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Coach Williams clips. “Hawke’s right. Buckle up, Bronson.”
“I’m fine,” I lie to Beau, squeezing his hand. “I’ll be oh?—”
God swats the plane like a fly in the sky, and here it is. My eggy embarrassment spews into the paper bag in my other hand.
“Babe?” Beau reaches for my cheek but?—
“Bronson!” Colton shouts. “In your fucking seat!”
“Fuck off!” Beau pulls away while I make sure to get some vomit on my cute white ruffled top, too. “You ain’t my dad.”
“No, fucker.” Colton leans our way. “I’m your best friend, remember? You hurt, I hurt, so buckle up. She’ll be okay.”
Colton gently palms my shoulder. He’s seated directly across from me, diagonal to Beau. “Right? You’ll be okay, Raven.” I like his nickname for me. “Just imagine we’re flying on God’s fingertip. We’ll be there safe and real soon, I promise.”
Something about Colton’s warmth and Beau’s concern makes me feel better—that and the eggs that can’t torment my dropping stomach anymore.
“I’m okay,” I mumble while Beau still leans forward, his hand on my shaking knee, though he’s buckled in again.
I close my eyes and make promises I won’t keep to all the gods until, finally, the hell stops.
“Folks,” the captain eases like we just got a full-body massage, “we’re past the chop now. Should have smooth skies until we touch down.”
But now I’m sufficiently mortified and reek of vomit.
“Blair.” Beau can read me, making me open my teary eyes. “Babe, you can go to the bathroom now and freshen up. We can get a fresh shirt for you, too.”
“No.” I tremble. “I can’t stand.”
“Okay.” Beau reaches over his shoulder. In a quick snap, his T-shirt is off. “Wear mine until you feel better.”
I take his offer, discreetly slipping out of my soiled shirt while shimmying his on. Why? Because Beau’s shirt is warm and it smells like him, and the view of his shredded naked torso across from me would cure cholera.
For the last hours of the flight, I survive with Beau as my man candy. A few times, I glance over and catch Colton doing the same.
Once we land, I freshen up in the plane’s microscopic bathroom. To match my white peasant skirt, I tug on the clean white bandeau top I snagged from my carry-on before I rinse my mouth and feel human again.
After one hour on a van followed by a boat ride, we’re here on the tiny private island, a five-minute water taxi ride from the mainland.
The island is tiny. It’s one and a half acres of white sand, a couple of palm trees, and turquoise water everywhere. At its center is the open-concept home, with two tiny detached cottages standing behind it. That’s where the chef and maid live.
Everything is luxury meets rustic island style.
The living room is really a massive covered wooden deck with sofas facing a feature wall just wide enough to fit a flatscreen. Behind it, everything is open to the pool, spa loungers, and the shimmering ocean outside.
The gourmet kitchen is at the back of the large, vaulted-ceiling living area. It’s intimate and just enough for the guests, with eight stools seated around a polished white marble island.
There are four bedrooms in a Jack n’ Jill arrangement. Two adjoining bedrooms are separated by a teak wood and white tiled bathroom with high, open, shuttered windows letting the light and warm breeze in.
Beau claims a guest bedroom for us while Colton tosses his duffel down on the king-size bed in the bedroom across the open breezeway.
I stand in the breezeway, laptop bag slung over my shoulder, almost amused at how they move in silent, pissed-off concert with one another.
Amber claims Colton’s adjoining bedroom as her “glam room,” and for once, I’m thankful for her vanity. I claim Beau’s adjoining room as my “writing room” when only Beau knows I’ll be sleeping here, too.
“Alright!” Coach Williams summons us like summer campers back to the living room.
The sun is starting to set. Its tranquility captivates me, but Coach doesn’t share my Zen.
