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“You sound sleepy,” I say.
“We both got in a day nap…” He grins and shifts so he’s on his side, too. “My brother says they’re life-changing. You feel like a new person?”
“I don’t know what I feel like.”
“You got that good Vacation Brain.”
“I’ve got Jack Morgan brain, I believe.” I don’t know who I am anymore. The Hazel who arrived on this island is not the woman lying here on this towel.
For the past few days, I’ve let myself do things differently. My rut was so deep back in New Hampshire that I couldn’t figure a way out.
I was stuck, and I had to get moving. That felt pretty scary. But Jack is teaching me to take risks.
Little ones, every day.
Like paddling out beyond the breakers on that old surfboard. He chose mid-morning for that first adventure. The tide was low, the surf gentle and subdued. Jack showed me how to lie on my tummy on the board and paddle with the waves as they carried me forward. He said I didn’t even have to try to stand up if I didn’t want to. I didn’t. Feeling the ocean move underneath me, being a little farther away from shore than usual, was enough.
I tried fried calamari—squid! —for the first time.
I stayed up until 3 a.m. one night, something I haven’t done since I was seventeen. Jack and I floated on our backs in the ocean and looked up at the stars.
Yesterday, he knocked on my bungalow door early, before sunrise. We walked barefoot along the path that lines the lagoon, past silhouettes of the animals that call this place home. The flamingos were sleeping, each standing on one leg, heads resting on their backs. Then, we settled in on the sandy shore and watched the first rays of the sunrise streak out into the night sky.
When Jack rented an e-bike later that morning, he insisted I at least do one lap around the resort. I did. It was exhilarating, if not downright scary. I forgot to hold onto my hat, which flew off when I picked up too much speed.
Besides the little, sometimes “risky” things, we’ve gotten a lot of lazy relaxation in, too. The afternoons have been spent lazing by the pool, soaking in the hot tub, or sunbathing out here on the beach.
Most evenings, we’ve closed down the Tiki Grille and then shared slices of key lime pie.
I’ve made a point of visiting Chester the Sea Turtle every day, and he likes that I carry a baggy of baby carrots in my tote bag so I can give him treats.
This has been the best week of my life, I think as I look at the man lying beside me.
He lets his arm drift past me and rest in the sand behind me. “Man, I wish I could have a mattress made of this stuff,” he says.
A soft, warm sensation on my hip makes me look down along my side. He’s letting sand fall through his fingertips. The fine white sand makes a little pile on my obliques.
I smile dreamily. “Me, too. It’s more comfortable than my mattress back home.”
He smooths the sand over my side.
“What are you doing?” I giggle as I look at his work. “Making a sandcastle out of me?”
“A Hazel Thorpe sculpture.”
“It feels nice.”
“You feel nice.” Now his fingers slide against my flesh, no sand between his palm and my bare skin.
I fall back and look up at the clouds. Far above us, a tiny white plane traverses an expanse of clear blue between two pillows of white.
I don’t want this to end.
This is our last afternoon in Hawaii. Tomorrow, an airplane just like that one will whisk us away.
In my periphery, I see Jack’s chin tilt upward; he looks at the clouds, too. He shaved yesterday, and already the stubble is that auburn shadow.
My mother has adored the photos I’ve been sending. She keeps saying that I look so happy, and ‘Matt’ and I make such a sweet couple. I am sure she’s dying to meet him.
