against my bare leg. My entire body focuses on that innocent touch.

It’s nothing. He’s just resting his hand and holding me steady. Doing me a favor on the way to a place he’d never planned to go to in the first place. But my body can’t seem to stop focusing on that spot.

Phillip’s voice returns to my ear. “Relax,” he says again. “You okay?”This text is property of Nô/velD/rama.Org.

I let out the breath I’d been holding. “Um, yes,” I say. And then, because my brain loves to sabotage me, I blurt, “You smell good.”

The fingers at my waist tighten, as if in surprise. But he doesn’t answer. So I twist my head toward the view outside the window and relax into his grip. He probably didn’t even hear me above the sound of heavy music.

One can hope, at least.

It isn’t until the route taxi stops to let off the family of three next to us that he speaks again. “So do you.”

There’s space beside us. I don’t have to sit on his lap anymore, but as the sliding door closes shut, and the van starts to move, we stay put.

All the way to our stop at the Oistins Fish Market.

“This is us,” I say. I have to use both arms to tug at the sliding door. As I do, Phillip’s grip around my waist disappears. After paying the driver, we emerge into the chaotic bustle of a Bajan sidewalk.

“Thanks for the ride!” I say. The route taxi throws itself back into traffic, a reggae song blasting out of the half-open windows.

“Wow,” I breathe. “That was…”

“Yes,” Phillip says, his eyes meeting mine.

No more words are needed, and I have to swallow hard before I can speak. “So… are you hungry?”

We make our way among the stalls. The place is packed in the most wonderful of ways, with tables set up between the booths for people to eat and drink. Tourists and locals alike seem to be gathered here. Behind one of the venues, a band starts to play soca music.

The energy is palpable.

“So many people,” Phillip mutters beside me.

I grin at him. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? Come on, let’s find the stall with the red roof… I’ve heard it’s the best one.”

“You’ve read about the individual stalls?”

“Yes. Come on!”

He mutters something behind me that sounds a lot like too much free time, but he lets me tug him through a group of people standing in line.

I spot the stall with the red roof. Their grilled swordfish and mahi-mahi are supposed to be the best on the island.

It takes us a solid half-hour to get our fish, sides, drinks, and a spot to sit. On my paper plate, my grilled mahi-mahi is the size of my face. Beside it is a heaping side of macaroni pie.

It smells absolutely divine. “How am I supposed to eat all of this?” I ask.

Phillip holds up his wooden fork. “With this.”

I roll my eyes. “Very funny.”