guess…"
"You're stuck with me. All day, every day."
I close my eyes. Didn't I run here to get even further away? From him? From temptation?
"We should go." His voice is suddenly terse and I realize he has misinterpreted my dismay.
He starts walking and I follow. His pace is brisk and I struggle to keep up. How do I explain that while I am dreading spending every day with him, it isn't because I don't like him. But that I'm a fucked up emotional wreck who can barely handle day to day living, and the thought of enjoying his company, especially if it has the potential to be more than platonic, is more than I can handle.
I don't have the words and I sure as hell don't know where to begin.
We stop briefly to chat with Trey's apparent equal at Site J. Charlie may be head of security here, but that's where the similarities end. He's at least ten years Trey's senior, with a shaved head, and almost completely gray goatee. Judging by his broad shoulders and thick chest, he probably sported a pretty nice physique at one time, but now his beer gut extends quite a bit over his belt.
Charlie is an animated man that smiles and laughs a lot, makes huge sweeping gestures, and speaks with a Scottish accent so thick I can't understand a word he says. After Trey makes the introductions, all I can do is smile and nod while I strain my ears to decipher some semblance of English. I may not understand him but I like him. Loud and boisterous, with warm, welcoming body language.
And then whatever conversation we were having is over. Charlie shakes my, then Trey's hand, and walks away.
I'd like to ask Trey what exactly we chatted about, but he continues on at the same brisk pace from earlier, staying a half step ahead of me. At the moment, his body language is neither warm nor welcoming.
He stops at a container with a large seven painted on the side and opens the door. It's so dark I can barely see inside, even when Trey flips on a light.
"Your boudoir."
Oh, now I see the bed.
It's a twin. With a thin, off-white blanket that reminds me of the electric blanket my grandma used as a throw in the winter while she watched hours of soaps and smoked an endless chain of cigarettes.
No dresser, windows that look more like prison slits, a tiny desk with a plastic chair that doubles as a nightstand…I do see a door to what I hope is a bathroom. It's accordion style, and looks like it may have been lifted from an RV.
"Go ahead and put your bag away and freshen up if you need to. I'll wait outside."
The bathroom is about the size of a postage stamp. A tiny shower, vanity, and toilet all crammed into a five-by-five space. I'm suddenly thankful for the thousands of dollars I spent on laser hair removal. No way I'd be able to shave in that shower. Not that I expect anyone to see the bits that need to be shaved, but I still prefer being hair-free.
Although containers roll off the ships at a respectable eight-by-twenty, this one has been divided into two rooms, making my half smaller than most horse stalls. At least I'll be sleeping alone in here.
The water comes out in an even weaker stream than at the compound. It barely dribbles from the faucet as I wash my hands and even stops completely a few times. At least it's scalding hot. That should make showering fun.
What a miserable place.
I head for the door, grabbing the scarf from the bed as I pass. I pause when my fingers touch the delicate cotton. It really is a pretty scarf. The jewel-tone colors are bright, the pattern intricate and lovely. I can't believe Trey went out of his way to get it. To make sure I'm properly prepared.
I slip the fabric over my head. Maybe I need to quit focusing on the negative and start thinking about the positive. I chose to come here. I knew it wasn't going to be a Sandals resort. I didn't use to be such an angry, bitter woman. I really didn't.
I trace the edge of the scarf with my fingers. How do I fix it? How do I let go of the anger that has consumed me for
"You're stuck with me. All day, every day."
I close my eyes. Didn't I run here to get even further away? From him? From temptation?
"We should go." His voice is suddenly terse and I realize he has misinterpreted my dismay.
He starts walking and I follow. His pace is brisk and I struggle to keep up. How do I explain that while I am dreading spending every day with him, it isn't because I don't like him. But that I'm a fucked up emotional wreck who can barely handle day to day living, and the thought of enjoying his company, especially if it has the potential to be more than platonic, is more than I can handle.
I don't have the words and I sure as hell don't know where to begin.
We stop briefly to chat with Trey's apparent equal at Site J. Charlie may be head of security here, but that's where the similarities end. He's at least ten years Trey's senior, with a shaved head, and almost completely gray goatee. Judging by his broad shoulders and thick chest, he probably sported a pretty nice physique at one time, but now his beer gut extends quite a bit over his belt.
Charlie is an animated man that smiles and laughs a lot, makes huge sweeping gestures, and speaks with a Scottish accent so thick I can't understand a word he says. After Trey makes the introductions, all I can do is smile and nod while I strain my ears to decipher some semblance of English. I may not understand him but I like him. Loud and boisterous, with warm, welcoming body language.
And then whatever conversation we were having is over. Charlie shakes my, then Trey's hand, and walks away.
I'd like to ask Trey what exactly we chatted about, but he continues on at the same brisk pace from earlier, staying a half step ahead of me. At the moment, his body language is neither warm nor welcoming.
He stops at a container with a large seven painted on the side and opens the door. It's so dark I can barely see inside, even when Trey flips on a light.
"Your boudoir."
Oh, now I see the bed.
It's a twin. With a thin, off-white blanket that reminds me of the electric blanket my grandma used as a throw in the winter while she watched hours of soaps and smoked an endless chain of cigarettes.
No dresser, windows that look more like prison slits, a tiny desk with a plastic chair that doubles as a nightstand…I do see a door to what I hope is a bathroom. It's accordion style, and looks like it may have been lifted from an RV.
"Go ahead and put your bag away and freshen up if you need to. I'll wait outside."
The bathroom is about the size of a postage stamp. A tiny shower, vanity, and toilet all crammed into a five-by-five space. I'm suddenly thankful for the thousands of dollars I spent on laser hair removal. No way I'd be able to shave in that shower. Not that I expect anyone to see the bits that need to be shaved, but I still prefer being hair-free.
Although containers roll off the ships at a respectable eight-by-twenty, this one has been divided into two rooms, making my half smaller than most horse stalls. At least I'll be sleeping alone in here.
The water comes out in an even weaker stream than at the compound. It barely dribbles from the faucet as I wash my hands and even stops completely a few times. At least it's scalding hot. That should make showering fun.
What a miserable place.
I head for the door, grabbing the scarf from the bed as I pass. I pause when my fingers touch the delicate cotton. It really is a pretty scarf. The jewel-tone colors are bright, the pattern intricate and lovely. I can't believe Trey went out of his way to get it. To make sure I'm properly prepared.
I slip the fabric over my head. Maybe I need to quit focusing on the negative and start thinking about the positive. I chose to come here. I knew it wasn't going to be a Sandals resort. I didn't use to be such an angry, bitter woman. I really didn't.
I trace the edge of the scarf with my fingers. How do I fix it? How do I let go of the anger that has consumed me for
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