Page 4 of Secret Offer
“Now you’re talking,” Brooke says, her mud-masked face lighting up with a grin.
I love Brooke like she’s family. We’ve been friends forever, roommates since our first semester of college, and after four years of working our asses off, we’re spending a whole week on our own at an all-inclusive resort to celebrate our hard-earned BS degrees in Business, Technology, and Entrepreneurship. But as much as I love her spontaneity and fun-loving nature, I’m also of the mindset that it’s time to get focused and start acting like the badass, take-charge women we’ve been molding ourselves into. Brooke is chasing her own dreams, too. She’s already accepted a job offer from a major fashion merchandiser with a mid-six-figure salary attached. Soon enough, that whole company is going to be eating out of her hand. Just you watch.
Forty minutes later, I’m admiring the polish on my nails as I rest my hands under the dryer.
“Cute red,” Brooke says, nodding with approval. “It’s like a cross between fire engine and cherry. Very va-voom.”
It’s not my usual choice—I prefer classic French tips—but today I felt like picking a strong color. I’m a woman of the world now, soon to step fully into my power, and I’m ready to be seen that way. By everyone, of course, but most especially by my parents. They arrive in a few days, and I’m hoping my dad will finally be amenable to discussing my next steps with the family business.
Originally, the plan was for me to fly to the island with Mom and Dad so we could spend seven days at some super high-end private resort that you have to be a member to even book in the first place. Which is the kind of graduation gift anyone would be grateful for, yes, but it wasn’t quite what I had in mind. I’m sure the other members are all my parents’ age, and they probably do nothing but talk about their investments and play golf.
However.
Before I accepted my parents’ gift—which honestly sounded like it might be more of a vacation for them than for me—I negotiated an additional week beforehand, just for me and Brooke, at a nearby and much more famous resort on the island, Espadrilles. It was step one of my journey toward claiming my own personal power, and it took some convincing, but Mom and Dad finally agreed to my demands.
Which, thank God. So far, I’ve had a blast just doing touristy things and spending some R&R time with Brooke. Our first day here, we rode the minibus around town, drank countless Mai Tais, and danced in the street while local musicians worked the crowd into a frenzy. The next day, we joined one of Espadrilles’ day trips so we could go swimming with dolphins. Then today, we had an early breakfast and went snorkeling at sunrise, before too many people showed up and scared the fish away. I’m notsure what’s on the agenda for tonight, but I just know it’s going to be amazing.
And the best part? Without my parents’ watchful eyes on me, I can enjoy myself fully, do whatever I want, party all I want. This pre-vacation with Brooke is a wholly judgment-free zone. Once Mom and Dad get here, I’ll have to be on my best, most responsible, most adult behavior.
Now that Brooke and I are properly seaweeded, mud masked, exfoliated, and polished, we discard our spa robes and head for the showers. Brooke always takes a few extra minutes to perfect her hair and makeup, so I’m already dressed and scrolling on my phone in the lobby when she runs up to me with her robe and spa slippers back on.
I do a double take. “Hey. Aren’t we heading out for lunch?”
Her voice drops conspiratorially low. “Actually, it turns out that the superhot masseuse just had a last-minute cancellation, so Imayhave booked myself into that time slot. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Would this just so happen to be the same superhot masseuse you were flirting with at the pool bar last night?” I tease.
“As a matter of fact, it is. Are you cool to find lunch on your own?”
“Definitely. Take all the time you need. I won’t wait up.”
“You’re the best!” she squeals, her cheeks flushing. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Maybe we can try that sushi boat place for dinner or something? I’ll text you later.” She darts away and all I can do is smile in her wake.
My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since 7 a.m. As I wander outside into the bright sunshine, I consider where to eat solo. There is no lack of options on this island, from the five different restaurants inside this resort to the myriad of oceanside bars, cafés, and restaurants lining the beach. I decideto just start walking toward the beaches and see where my feet take me.
The sand is hot, but the air is cool, there’s not a cloud in the perfect blue sky, and the salty breeze blows my sundress around my knees. I’m grateful for the floppy woven hat that Brooke made me buy at one of the boutiques yesterday, because my sunglasses are back in our hotel room. The scent of sunscreen mixes with the smell of fried seafood and Accra fritters, and fresh sliced mango and coconut. All the vendors I pass shout exuberantly about their edible wares. I feel like I’ve stepped right into a postcard. God, Sophie would have loved it here. The beach was always my older sister’s favorite place to be.
As I weave through the crowd, overwhelmed by all my culinary choices, I see one person after another walking by with huge bowls of fresh conch salad—pronounced ‘conk,’ of course—a local Bahamian specialty. When I stop a couple to ask them where they got their food, they point me in the direction of a small corner restaurant with a bright blue awning, swearing the place serves the best conch on the island. That decides it for me; I’ve got to have it. Mouth watering, I get in line at the restaurant’s to-go window, because the place is so packed that the wait for a table is almost an hour.
When I finally get my salad, fragrant with lime juice and peppers and cilantro, I can’t believe how big the portion is. It’s heavy in my hands and has two forks stuck in it. Oh well. I can eat for two.
I smile as I wander back onto the sand in search of the perfect picnic spot, past families sprawled on towels and parents chasing children in neon bathing suits, still other kids running around screaming and playing and kicking the sand. So much for R&R. Farther down the beach, I see a less populated stretch, and just beyond that there’s a rocky cove that’s practically deserted. Jackpot.
Making my way toward the cove, I pass more families, and couples who are clearly here on romantic vacations. Some frolic in the water together, some rub each other down with suntan lotion, others just kiss under the shade of their tasseled beach umbrellas. I’m not jealous, but maybe a little wistful. It would be nice to have someone to hold hands with on this beach, someone to nestle against after an exhilarating ocean swim when both of us are properly sunbaked and bone tired.
Sure, I dated in college, but those were just casual flings. My coursework kept me so busy that I didn’t have time to engage in anything more serious, or at least that’s what I told myself. Honestly, I probably would have been open to a real commitment if I had actually met the right person, but I never really fell for anybody. Dating in business school tends to be kind of…business-y. There’s lots of flirting and lots of hookups, but it’s basically transactional. You meet, you get a drink, you maybe fuck, and then you possibly exchange numbers in case you want to do it again sometime. That’s about it. Anyone who wants to be in a serious relationship usually already is. In my experience, the single guys were way more interested in finding a shiny trophy than an actual partner.
Brooke, on the other hand, had no problem being a trophy girlfriend. Probably because she was just as proud to have her own trophy to show off. She was constantly getting involved in these epic, fiery entanglements with all the hottest guys in our program, which lasted anywhere from a few weeks to a few months at a time, and I’ve lost count of how many times she’s told me that she’s definitely met The One. But I kind of love that for her, and I don’t mind living vicariously through her torrid affairs. One of us has to be having lots of hot, gossip-worthy sex, right?
Meanwhile, my parents made no secret of the fact that they hoped I’d find a good match in business school—that’s wherethey met, after all, at Harvard. The two of them were convinced I’d come home for Thanksgiving break one year with a winner. A man with the potential to be as successful and wealthy as me, and intelligent enough to keep up as well.
Boy were they disappointed when I didn’t bring home a single prospect. Honestly, I never understood why my parents were so invested in my relationship status, or lack thereof. Getting married and starting a family isn’t even on my radar yet, but Mom loves to frequently remind me how fast the years go by and how I don’t want to wake up single and childless at forty, when all the good men will be taken, and it’ll be too late to freeze my eggs. Just what I want to think about when I’m barely twenty-two.
Luckily, Dad isn’t as high-strung about the whole thing as Mom is. He knows I’m eager to work for the team and make my own way in the world. He’s the one who encouraged that ambition, actually. Never once has he dissuaded me from it.
Mom has been more dismissive when I talk about my career dreams, but I think it’s just because she still sees me as a younger version of herself; the kind of woman who has the brains and the drive to be successful but then realizes she’s simply happier letting her husband take the reins—and all the responsibility that goes along with it—while she plays a supporting role instead. There’s nothing wrong with that path, either. It’s just not who I am. Not that I want to be alone forever, either.
Shaking my head, I realize that Brooke is right. I need to get out of my own head. Here I am, on one of the most beautiful beaches in the world, and I’m getting all broody about nothing. I should be enjoying the beauty all around me. Living in the now. I just need to find a nice, shady palm tree to stretch out under. Maybe sneak a peek at the socials of a few up-and-coming outfielders I’ve been following.
