HARLEM
The sunlight bounces lazily off the turquoise waves, and I swear it's mocking me for being so deep in thought on a day this perfect. I take a slow sip of my margarita and sigh, the salt on the rim stinging my lips just a little, like the universe reminding me to stop thinking so much.
I'm lounging on a beach chair in a two-piece bikini and a pair of oversized sunglasses shielding my eyes. Briannon and Renee flank me like the queens they are; Bri, with her bright red toenails digging into the sand, and Renee, completely engrossed in her phone, probably texting some new "investment banker" she met at the bar last night.
I should be out there with the others, splashing in the water, laughing, pretending to not be thinking about a man, but this lounge chair feels like home. The heat on my skin, the sound of the waves, it's peace I haven't felt in years.
Except I can't stop thinking about Ezra.
It's been five days since I last saw him. Five awkward, confusing, emotionally constipated days. He's been avoiding me, or maybe I've been avoiding him. I can't tell anymore. All I know is, he hasn't come by, and I don't even know which of the countless resort villas is his to go check. Not that I would, of course.
I sigh again. "Girl, relax," I whisper to myself. But my brain never listens. That's when a shadow falls across me, blocking my sunlight.
I lower my sunglasses and look up; Tyrone. Tall, tanned, curls that look like sin, holding a glass of something citrusy. The kind of man who doesn't just walk; he arrives.
"Miss Tamrin," he says, voice like velvet. "Fancy meeting you here. How have you been, might I ask?"
Before I can answer, Briannon nearly chokes on her drink beside me. She slides her sunglasses down her nose, staring at him like he just descended from heaven. Renee doesn't even glance up from her phone.
"Oh… hello," I manage, sitting up slightly. "I've been fine, thank you, Tyrone." He smirks, all charm and mystery. "That's good to hear. Though, I think my friend might be broken. Do you happen to know why?"
I blink. My heart drops. "Uhm, no. Not really," I mutter. He studies my face for a moment, eyes gleaming with unspoken meaning. "I see. Well, don't let me interrupt your relaxing, Miss Tamrin." He gives a polite nod, turns, and strolls away like he didn't just throw a verbal grenade at me.
"Was that a threat?" I whisper under my breath. Briannon gapes. "Who was THAT?"
"A friend of a friend," I say too quickly. She watches his retreating back. "He's hot as hell."
"He might be taken," I reply, giving her an apologetic smile. "All the hot guys are," she groans, pouting.
"Not all," I murmur, slipping my sunglasses back into place, though my mind screams one in particular.
Later that evening, I'm standing in front of Ezra's villa, holding a box of red velvet cake like it's a peace offering, or worse, a confession. One of the staff told me which room was his. I told myself it was just a friendly gesture. But now, standing here, I feel like the biggest idiot alive.
I raise my hand to knock but freeze. This is so unlike me. The real me doesn't show up with snacks for men who ignore her. Before I can talk myself out of it, the door opens.
Ezra stands there, looking surprised. His dark hair is slightly tousled, his green eyes tired but soft. Behind him, there's a suitcase.
"Harlem," he says, voice calm but strained.
"Ezra," I reply, trying not to sound nervous. "Headed somewhere?"
He rubs the back of his neck, avoiding my eyes. "I have to go back to Germany. Something important came up. I was actually coming to tell you."
I stare at him, cake box in hand, feeling stupid. "Oh. I thought you were staying for the full two weeks. Is Tyrone going with you?" He nods silently.
I nod back, trying to keep my expression neutral. "That's… good. Well, goodbye." I turn to leave, desperate to escape before I crumble, but his hand finds my arm.
"Harlem," he says softly. "How have you been?" My throat tightens. "Good," I lie with a forced smile.
He studies my face, clearly unconvinced. There's a sadness in his eyes that nearly breaks me, but he doesn't say anything more. He lets go of my arm. I walk away, heart pounding, pride barely holding me upright.
Back in my room, I drop the cake on the table, grab a fork, and dig in like I'm punishing myself with sugar. The frosting is too sweet, the sponge too dense, but I keep eating. Maybe it'll fill the hollow feeling in my chest.
The TV is on some random Netflix K-drama, men with perfect jawlines and emotional depth I'll never find in real life. I drown in the noise, the sugar, the ache.
Did I do something wrong? Say something? Or is this about what I DIDN'T do? I think back to the boat ski day. The way he looked at me; like I was the only person on the planet. It scared me. I pulled away because that kind of gaze burns holes through walls I've spent years building.
So now, I guess, this is the consequence of fear. He's gone, and I'm here alone, eating cake on the floor of a luxury villa in the Maldives.
I laugh dryly, a single tear slipping down my cheek. "Congratulations, Harlem," I mutter. "You've officially hit the cliché heartbreak trope."
The TV hums softly as I stretch out on my bed, the leftover cake beside me, and my heart heavy with things I'll never say.
And before I know it, I drift to sleep, dreaming of green eyes, ocean waves, and the taste of red velvet.