But it was completely real, right down to the blindsided expression on his freshly sun-kissed face.
And…and he'd called me Sara.
Not Shap, not Shapiro. Not tiny tornado. Sara.
I didn't want that to mean something—I didn't want it to mean anything—because we weren't doing this anymore. We couldn't. I couldn't continue hurting myself this way.
So, I did the only sensible thing and bolted in the direction of my bungalow. Or I hoped it was the right direction. It was dark and I hadn't paid enough attention to that map and then my nemesis-lover appeared like a willpower mirage so there was a solid possibility I was lost in more ways than one.
"Sara," he called, a snap of impatience in his voice. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Walking away," I replied, hanging a decisive left at a fork in the path.
"Well, honey, you're walking in a circle."
He grabbed my elbow and jerked me to face him. I avoided his gaze, instead glancing at the buildings nearby. The asshole was right—I'd traveled in a damn circle, making it all the way back to the lobby and accomplishing nothing.
"Is there something you want?" I asked.
"You could start by telling me what you're doing here." He released my elbow, slid his hand down to my wrist. "End with explaining why you took off like that."
"What am I doing here?" I shook my wrist free from his grip. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm on a fucking vacation," he thundered. "And you're supposed to be at a fucking plastics conference."
I stared at him for a second before blinking away. "I am. I am at a conference, it's just not here," I said, suddenly hit with all the exhaustion of this week. "The conference is at another resort. On the other side of the island."
"How the hell did this happen?" He stared at me, clearly struggling to accept that we ended up on the same Caribbean island without trying. I was paddling the same boat. "How did I not know your conference was in Jamaica?"
"We don't have much experience with asking each other questions. We don't talk, okay? We fight about nothing and have angry sex and say mean things instead of doing anything normal or healthy or professional."
He opened his mouth, an argument at the ready, but stopped himself before saying anything. Then, "Why?"
"Why, what?"
He glanced to the side, taking a minute to stare at the tropical plants lining the path. "Why don't we talk?"
"Because we hate each other," I said.
"Is that what this is?" When I didn't respond, he said, "So, you're here."
I bobbed my head. "Yes."
"For the week."
I waved at my luggage. "Just a few days."
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his shorts and stared at me like he was searching for something. Like he'd lost something and if he just looked hard enough, he'd find it. Eventually, he growled, "Sara…"
"Why are you calling me that?" I snapped, my exhaustion quickly replaced with a crackling frustration that was primed to explode. "Why am I Sara here, but back home I'm Shap, I'm Shapiro, I'm the evil silicone wench."
"I have never called you an evil silicone wench," he said, slicing both hands through the air. "Never."
"Maybe not to my face." I scowled at him. A good, snarly scowl. See how he liked it. "You've thought it."
He snatched the hotel paperwork from my hand and leafed through it as he shook his head. "You're going the wrong way. Come on."
I stared after Sebastian—when had he become Sebastian to me? How had that happened?—as he took off in the opposite direction. I looked around, noticing for the first time the beach just beyond the path. It was completely empty and awash in moonlight, and I wanted to plop down there and be blissfully alone. I didn't want to fight with him every day and I didn't want to live with this kind of constant upheaval. It felt too much like the drama I'd grown up with, like my parents and their chaos. I wanted Sebastian to go back to his room and his vacation and his whole damn life. I wanted him to leave me alone.
I wanted those things. I truly did and I believed it as devoutly as I believed in gravity and karma and antibiotics.
Yet I followed Sebastian to my bungalow.
I allowed him to open the door and show himself inside, glance back at me with a frown like are you waiting for a fucking invitation, get in here, and then return outside to snatch the suitcase away from me. I let him press his hand to the small of my back where I was sweat damp and so very painfully imperfect, and I let him guide me into the bungalow. I watched while he carried my luggage into the bedroom—why use the wheels when you had arms like that?—and I nodded in agreement when he announced he was taking the bag from my shoulder too.
I didn't stop him because I didn't want him to stop, and more than that, I didn't want him to leave. That was so much worse than my baseline frustrations with this man. I hated him for bringing all these contradictory emotions to my life and I hated myself for letting those emotions make room for themselves and stay.
"Why are you doing this to me?" I suddenly snapped into action, marching toward the kitchen. For no apparent reason, I needed to open every drawer and cabinet, peer into the refrigerator, turn the tap on and off, touch every dish towel, and examine every random object I encountered. All while shouting, "Why? Just tell me why."
Instead of answering me, Sebastian trailed behind me at a leisurely pace, shutting the drawers all the way, refolding the towels, straightening all those random objects. "What am I doing to you?"
"This," I cried, stopping in the center of the living room, my arms thrown out wide. "You're doing this and it's driving me crazy. Do you understand that?"
He stood behind a creamy white sofa, his hands curled around the back. "What have I done to you? Explain it to me. I'd really like to hear that."
"Don't do that," I warned. "Don't pretend that I'm the one who can't handle this when you're the one doing it to me. My entire life is out of control when you're around. It's like the only thing in the world I can do is yell at you or rip your clothes off, and I want it to stop. I need it to stop. Every week, I promise myself it's not going to happen again, I'm not going to do this with you anymore, but then"—I dropped my arms, shook my head—"it's like I'm someone else. Because this isn't me! I don't go around screaming at people and having sex every week and—"
"It's the frequency? That's the real problem? You should've said something sooner."
I grabbed a pillow from the sofa and lobbed it at his head. "Shut up when I'm talking to you!"
He fetched the pillow from where it landed and returned it to the sofa before pacing toward me. "If you're trying to make the case that you're not a psychotic little screech owl, you're going to need to stop saying illogical shit like that."
"This isn't me," I whispered, heat gathering behind my eyes and emotion tightening my throat. I wasn't going to cry. Not happening. Not here, not now. Not in front of him. "I can't be this person anymore. I feel like I am coming apart at the seams, like I'm crumbling, and I can't do it anymore."