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  “I guess not. Still, you can’t erase years of training in one day.”

  “No.”

  “Maybe that’s what therapy is for. We have ways of making you stop expecting love.”

  “Dr. Szwick again.”

  “There’s no escaping him.”

  “I guess not. But still . . .” Jack leans forward and kisses me gently. His beard is softer than I expected. His lips are firm, a good fit. After a moment, he pulls back and looks at me shyly.

  “I bought you something this afternoon. It’s not much, but I wanted to give you something. You know, if you agreed . . .”

  He reaches into the front pocket of his shirt and takes out a silver band. It has a turquoise stone inset across the flat top, which reminds me of the color of the ocean. It glows blue-green in the moonlight.

  “It’s beautiful,” I say.

  He slips the ring on my left ring finger. It fits perfectly.

  “Will you marry me, Anne?”

  “Yes, Jack, I will.”

  Chapter 11

  All I Want to Do Is Dance, Dance

  Jack and I walk up from the beach to the hotel, where two buses are waiting to take us to our bachelor and bachelorette parties. Ms. Cooper is standing off to the side, talking to one of the couples. Jack goes to tell her we’re getting married.

  “Nine and twelve-fifteen,” Jack says when he returns.

  “What’s that?”

  “Therapy at nine, marriage at twelve-fifteen.”

  A double whammy.

  “Right.”

  We stand there awkwardly. The spell that the moonlit beach cast is losing its grip.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow morning?” Jack says eventually.

  “Sounds good.”

  “Have fun tonight.”

  “You too.”

  He gives my hand a squeeze and ambles off toward his bus. As I watch him walk away, some of the panic that subsided on the beach worms its way back into my body. I think it starts in my ring finger. Good thing I’m headed toward a drink.

  I follow the line of women climbing on the bus and take a window seat.

  Margaret slips into the seat next to me. “Hi, Anne!”

  The bus jerks forward and turns onto the same street that brought us here from the airport what seems like ages ago.

  “This is going to be fun!” she says.

  “I guess. Do you know where they’re taking us?”

  “Somewhere called Señor Frog’s, I think,” she says in a bad Mexican accent. “How did it go tonight?”

  “With what?”

  “Meeting your husband-to-be, silly.”

  Right. My husband-to-be, Jack. I’m going to marry Jack. I just agreed to do that on the beach.

  “Good, I think. You?”

  “Yeah, it was really good.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “My kid, his kid. Nothing much.”

  “But you had an easy time talking?”

  “Of course. We wouldn’t be a good match if we didn’t.”

  “Isn’t that a flawed argument?”

  She looks puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “You could’ve had a good conversation without being a good match, right?”

  “I guess.”

  “One good conversation doesn’t mean anything.”

  A trace of uncertainty crosses Margaret’s face. Shit. What am I doing? She’s happy, and I’m using her as a sounding board for my inner turmoil.

  The bus slows down and turns in to a parking lot next to a brightly lit disco. A green neon frog crouches over the entrance as a line of women and men stream through the door.

  After paying a cover charge to an enormous bouncer, we enter the steamy bar. The music’s pulsing rhythm is so loud that I can barely hear myself think, but that might not be a bad thing. The strobe lights flick around at odd angles, illuminating the black walls and a large dance floor covered in twentysomethings glistening with sweat as they bounce to the beat. The air smells like too many people, old alcohol, and dry ice.

  I order a margarita for me and a piña colada for Margaret from a bartender who’s wearing a black mesh top. We clink glasses and down our drinks.

  As the alcohol seeps into my bloodstream, I can feel my shoulders loosening, the tension beginning to lift.

  “Let’s dance!” Margaret yells into my ear.

  All the wine, stress, and margaritas make this seem like a good idea. I set my empty glass on the bar and follow her onto the dance floor. She immediately starts flinging herself in all directions, like the whirling dervishes I saw at a Dead concert I went to a few years before Jerry died. I dance more sedately next to her, letting myself meld into the music. I don’t know if it’s the heat or the alcohol, but my body’s moving more fluidly than it usually does. I might actually be having fun.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” asks one of the men dancing near me. He’s wearing a white T-shirt, loose cargo shorts, and sandals. He’s tall and slim, with dark hair and light eyes. If I squint, I might mistake him for Pierce Brosnan, circa 1985. Only younger.

  “Sure.”

  I follow him to the bar, and he orders me a margarita.

  “How’d you know what I was drinking?” I yell over the music.

  “I saw you order one before,” he says into my ear, his breath tickling my skin.

  Oh boy. He’s gorgeous, and he’s been checking me out, and he looks like he’s twenty-two. This has trouble written all over it. I take a step back.

  “Well . . . thanks.”

  “Welcome. I’m Tom.”

  “Anne.”

  “First time here, Anne?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You here alone?”

  I motion to where Margaret is still at it on the dance floor. “I’m kind of here with her.”

  He laughs. “Really? She a friend of yours?”

  “Um, yeah, sort of. How old are you?”

  “I’m twenty-two. You?”

  “What do you think?”

  He sizes me up. “Twenty-six.”

  Ha! This guy is so trying to get into my pants. Too bad I’m not remotely interested.

  “How old do you really think I am?”

  Wait, that’s interesting . . .

  He shrugs. “Twenty-eight, twenty-nine.”

  This guy’s my type . . .

  “Good try.”

  “Am I right?”

  . . . and clearly into me. But . . .

  “A lady never tells.”

  He leans in closer. He smells like beer and the beach. “You wanna dance?”

  . . . I’m really not interested. Not even a little bit.

  “Sure.”

  I follow him onto the dance floor, amazed at my newfound immunity to the Stuarts of the world. We face each other and start to move to the beat, laughing as we watch Margaret being free to be you and me.

  “Can I cut in?” a familiar voice says. Jack’s voice. He looks a little angry. Or jealous. Maybe both.

  “What’re you doing here?” I ask him.

  “The men’s bar was lame.”

  “This bar’s pretty lame too.”

  He eyes Tom. “Looks like you’re having a good time.”

  My heart gives a weird little beat. “I was just dancing.”

  “Okay.”

  “You’re not jealous, are you?”

  “What? I can’t hear you.”

  I yell louder. “You’re not jealous, are you?”

  The music cuts out at precisely this moment. I’m yelling into a quiet room.

  Tom puts his hand on my shoulder. “Everything okay, Anne?” He looks at Jack with a challenge in his eyes.

  I shrug his hand off me. “Everything’s fine. Tom, this is my, um, fiancé, Jack.”

  Tom’s eyes widen. “You didn’t say you had a fiancé.”

  “Well, she does.”

  Tom looks back and forth between Jack and me. “Nice to meet you, Anne.”

  “You too, T
om. Thanks for the drink.”

  “No problem.”

  The music comes back on, a danced-up version of Imogen Heap’s “Hide and Seek.” Jack and I stare at each other, uncertain. I move closer to him so he can hear me without my yelling.

  “Are you pissed?”

  “Should I be?”

  “He bought me a drink and asked me to dance. He’s twenty-two. Nothing happened, and nothing was going to happen.”

  “That’s what the guys you’ve liked in the past look like, though, right?”

  “Pretty much, yes. But—”

  “What am I supposed to do with that, Anne?”

  “I don’t know, but I wasn’t interested in him. I should’ve been, but I really wasn’t.” I take another step toward him. The colored lights play across the planes of his face, glinting off his beard. “You know, you look cute when you’re mad.”

  “I do, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  His face softens. “Good to know.”

  “Am I forgiven?”

  “For now.”

  “You want to dance?”

  I hold out my hand, and after a second’s hesitation, he puts his in mine. We walk to a clear spot on the dance floor and start dancing.

  We quickly fall into a good rhythm, matching the pulse of the music. He’s a surprisingly good dancer, though I’m not sure why this should surprise me. After a few minutes, I can tell Jack’s residual anger has melted away. He moves closer to me; our bodies are touching every third beat, and I don’t mind. I move to the left and our thighs touch. He moves to the right and our arms brush. A lock of hair slips across my face. He brushes it away. I feel shivery where he touches me, as if a cold hand touched my skin, even though his hand is warm.

  The DJ transitions to a slower song—something by Colbie Caillat, I think. Jack places his hands on my hips, and we move together to the pace of the music. I can feel his fingertips through my dress, warm and strong.

  I look up. Jack’s face is glowing. I raise my hands to his shoulders, and he leans in and kisses me. As we tilt into the kiss, his tongue edges my lips apart. He tastes like beer and mint gum. His hands pull me closer, closer, and now I can smell him too: woods and soap and the salt of his sweat from the hot room.

  The music cuts out suddenly, and we fall apart, out of breath. My head’s spinning, and I feel like something’s been taken away from me, though I’m not sure what.

  Jack is looking at me with an expression I haven’t seen before. “Anne . . .”

  “There you are!” Margaret yells, even though the music’s stopped.

  “Hi, Margaret. This is Jack.”

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” she says to him.

  “I thought I’d see what Anne was up to.”

  “She was dancing with a kid!”

  His face slackens. “I saw that.”

  “Why’d they turn the music off?” I ask Margaret.

  “I think it’s time to go.”

  We walk toward the front doors and line up to leave. Jack is standing behind me, close enough so our bodies are touching. I check the big clock over the exit. It’s one in the morning. One in the morning on our wedding day.

  “We still getting married today?” I ask quietly.

  He puts his hands around my waist, holding me tight. “Why the hell not?”

  Chapter 12

  Just Friends

  I wake up with a start at six-fifteen. It’s way too early to get up, but I can tell by how awake I am that I won’t fall back asleep, so I kick off the covers and pull back the drapes. It looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day. No clouds in the sky, and the ocean is still calm.

  A nice day for a wedding.

  I open the closet and look at the dress I bought the day before I left. It’s cream-colored cotton, with a light brown pattern of leaves and vines running over it. A black ribbon ties around the waist. The skirt is loose and flowing and falls below my knees. It’s not the wedding dress I always imagined, but it’s pretty enough.

  I look at the clock by the bed. Six-twenty.

  Christ. This waiting is going to be torture.

  I put on a baby-blue two-piece, a cover-up, and some flip-flops and leave my room. It’s already hot, despite the early hour, and the heat is bringing out the aroma of the bougainvillea. I breathe in the lemony scent as I slip down the path.

  The pool is a large kidney shape surrounded by deck chairs and palm trees. White-uniformed staff members are pouring chemicals into it. They tell me they’ll be finished in ten minutes, so I sit on a deck chair and close my eyes, trying to block out the waves of panic that keep creeping up on me. I concentrate on feeling the sun on my skin and remember the kiss Jack gave me last night at my door—a duplicate of the one on the dance floor. A kiss that kept me up for hours.

  When the pool is open for business, I stand on the edge and test the water with my toe. It feels cold, but I bite the bullet and jump in.

  The water is much colder than the pool next door was yesterday, and I surface sputtering from the shock. I do a couple of laps of crawl, then hoist myself out and wrap my towel around me, finger-combing my hair. A woman in her mid-forties is sitting in the deck chair next me, frowning at her BlackBerry. Her expression reminds me of Sarah. I miss her. I wish I could’ve told her why I was coming here and had her support. She wouldn’t have actually supported this decision, but still, it would be good to hear her voice.

  I glance at my watch. It’s not too early to call. I pull my cell phone out of my pool bag and dial.

  “Hello?” Sarah answers in a muffled, sleep-filled voice.

  Crap, maybe it is too early to call.

  “Hi, Sarah, it’s me. Sorry, did I wake you?”

  “Anne? No, it’s okay, I was just waking up.”

  “You’re such a liar.”

  “I should be awake.”

  “How come you’re not?”

  “Late night at the office. I was planning on sleeping in.”

  “Go back to sleep, I’ll call you later.”

  “No, no, I’m awake now. What’s up?”

  I’m getting married today. I’m freaking out. I need you to tell me what to do.

  “Nothing. Just hanging by the pool. I thought I’d call you and gloat.”

  “Are you sure? You sound funny.”

  I clear my throat. “I was at a club last night. I’m fine.”

  “Clubbing . . . Good for you, Anne. What’s it like down there?”

  “Hot.”

  “Any nice men?”

  “Um, kind of. I think I met someone yesterday.”

  “You think you met someone?”

  “Okay, I did meet someone.”

  “Already?”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “What’s in the water down there? Clubbing, meeting men.”

  You have no idea.

  “Must be all the margaritas.”

  She laughs. “Aha. So what’s he like? Is he from here?”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “I just don’t want you to waste your time on something that can’t go anywhere.”

  Sarah, Sarah, always the voice of reason. If only I could put her voice in my head.

  “I know, Sarah. Thank you. Anyway, yes, he lives near you, in fact, and he’s really nice.”

  “What’s he look like?” she asks, her voice full of suspicion.

  “Not like what you think.”

  “I’m glad.”

  My heart skips a beat as Jack walks around the corner. His hair is mussed from sleep, and he smiles when he sees me.

  “Listen, Sarah, I’ve got to go.”

  “Hot date by the pool?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Okay. Have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  Fat chance!

  “Bye.” I close my phone and look up at Jack, shading my eyes from the sun. “Good morning, Jack H.”

  “Is that my name forever now?”

  “Maybe.” My vo
ice squeaks like it does before I have to give a speech. Nice.

  “I can handle it.”

  He looks relaxed and rested (how is that even possible?), and he’s wearing red swimming trunks that are too big for him. He has a streak of what looks like zinc oxide across his nose.

  “Where did you get that stuff?” I stand up and wipe some of the zinc off his face with my thumb.

  “Isn’t this what everyone wears?”

  “Uh, no.”

  He shrugs. “I had it kicking around in my apartment, so I packed it.”

  “Kicking around from an expedition to Everest?”

  “A man’s got to be prepared for any eventuality.”

  I pull my hair back from my face and tuck it into an elastic. “I’m going to get some breakfast. Want to join me?”

  “I just ate. But I’ll see you at nine for therapy, right?”

  “Right.”

  We stand there staring at each other. My mind wanders back to our kisses last night. And maybe his mind is wandering there too.

  “I’m going to go swimming now,” he says.

  “I’m going to go to breakfast now.”

  Jack flashes me a grin, then turns and takes a running jump into the pool, creating a giant wave that nearly drowns an older man doing laps. “Sorry, man, sorry,” Jack apologizes as he surfaces.

  I watch him horsing around in the pool. He looks thinner without his clothes on, though his body is far from the lean, fit bodies of the men I’ve always fallen for. I remember in particular how cut Stuart’s abs were and the thrill I always felt looking at them.

  I shake that thought from my mind. I’m not going to gain anything by comparing Jack to my standard-size man.

  At the buffet in the main dining room, I fill my plate with an assortment of smoked salmon, French toast, and fresh fruit and make a disgusting-looking mix of freshly squeezed papaya, watermelon, and green melon. I’m going to feel virtuous after drinking this, but I may also need to spend some extra time in the bathroom.

  I run into Margaret at the end of the line. She’s wearing a long linen shirt and flip-flops.

  “Where’s Jack?” she asks.

  “He’s in the pool.”

  “You should keep an eye on him. He’s cute.”

  “Thanks.” I feel kind of proud. As if I had something to do with creating him. “Where’s Brian?”

  “Waiting for his omelet.” She points to the special-order grill line, where—there’s no other way to say it—an enormous man is standing with a plate in his hands.