My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

Wiggling in her seat, she growls, “My legs are frickin’ cramped and my nether region’s sweating like a whore in church. Can you say ‘crotch rot’?”

“Janey!” I protest, looking around and hoping no one is listening. She’s right, though. It is hotter than Hades in this sardine can. I gave up on my lightweight wrap at the last airport when we had to run to catch our connecting flight, and between my thighs is feeling a little less than daisy-fresh too.

“Oh, my God, it’s so beautiful!” Janey exclaims excitedly, switching the subject as she flops across my lap to peer out the window to the shore thousands of feet below us.

“I know,” I agree, looking out and seeing black dots moving about on the beach and slowly realizing they’re people. “I can hardly believe we’re getting to stay here for a week.”

“Mmmhmm,” Janey murmurs dreamily. “I cannot wait to get down there and show off my new suit!”

“Just make sure you shower first,” I advise.

“Oh, yes . . . hey!” Janey’s gaze leaves the sand to glare at me with a suspicious scowl, “Just what are you trying to say?”

“Oh, nothing,” I say with sweet innocence, but I sniff a little and she sits upright, back in her own seat.

Undeterred, she sticks her nose in her bare armpit to get a whiff. “I do not smell. I’m floral fresh, just like the deodorant says.” Worse, she keeps her arm up and leans my way like she thinks I’m going to check too.

I’m definitely not doing that. I love the girl, would go to the ends of the Earth for her, but I’m not doing a pit check just to prove her point. “Floral fresh? Maybe, if it’s an Amorphophallus Titanum.”

Her eyes narrow as she thinks. I can nearly see the letters breaking apart in her mind like a Latin translation bomb. “Did you just say I smell like a giant misshapen penis plant?”

I smile, pleased that she got it. “Better known as a corpse flower, pungent nasties that bloom once every ten years and smell like rotting death. So yeah, you’re totally floral fresh.”

“Bitch,” she deadpans.

“You’re the one talking about your crotch rot!” I dig.

A moment later, we’re both busting up laughing. We need this release before the work begins, a small pocket of time to just be silly and weird, telling botany jokes that only we would get. “Really, am I okay?” she asks honestly this time.

“You’re fine,” I tell her, shaking my head. “I’m sure everyone in here smells like dog farts right now.” I throw a little shade at the Karen across the aisle who’s eyeing Janey and me like we’re the only ones low-brow enough to discuss the truth of feminine hygiene odors. “And has skin that foreshadows their va-jay-jay . . . dry as fuck.” I pat my own cheek, plump with the moisturizer I put on this morning. Karen’s nose nearly hits her book as she returns to reading her latest book club bore, leaving us blessedly alone.

It’s fun and light banter talk all the way down, with Janey oohing and ahhing over every landmark we see and talking about all the hot men we’re likely to meet. Although I’m sure most of our time is going to be spent planning our flower layouts for every event instead of partying, I find it refreshing to not talk about business right now, knowing the stress that this week is sure to entail. There will be more than enough time for that later.

When we finally get off the plane and into the crowded airport, my legs are screaming with relief, and it takes us at least twenty minutes to find the driver with our name on his sign.

“Aruba, we have arrived!” Janey shouts jubilantly outside before we get into the taxi.

It’s not a long drive to our destination, but Janey fills every minute talking to our accented local driver, who seems amused by her chattering questions and requests for recommendations. I, on the other hand, spend most of the time looking out the window, observing the vibrant explosion happening in the streets. Bright rainbows of color are everywhere—the clothing, the buildings, the lush florals, the people, the food—each bit of it filling me with inspiration.

We move on to a well paved road that winds along, mirroring the beach, and once again, I’m impressed by how beautiful the tropical shore is.

“Holy shit!” Janey gushes on a breathy sigh as we pull up to an estate-like building. “It’s amazing!”

Casa Del Mario.

It’s a towering resort, made of gleaming white stone and exquisitely detailed architecture, sprawling across a good-sized portion of the beach. Beautifully landscaped grounds surround the building with palm trees and green grass strategically staged for the most breathtaking view.

Simply put, the resort is out of this world.

“Wow,” I say as we exit the SUV and I look around even more. Beyond the main building, I can see the beach mere steps away, a deep blue pool filled with people, an outdoor restaurant with pristine white tablecloths and fine china, and manicured paths leading this way and that. I’d like to explore each and every one of them.