Spring Fling, page 3
“I went to the Panhandle Vacation Rentals office, if you’re interested,” he said with one hand on the doorknob. “They were closed. The whole office is sick with the flu.”
Monica slid her Fendis down the bridge of her nose and glared at him over the lenses.
“The flu?”
“Yup,” he said, tossing his sweater into the guest house. “I don’t have a fridge in here, so I’m going to put these in the kitchen.”
Jim walked back across the patio with his bags of groceries and a scowl on his face.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Monica said, hopping back to attention. “You can’t just keep making yourself comfortable around here. That’s my fridge, and you have to go.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, opening the sliding glass door.
Monica huffed and followed him into the kitchen.
“I paid for my stay here just like you did, and I’m going to enjoy my time here,” he said, putting a carton of orange juice, eggs, and bacon into the fridge. “Until we get ahold of someone at the rental agency, you’re stuck with me.”
“Yeah, we’ll see about that.”
Monica stomped back to the pool deck and retrieved her phone, her pulse thudding at her temples. She dialed the rental agency again and got the same annoyingly chirpy message as before. She frowned at her reflection in the glass on her phone as the screen went black. This vacation was not going how she had planned at all.
“Fine,” she said, stomping back into the house. Jim was putting together a turkey sandwich on the counter. Monica’s stomach grumbled at the sight of it. “Until we can get ahold of someone, we are going to have to lay down some house rules, though.”
Jim looked up at her as he slathered mayo on a piece of white bread, and Monica became keenly aware of how she must look. Her hair was probably a wreck, and she was half naked in front of a man that she barely knew. No matter; she wasn’t self-conscious in a bathing suit, like some people might assume a fuller-figured woman would be. Still, she couldn’t help but notice his eyes scanning and most likely appreciating her figure.
“Rule number one: No walking in here unannounced. I’ll give you my phone number, and you can just text me if you need to come in and use the kitchen or the shower.”
“Fine,” he said, returning to his sandwich.
“Rule number two,” she said, thinking for a minute. “No guests. I already feel funny sharing a space with a strange man, so don’t think about bringing anyone else around.”
“Hmmph,” he snorted, adding lettuce and tomato. “That won’t be a problem. I was hoping to get some alone time out here myself.”
“Good,” she said, folding her arms in front of her. “Rule number three: No hanging out inside for any longer than necessary. Oh! And clean up after yourself. I’m no one’s maid.”
“That’s four rules,” he said, pointing a butter knife in her direction. “But don’t worry, I’m a big boy. I know how to do my own dishes and sweep up after myself.”
“We’ll see about that,” she said.
Monica pivoted on her heels and turned toward her bedroom. The sight of his lunch made her realize she needed to head into town and stock up on groceries, too.
“You want something to eat?” Jim called from the kitchen.
Monica blinked and half smiled, half frowned.
Is this man really offering to make me a sandwich?
“No, thank you,” she replied coolly.
“What?” he shouted from the kitchen. His voice boomed through the walls.
“I said, ‘No, thank you’!” she shouted back.
Monica rummaged through her duffle and found a floaty tiered turquoise maxi dress to match her earrings and threw it on over her bathing suit. After shaking out her hair from her bun and reapplying her coral lipstick, she felt ready enough to go into town and pick up a few groceries. She slipped into her jeweled thong sandals and peeked out of her door, down the hall toward the kitchen. No Jim.
As she passed the kitchen to find her keys, she took note of the empty sink and the rack of drying dishes next to it. Her accidental roommate had also left a scrap of paper with a phone number on the counter for her to find, starting with an area code she didn’t recognize.
Well, at least he cleaned up after himself, she snorted.
Monica pocketed the phone number and slipped on her sunglasses again, taking one last look over her shoulder through the sliding glass doors. The door to the pool house was closed, but there was a light on inside. She couldn’t help but wonder what a guy like him had planned on doing in this big beach house all alone but then shrugged and told herself she didn’t care.
Not my circus, not my monkeys, she reminded herself.
With that, Monica set out for downtown Carrabelle to see what she could see and stock up on just enough groceries and snacks for one.
Chapter Six
Jim ate his sad, miserable turkey sandwich on the pullout sofa of the Panhandle pool house he had rented with his Christmas bonus savings and considered going home.
Sure, he still hadn’t made it to Tate’s Hell State Forest or Alligator Point yet. And he didn’t get to start his beachcombing photo series or his shrimp boat worker series or even take his new camera for a spin. None of that seemed worth spending five more miserable nights on a pullout bed and sharing a kitchen and bathroom with a miserable woman, though. Even if she was hot.
And that was another thing. This woman — Monica, she said her name was — was every bit as mean as she was beautiful. There was nothing he could say that was right when it came to her, and he was tired of walking on eggshells around women in general. He had even offered to make her a sandwich! Jim always tried to be a nice guy but just ended up looking like a pushover, and he hated that about himself. And now, here he was, alone and eating a sandwich on a couch on his vacation. Boring. Just like Julie said.
Well, screw that, Jim thought to himself, tossing the rest of his sandwich into the trash. I’ve had to fight tooth and nail for my right to stay here, and dammit, I’m going to enjoy every minute of it.
Jim unzipped his suitcase and unearthed his new Nikon zoom lens digital camera, his divorce present to himself. Julie always thought it would have been a waste of money to buy a camera, especially when the only one she ever used was built into her phone. She never understood Jim’s appreciation for Ansel Adams and how he could take simple black-and-white photography of landscapes and create haunting, statement-making artwork. Jim knew he would never be even close to Ansel Adams, especially in the digital age, where most people didn’t appreciate the art of classic photography. Still, the idea of being behind the lens and snapping Florida landscape photos all week was enough to get him to drive five hours and vacation in the area he had known and loved as a child.
It was just after noon when Jim emerged from his tiny little pool house into the bright sunlight. He considered grabbing sunscreen when he was at the grocery store in town but forgot, and now, as the high Florida sun shone down on him, he started to regret it. Still, with the stunning, foamy sea green shores of the Gulf of Mexico spread out before him, Jim knew that he couldn’t let a little thing like sunburn hold him back, so he set out in search of natural landscapes to snap with his new camera just the same.
Nearly an hour went by as he dug up old glass bottles that had washed ashore and photographed them alongside piles of driftwood and starfish. When he started to feel his forehead sizzle, Jim made his way back up the beach toward the house, capturing images of feathery sandpipers and fiddler crabs in the sand as he went. A brazen racoon emerged from the pine scrub treeline where the forest met the beach, and he pointed his lens to photograph the animal in action. Just as he was trying to readjust his lens, Jim noticed a brown-and-black splotched animal through the trees and readjusted his focus. As the image finally became clear, Jim noticed that the animal was no animal but a leopard print bikini worn by a very visibly pissed Monica.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she shouted from the pool deck.
Jim frowned and wrinkled his forehead. He looked down at his camera and then back up to the house, realizing exactly what the situation must look like.
“Oh, no! No! I was just… a racoon! I was taking pictures of a racoon!”
A thin film of sweat broke out on Jim’s upper lip, and he could sense himself perspiring in other not-so-attractive places as well. Monica stomped down the path from the house toward him, her long, thick spirals of hair trailing wildly behind her in the breeze.
“‘Racoon,’ my ass,” she said, holding out her hand and motioning toward his camera. “You were taking pictures of me.”
“I was not! I swear! I know how this must look, but I promise I wouldn’t do that.”
“Show me your camera roll then,” she demanded, her still outstretched hand motioning for him to hand over his brand new Nikon.
“Gladly,” Jim said, turning the screen toward her. He scrolled through the digital images on the screen, showing her the racoon nibbling on a clam shell, the sandpipers pecking at fiddler crabs, a display of driftwood, and the foamy seashore.
“See? Not a single picture of you. I wouldn’t do that, I swear.”
Monica’s mouth was screwed up in a skeptical sort of frown as she evaluated Jim and his camera.
“What are you, a professional photographer or something?”
Jim snorted.
“What do you care?”
He started back toward the house, his face and neck feeling hotter than ever. His mouth was like a desert, and if he was going to have to continue his verbal battle with this woman, he would need to keep up his energy. Jim stomped up to the patio, past the pool, and opened up the sliding glass door to the house with Monica at his heels.
“And just where do you think you’re going?” she demanded, trying to keep up with him.
“To our kitchen. Remember?” he said, opening the fridge. He grabbed a carton of orange juice and started chugging straight from the carton as Monica watched with her hand on her hip.
“Well, you’re drinking my orange juice!”
Jim glared at her out of the corner of one eye and took one last chug.
“No, this is mine.”
“Oh, really?” she frowned. “Look again.”
Jim frowned back at her and examined the label, then glanced back inside the open fridge. His store-brand orange juice was still there, shoved toward the back of the fridge. The carton in his hand was nearly identical.
“Oh,” he said sheepishly. “Sorry.”
“It’s your orange juice now,” she scoffed. “You owe me five bucks.”
“Five dollars! That’s crazy,” he said, screwing the cap back onto the carton. “Mine only cost two!”
“That’s because you buy the crappy store brand,” she said. “You can leave the money on the counter on your way out.”
With a flip of glossy brunette curls, Monica returned to her post by the swimming pool, once again leaving Jim frustrated and dumbfounded.
Five dollars, he grumbled to himself, fishing his wallet out of his back pocket. Didn’t even taste any different.
Jim shook his head and breathed in deeply through his nose, filling his lungs with air. His phone buzzed in his back pocket as he exhaled, and he closed his eyes, not wanting to see who was trying to get a hold of him. He leaned against the kitchen counter and checked his messages anyway, his eyes flicking to the intolerable woman by the pool. The urge to go home was greater than ever at that point, until he read his message.
Where are you? We need to talk. Coming over to the house now.
Julie. He did not want to talk to her, and he definitely did not want to see her. Jim knew he would have to eventually see her in order to finalize their divorce papers and split their assets. But not now. It was too soon, and he was still too raw from it all. The last time they spoke, he actually cried, and he hardly ever cried. Nope. This was his getaway, and he already had one woman trying her hardest to ruin it. He wasn’t about to let Julie mess with his head this week, too.
Jim slammed a five-dollar bill down on the counter and fished his car keys from his pocket. He still had his camera and a bit of daylight left and was determined to stay the course for his vacation goals. Jim glanced over his shoulder at Monica one last time as he headed out the door to try and blow off some steam. He was amazed at how she could be so nasty, so rude, and still be able to relax and enjoy herself while he just simmered and stewed.
As Jim lowered himself down into his Acura, he looked around the interior of the compact sports car with disgust. The car was never really for him; Julie was the one who picked it out. His extra-large frame always felt uncomfortable, out of place, and cramped behind the wheel. What he really wanted to drive was a Jeep or a big truck of some kind, but Julie insisted that an Acura would look better parked in their driveway. The years of being undermined and cut down by his ex were hard to shrug off, even on vacation.
Jim pulled out of the winding wooded driveway leading back to the state road, still shaken by his encounter with Monica. He wished he could be undisturbed and happy despite the way other people treated him. He wished he could be more assertive, even if it made him look like an ass. That kind of attitude seemed second nature to his housemate. Even if she did make him feel small, no amount of abuse was as bad as the years of regimented verbal and psychological abuse he had allowed at the hands of his ex.
For now, Jim just needed some time to think and something harder than orange juice to drink. As he pulled out onto Route 98, he said a silent prayer that downtown Carrabelle had at least one bar that was open on a Sunday afternoon.
Chapter Seven
Monica was bored. B-O-R-E-D, bored. The idea of lounging and reading by the pool all day seemed like a great idea when she had planned for her week-long vacay. She hadn’t factored in the possibility that she would be sharing her rental home with a complete stranger, and a rude one at that. Relaxing was damn near impossible when she was constantly looking over her shoulder to make sure that she wasn’t being watched or snuck up on.
Jim took off to who knows where after she had yelled at him that day, and at first, she felt pretty proud of herself and smug about it. She tried to call Panhandle Vacation Rentals for the millionth time, left yet another message, and started to feel just a little bit bad for her housemate. Clearly, they had both been duped into renting from a less-than-reputable company and were both stuck in the same mess. Still, Monica was feeling sorry enough for herself and already hurting from being shrugged off from her group of old friends. As she absentmindedly scrolled through her phone by the pool that afternoon, she found out why.
One by one, each of Monica’s old friends had tagged each other in various selfies on social media, arm in arm with shot glasses held high. Hashtags like #vegasbaby, #reunion, and #girlsweek made everything crystal clear as they smiled in the airport, in the back of a limo, and on the Vegas strip. None of them had breathed a word to Monica about going to Las Vegas instead of her beach house rental. They didn’t even bother to block her from seeing what a good time they were having.
Monica pursed her lips together and was surprised as salty tears accumulated at the corner of her eyes. Monica Suarez didn’t cry. And yet, there was something so primal, so… high school about the way she was feeling at that moment that she couldn’t stop herself from becoming upset. She had always suspected deep down that maybe she was unwanted but never really had the cold hard truth until now. The exclusion hurt, and it hurt bad.
Disgusted, Monica hauled herself off of the chaise lounge and dove into the pool, screaming as the chilly chlorinated water pricked at her sunbaked skin. She emerged invigorated and determined once again to make the most of her situation and her vacation. She was finally ready to have a much-deserved drink. A big one with an umbrella and fruit and loads of rum. If she was lucky, she might even get a good-looking local to buy it for her.
With a new plan for the night, Monica showered and slipped into the electric blue bodycon dress she had been saving for such an occasion. It took a while to perfectly dry and diffuse her hair, but the end effect of waterfall coils was worth the effort. After a fresh application of coral lipstick, a readjustment of her false eyelashes, and a manicure touch up, Monica was ready to see what — if any — kind of nightlife this sleepy little coastal town had to offer.
***
Downtown Carrabelle was about a fifteen-minute drive from the rental house down rural Route 98. Monica blared TLC’s “No Scrubs” and Mariah Carey from her “Class of ‘99” Spotify station with the windows down all the way. Even if her high school “friends” had ditched her, she still couldn’t help but reminisce about her teenage glory days.
For Monica, high school had been everything. She was nominated multiple times for homecoming court and prom court, though she was never crowned. The king and queen spots were always reserved for blue-eyed boys named Brad and blonde girls named Tiffany at her suburban Alabama school. The fact that Monica Suarez was accepted in any of their cliques in the first place was a revelation. Still, despite the underlying social injustices she felt now and then, like when she would get dress code violations for her skirt being just as short as the other girls, Monica had the time of her life in high school. Boys ate out of the palm of her hand, her ass was still high and tight, and things seemed carefree and easy. Even though she was proud of the life she had carved out for herself, she often found herself longing for those heady days long ago.
The twisty, tree-lined country road finally gave way to a gas station, then a smattering of homes and diners, and downtown Carrabelle finally came into view. An establishment called The Rusty Hook lit up the night, signaling the only sign of nightlife around. It was little more than an open-air dive bar situated right by the docks, but it would have to do. As Monica drove up to get a better look, she could see why the place was so popular. Lines of shrimp boats were anchored in the inlet next to the parking lot, and country music blared from the outdoor seating area, which emanated plumes of smoke and peals of laughter. At least a dozen browned and sea-weathered shrimp boat men that ranged in age from just old enough to drink to ready for retirement sat at the bar, sipping on Coors and Bud Light while they watched a NASCAR race on the big screen. Monica checked her makeup in the rearview mirror one last time and tossed her hair, ready to see if she could find some action. She threw her shoulders back and confidently strutted towards the bar, but as soon as she sat down, a familiar face came into view that completely harshed her vibe.
