Beach Cute, page 8
“Oh, come on…,” I mutter. I twist the knob off and on again a few times, and eventually the water starts working. It’s barely warm, but I’m too riled up to care. A broken shower really would’ve been the cherry on the cake.
Even as I’m mentally drafting the scathing texts I’d send my family about this luxury resort fast turning into a hellhole, I should probably be counting my blessings that I actually don’t have my phone this week. At least I can’t be swayed by Liam’s “I miss you” text and the plea for us to talk, and even if I do get a little tipsy at dinner, there’s no chance now that I’ll leave him a drunken voice mail begging him to forgive me and take me back.
Despite knowing I’m six days away from being able to message any of my friends, my mind goes over what I’ll say to them and how the conversation will go. The uni gang might not be very responsive if they think I’ve been a bitch and broken Liam’s heart, but there’s still my friends from back home, from school.
I wouldn’t have minded a girls’ trip with them. That would’ve been fun.
But the more I think about that, the more I doubt it would have been fun, and the more relieved I am that I’m here by myself and didn’t beg any of them to come with me. If I’m being brutally honest with myself, that group chat is stilted at best, and the last time we all hung out, during the Easter break, it wasn’t the same. It hadn’t been awkward exactly, I guess, but it hadn’t been as easy as it used to be when we were at school together. It was more like we were playing the part of besties, while counting down the minutes until we could go home and relax properly again.
I know part of that is probably my fault, though. Maybe I would’ve made more of an effort to keep in touch with them if I hadn’t been with Liam, or busy trying to make new friends on my course or keep up with Liam’s mates.
I’m not really close enough to any of my uni friends to have made plans to meet up with them this summer. Actually, things had been looking pretty desperate and lonely without Liam, which was another reason I’d felt so compelled to book this trip.
At least stuck with Rory and Jodie for the week, I won’t be lonely.
A bit desperate maybe, but definitely not lonely.
* * *
—
I knock on Jodie’s door to go down to dinner.
She’s ready to go, almost like she’s been waiting at the door for me. I say hello, then go knock on Rory’s door.
She throws open the door, looking less than impressed and less than ready for dinner.
“Ughhh.”
“Run out of time to dry your hair?” Jodie asks her.
Damp blond strands are plastered to Rory’s face. Her half-finished makeup and floaty pink dress with its off-the-shoulder ruffled sleeves make me feel horribly underdressed, even though I’m in a dress, too. Her shoulders are bright red—sunburnt.
“My air con is broken. The shower was really hot, and I couldn’t get it to go cold, and the room was full of steam—it’s so hot and oh. My. God.” She huffs and barges back into her bathroom, grabbing a wad of toilet paper and dabbing it under her arms and around her face and neck in full view of us, with zero sense of shame. She tosses it down the loo, then twirls in front of the mirror, trying to see her back.
“Do I have a sweat patch on my back? I’m so sweaty, it’s actually disgusting.”
“You’re good,” Jodie says.
“I’ve got one of those little handheld fans, if you want,” I tell Rory.
“Of course you do,” she says, laughing. “But thank you. That’d be a godsend. I’d hug you, but I’m so gross and sweaty right now, I wouldn’t want to inflict that on you. Hey, can one of you take my room key? This outfit doesn’t have any pockets.”
She finishes her eye makeup, dabs her sweaty neck and armpits once more, and then we head down to dinner. This time, we get soft drinks instead of wine.
“I do not want to be signing up for any more activities,” Jodie says firmly, splaying her hands with their bright-blue, apparently freshly painted nails out on the table. “I’m not touching a drop of booze until the reps are all out of sight.”
It’s Italian night tonight, based on the green, white and red bunting draped around the buffet area and the sheer amount of pasta and pizza on offer. We’re all stuffed by the time we decide to head to the lounge. Unlike last night, the staff are trying to usher people out of the dining hall when they’re done—presumably to encourage us to watch the improv show even if we’ve not signed up for it.
It’s astonishing just how militant they are when it comes to organized fun—and how almost everybody else is happy to go along with it.
The three of us find a table at the back near the bar, give up on the soft drinks and grab a bottle of white wine that we split between three glasses as the show starts. The rep who introduces it talks enthusiastically about how so many guests have signed up. A lot of people look genuinely excited.
“Are we really miserable for thinking this sounds terrible?” Jodie asks.
“Damned entitled kids ruining the improv industry, that’s what we are,” Rory deadpans, and I laugh so suddenly I choke on my wine.
The first few minutes aren’t so bad. It’s a group of people in their fifties. I overheard them talking earlier before aqua aerobics; they’re all parents who know each other and who have kids off on their own group vacations. They do some skit about being lost, arguing about maps and directions and making jokes about getting old.
The three of us clearly don’t find it as enjoyable as most of the audience because we don’t laugh anywhere near as much as them.
The next person up starts monologuing about her ex-husband’s erectile dysfunction, and Rory stands up, grabbing her wineglass.
She doesn’t say anything, just leaves.
Jodie and I look at each other before snatching up our own glasses and ducking out after her. I feel like we’re going to be stopped by a big, burly hotel rep acting as a bouncer—or jailer—but I also don’t have the guts to tell them to sit back down or to stay here by myself.
“Where are we going?” Jodie asks in a loud whisper.
Rory whispers back, “I saw something in the info pack about a beach bar. The pool one closes at seven, but I think the beach one might still be open.”
“We don’t even know where the beach is. And why are we whispering?” I ask.
“Shh! I bet if they see us leaving they’ll drag us back. Come on.”
Rory skirts around the pool, following a path into a bunch of trees and tall plants with huge leaves. I’m not convinced she knows where she’s going, but I keep my mouth shut. There are a few low-lit orange lamps along the path, but no signs to suggest which is the way to the beach or the bar.
Jodie yelps, jumping back and knocking into me when a lizard dashes in front of her and she almost steps on it. Some of her wine spills onto my feet as she murmurs to the lizard, “Aw, sorry, little guy.”
My apprehension gets the better of me. “Are you sure about this, Rory?”
“No, but the path’s gotta go somewhere, right? I think I saw people coming up from here earlier.”
“Okay, but I’m just not sure—”
“I think I can hear music.” Jodie interrupts, flapping a hand to shush me. I strain to listen, and hear the refrain of some pop song a little way off. We carry on and eventually the plants and trees give way to sand and a clear view of the night sky and the inky sea.
Rory turns to beam at us. “Ta-da!”
Jodie peers in the direction of the music, which is louder now. Without all the foliage in the way we can see a large hut-like building with a flat roof and little warm-white lanterns strung up around it artfully. There’s a large decking area dotted with wicker tables and chairs, and the square bar has stools lined up along it.
Nobody’s there, save for the bartender.
11 Rory
Um, whoa.
Those two words play on loop for a solid minute before I get a grip—because um, whoa.
The bartender is, like, the epitome of what you’d think a fit Spanish bartender should look like. Olive skin, shiny black hair with a soft curl to it that swoops to one side and is just long enough to run your fingers through. He’s wearing a white shirt with the loopy blue font on the breast pocket declaring him an employee of Casa Dorada. The sleeves are rolled up, and I’m such a sucker for guys with their sleeves rolled up.
And he can’t be that much older than me.
He sees us just before we step up onto the decking and straightens up from his slump over the bar with a wide smile on his face. His bottom front teeth are kind of crooked, but he has dimples and, oh my God, this guy…
Um, whoa.
Even without the hot bartender, this place is pretty whoa. The dark wood of the hut contrasts with the white-gold sand, and the rows of bottles behind the bar glitter like jewels. The string lights, twinkling like stars, give it a cutesy quality, and even though it’s open to the elements, the collection of tables and chairs scattered over the polished decking makes the place feel cozy. Intimate, even. There’s a little sand on the floor, but rather than looking messy, the place looks welcoming—not like it’s so perfect that our mere presence will mess it all up. The pictures online didn’t do it justice at all. In this light, I think what a good shot it would make. I can already see Jodie and Luna perched on barstools, drinks raised, smiling at the camera as I upload it with some caption like Here’s to new friends!
A little way off, I notice the silhouettes of a string of small buildings. Those must be the luxury private villas, I realize. It’s too dark to see if they’re even better than their photos on the website, too.
The bartender is still looking at us with that broad, charming smile, and all I can do is stare back, gawping, thinking about how I’ve never actually seen someone this beautiful in real life.
He makes the guys I’ve dated the last few years through school seem like messy, gross, immature boys. This guy—he’s all man.
I’m pretty sure the other two girls are as stunned by him as I am. Jodie squeaks. I swear to God, she squeaks.
“Are you open?” Luna asks, and I’m glad she does because the bartender turns his attention to her then, and I get it together enough to shut my mouth and tell myself not to be such an idiot.
I’m pretty sure Luna blushes when he looks at her, her dark cheeks turning distinctly pink. Even if she’s nursing heartbreak, she’s not immune to this man and his drop-dead gorgeous smile.
(Besides, he’s probably got a girlfriend. And he probably smiles at everyone like that. He definitely smiles at everyone like that. It’s probably in his job description. It’s probably why they hired him.)
But he’s so beautiful.
While Luna steps forward, the only one of us whose brain hasn’t turned to complete goo, I grab Jodie’s wrist and mouth, Oh sweet Jesus.
“We are,” the world’s most beautiful bartender replies. “I’d ask if I can get you ladies anything, but I see you already have some drinks. Please, take a seat.”
Luna and I set our glasses on the bar and pull out stools. I notice that Jodie has to shake herself before she follows suit. Putting the bottle with its little bit of wine left in front of Luna, she clambers ungracefully onto the stool, battling with the slim cut of her maxi dress and the fact that its hem has no stretch.
I try not to laugh. She’s already blushing furiously and casting furtive glances at the bartender in case he’s noticed.
“Escaping the improv night?” he asks, acting oblivious to Jodie’s sudden clumsiness.
“How’d you know?” Luna says.
“There’s always a few.” He laughs, and oh my God, that laugh. Taylor Swift could write entire albums about that laugh.
Jodie, now planted firmly on the stool, looks as if she’s trying to say something, but her mouth just sort of…gawps. Wide open. Her eyes glaze over for a second like she’s mentally rebooting.
“Guess you got lucky and pulled a shift out here, then,” I say, to cover up the silence.
“I try to stay away from as much of the…structured entertainment as possible,” he says, and laughs again. He says “structured entertainment” in the same skeptical tone and with the same exasperated look as we’ve been using.
A kindred spirit.
I may have a new best friend.
Jodie giggles. Actually giggles, all high-pitched and girlie. It sounds so weird coming out of her mouth when she comes across as so no-nonsense.
Someone has clearly got a major crush. And it only took, what, a minute and a half?
She’s blushing again, and I can see the horror dawning on her face that she thinks she’s making a fool of herself, so I start talking loudly to draw attention away from her.
(Not that I’m not also crushing on him, but…)
“We’ve done it,” I declare, turning toward Jodie and Luna and gesturing at the bartender with my glass. “We’ve found the only other person in this place who hasn’t bought into the crap they’re peddling about self-fulfillment and being centered and all the rest of it. It’s a goddamn miracle.”
“Cheers to that!” Luna cries out, laughing, and Jodie raises her glass to the sky and says, “Preach!” before guzzling half of her wine down.
“If you’re open, how come nobody’s out here?” Luna asks our new buddy.
“Improv night is always very popular. People losing their inhibitions, ¿sabes? Much like you Brits in Magaluf. Tan loco.”
“I never did the Maga vacation,” Jodie says.
Apparently, she’s got control of her brain again. She swirls the wine around in her glass and takes a large, fortifying gulp.
“We went camping after sixth form,” Jodie says. “It was the worst. Rained the whole time. The food got soggy. The showers were grim. Nobody got any sleep. And one of my friends, you know, did it with her boyfriend against a tree and ended up covered in rashes from stingy nettles. Like—all over her back. Everywhere.”
“As I said,” the bartender pitches in, eyes sparkling as he glances at Jodie, “loco.”
He’s looking at Jodie with the kind of eyes that make it very obvious she’s completely his type, his gaze long and lingering, and I feel like I’m intruding just noticing it. Okay, I decide, scrap my crush on him. I mean, anybody would have a crush on this man. He is beautiful. Hell, Tom Holland would blush for this bartender. Now I need to find out if this guy has a girlfriend. Like, right now. Because if he doesn’t, I’m so going to try and set him and Jodie up.
They would be so cute together. I can imagine the adorable, loved-up Insta photos. No soft launch needed—not for a guy who looks this good.
“Somehow I don’t think the people enjoying improv night are going to start dry humping in front of the stage and doing suicide shots of tequila,” Luna says, not quite catching on to their vibe—and kind of ruining the moment. But the bartender just smiles and shrugs.
“Sí, probably not.”
The bartender leans away from us, leaving us to chat and drink our wine. I can’t help the way my eyes follow him, which is why I see him reach into his pocket and take out—“A phone! Bar Guy, you have a phone!” I exclaim, completely talking over whatever Jodie’s just started to say. I lurch over the bar, pointing at him, only to realize how desperate and pathetic I must look.
I wish I could blame that on alcohol, but I know I’m not even anywhere near tipsy yet.
I just really am that desperate and pathetic.
“Quizás,” he says, flashing a grin.
I don’t even know what that means—he could be telling me I’m a loser for all I know—but it sounds really sexy, so he can say it all he likes.
“And my name is Gabriel.”
“Are you guys allowed to have phones?” Luna cries out. I’m relieved to see she’s just as agog as I am.
“The staff are not permitted to use their phones on shift,” Gabriel tells us. “Our phones are locked behind reception.”
“Then what’s that?”
“Qué, you think I don’t have a decoy phone?”
“What if the guests see? They could tell Esteban.” I gasp. “We could tell Esteban.”
“I don’t get caught using my phone around guests. I would be out of a job if that happened. I have had enough warnings by now,” he adds with a laugh. “But I think you chicas will keep my secret.”
“Please, can I look on Instagram? Please?”
I’m so desperate and pathetic I’m actually begging, but I don’t even care.
I want to see if my follower count has gone up. Or, like, at least not gone down.
Which is vain and sad and the only thing I can think about now I’ve seen that phone.
Gabriel laughs and comes back over. Instagram is open on his phone. It’s sad how excited I am to see such a familiar little screen, even if the text is all in Spanish.
“How about I make you ladies some sangria? And while I’m doing that, you can use Instagram. But I’m sure your boyfriend is missing you too much to post,” he tells me. He winks, too. He’s teasing, I realize, after a moment. Flirting? I wish. No, he doesn’t have that twinkle in his eye like he did when he looked at Jodie, the lucky bitch.
Oh well. I guess I did come here for rest and relaxation, not to get railed.
Luna snatches the phone up with a strangled noise before I get the chance to find my own profile. Jodie and I both lean in to watch her search for “ldhaynes0” and scroll through the account of one Liam Haynes. A picture of a toastie. A picture of him and the lads at a pub table. A picture of him and some of those same lads with girls in a club, their arms all around each other.
He hasn’t even used any filters. And the caption on the toastie picture isn’t even funny. What a bore. Plus, he’s tagged the town he’s in instead of the restaurant in the second post, which screams absolute amateur. I don’t know what’s so interesting about his account that Luna was dying to check it.
