Page 6 of Parentmoon

In my mid-forties with bags under my eyes and baggage from my past, I’m packed fuller in all the typical places of a woman my age—hips, waist, bust—which might explain why Dallas didn’t spare me a second glance at our first meeting. As I struggled to keep my eyes off him during that introductory dinner, I noted who he checked out. Younger. Fitter. Tighter.

Despite the slight swell in a few areas, I don’t consider myself that bad. My honey-blond hair with a natural wave hangs just above my shoulders. Keli had suggested I add a little flip to the ends, giving me a slightly youthful look. The color is a strategy that blends the fading darkness of my hair with the incoming silver streaks. My light tan is artificial as I live in Chicago and mid-March isn’t sun-season. I’m told my deep brown eyes are one of my best assets.

As for Dallas’s tastes, I’d heard bits and pieces of his lifestyle through passing quips from Keli or Michael’s idolization. Dallas loved adventure, and women, and possibly a combination of the two. I was not an adventurous woman. Traveling to a foreign country alone was one of the most outrageous things I’ve ever done.

I take a few more minutes soaking up the tropical atmosphere, and regaining my composure after confronting Dallas, then I sigh heavily and enter the house through the sliding glass doors like Dallas had done. A quick survey of the space tells me Dallas isn’t here, though.

The A-frame structure sports a loft bedroom with a single king-sized bed, thus my comment about not sleeping with Dallas. The first floor is open concept with a small kitchenette tucked in a corner, a round table for four in an eating area and a sofa that faces a fireplace with a large screen television above the mantel. In my opinion, the couch should face the sliding glass doors and the fantastic view of the ocean. A door near the staircase leads outside, away from the beach view. Dallas must have left the building that way.

The place is quaint and private, and perfect for a honeymoon.

On that note, I try to call Michael with my latest issue. I’ve already called three times with no response from him.

“Give me time,” he’d initially asked, but the request wasn’t an explanation.

“What happened?” Details felt imperative.

“A difference of opinion.”

“But whose opinion? What difference?”

I’m a mother. It’s my right to pester my child. Probing for answers is second nature to the ability to impart guilt. I’m not too proud to use these honed skills to my advantage when necessary. Calling off a wedding felt like an appropriate moment to rev up these traits.

“Mom.” As a son, Michael has mastered his own set of skills, including a groan that demands ending a discussion.

Michael has his own place where his fiancée spent enough time they might as well have been living together. Surprisingly, it was my son who didn’t want to share space until they were legally married. The traditionalist in him made me question where he’d come from. His father and I certainly had not done anything in the prescribed order of our generation.

Baby before wedding. Marriage too young. Assuming the seven-year itch was meant to scratch someone else.

That last one was compliments of Michael’s father.

But Michael wasn’t his father. He was loyal, dedicated, and in love with Keli.

And I just wanted to understand what could rip two hearts made for one another apart.

No answer again. “Dammit,” I mumble, lowering my hands to the kitchen counter while holding my phone.

Despite Michael’s current broken-heart condition, I was in an awkward position. Considering I’m a resourceful woman in my forties, I next contact the front desk with a hopeful prayer there’s a vacancy for a night. Unfortunately, the resort is booked up.

Glancing upward, my gaze catches once more on the view outside the sliding glass doors. It really is spectacular. The green palm trees are lush against the colorful tropical plants. The brightness of the pristine white sand. The call of ocean water. The beach holds an unfortunate buildup of seagrass along the shoreline. Earlier, I learned the invasive species had travelled across the ocean from Africa. The infectious weed needs to be raked and harvested every day, only to pile up once again overnight. Swimming here is not an option.

Full or not, I’d never be able to afford staying one night at this resort, let alone ten. I’d given Michael a good portion of my meager savings as the groom’s contribution to the wedding. He’d argued that sending me to Belize in his place was his way of making up for the loss of funds.

You deserve a vacation, Mom.

At the moment, I didn’t care about the money.

Dallas owning this house made sense. From Michael, I’d learned that Dallas was a fly-fishing enthusiast, and this area was one of the best places in the world for bonefish and tarpon seekers. One of the things Michael enjoyed about Keli’s father was his love of the outdoors and his willingness to include Michael in a variety of excursions.

For Keli’s sake, Michael had better not have planned on fishing away his honeymoon. Knowing the romantic nature of my son, though, I’m confident he had other ideas for their time here.

Suddenly, Dallas enters through the sliding glass door. He stills when he sees me standing behind the peninsula counter in the kitchen section.

“Darlin’.” He nods.

Another thrilling shiver climbs up my spine at his greeting in that rugged tone. Damn that endearment. Bet he calls everyone a nickname—sugar, darlin’, probably even cupcake.

“The resort is full,” I announce as if that explains anything. There are other nearby hotels, but truthfully, I’m not comfortable randomly picking another place to stay. I also doubt I’d be able to afford them anymore than I could have paid for this location.