My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

“But you didn’t want that.” It’s not a question. She understands what I’m telling her now. “You wanted more.”

I nod. “Yes. Much more. I wanted to travel, to learn, to experience the world. And maybe I could’ve been happy making my family happy, but that wasn’t my destiny. I could’ve compromised, but I still would not have been truly fulfilled. So I left because it’s what I wanted. What I needed. It is my truth, and now, they see. They understand and respect that I do not pretend. I’m me. Truly.”

She smiles sadly. “But you are pretending. This whole thing is pretend.”

“Is it?” I dare to ask. “It may have begun that way, but I assure you that what I’m feeling is very real. You interest me more than anything or anyone has in a long time.”

I can see her beautiful mind turning that over, examining and analyzing it. For all her untamed wildness, Abigail is not reckless. “But if you feel differently tomorrow, you’ll simply move on because that’s who you are. And I wouldn’t want to cage you.”

I understand. She is who she is, and I am who I am. While we both have a streak of adventure, we want very different things, and we’re tempting pain to pretend otherwise.

“Ah, an impasse then.”

We walk along silently after that, pointing out shells here and there and watching the water race to the sand time and time again. After a while, I hear a sharp whistle and then Dylan’s voice carries on the wind.

“Time’s up, guys! Let’s check out the flamingos!”

We return down the beach to find a pink-faced Emily and a breathless Doug standing with Dylan, who has a knowing smirk. It seems they made use of their hour of privacy with a different sort of intimacy and some make-up sex.

“All right, lovebirds, let’s go see some lovebirds!” Dylan shouts excitedly. I suspect Dylan does everything with energy and vigor, attacking life’s opportunities with abandon.

“Yeah, I can’t wait,” Emily says. “That can be one more thing to check off the bucket list.” She giggles like a lovesick school girl, leaning into Doug. It’s the first time I’ve seen them behave truly as newlyweds in love, and I’m jealous that in each other, they’ve found someone willing to tackle life with them.

Maybe I never will.

Or more likely, I will have meaningless relationships wherever I roam, always looking for that special spark that might make me consider putting down roots.

We follow Dylan on a short hike around the shore until we come upon a small flock of pink-hued birds.

“The flamingos!” Dylan explains needlessly. “Here, I brought a little food for them so that you can get up close and personal.”

He hands each of us a small bag, explaining how to pour the dried, pulverized shrimp bits into our hands and let the birds peck to get it.

“Are you sure it won’t eat my hand?” Emily worries aloud.

“Do you have any lotion on?” Dylan asks, and Emily’s eyes widen as she looks at the birds uncertainly.

“No?”

“Then you’re fine. They just don’t like vanilla bean.” He says it so seriously, which for him must be a difficult task, that I think he’s serious. Right up until the moment he laughs. “Just fucking with you. Unless you’re covered in shrimp, they won’t bite.”

Still not entirely sure, Emily is slow to feed them, letting Doug take the lead. Abigail and I slowly approach a pair as well. But it goes well, the birds accustomed to visitors and happy to be fed treats.

“Cotton candy, sweet to go, let me see that . . . SUSHI ROLL!” Dylan loudly sings a song I don’t know, but a green blur flies past me before I can even think about asking, and the flamingos go wild in a cacophony of honks and screeches, with their wings flapping.

“What the?” Emily shrieks loudly.

“Oh, shit, bro! Sorry! I was aiming for the ’mingo! They like to pick at the ’weed.” Dylan answers, laughing deep and heartily.

The green blur was apparently seaweed, because it’s now splattered on Emily’s chest and belly like Shrek came all over her.

“Ah . . . ew . . .” She continues to make garbled noises, picking at the stringy bits of seaweed to remove them.

“Here, let me help,” Doug says, laughing as he wipes at her hip. But the seaweed smears, leaving a haze of brown on her skin.

“Get in the water,” I suggest.

Emily glares and snaps, “Does this suit look like it’s water appropriate?”

Honestly, it doesn’t. It’s white and so teeny-tiny that I could guess the diameter of her nipples, though if it got wet, I probably wouldn’t have to guess because they’d be visible. The bottom is a thong G-string style but so skinny it’s almost like she has the thong part in the front. Why would they make swimsuits that you can’t swim in? A tiny part of my brain is glad that when she fell in the water earlier, she was fully covered by her life vest and shorts.