Page 2 of Starting Back
“But this was supposed to be our vacation in the Keys, and I left you all alone.” Her words trailed off before the blare of a nose blowing filled the space, a space too big for only one person. “After all those months of planning, I ruined everything.”
“No, you did not.”
I let out a soft breath of frustration. Nicole had planned this trip for us to break me out of the funk I’d been in for the past few months. Divorcing Colin wasn’t all that much different from being married to him, as we were separated long before either of us could admit it, but the finality of it all got to me in a way I didn’t expect.
After months of Nicole trying to convince me a vacation would be the best thing, I agreed and almost looked forward to it until Nicole came down with the flu three days before takeoff. No one in my life could jump on a plane to Florida at that short notice, and while I’d had the foresight to book us flight insurance, we were locked into the resort fees.
Nicole had gotten us a deal on a suite with her travel points, but it was still too much money to lose. Leaving my girls was enough of a stressor, and now I had to figure out what to do for the next four days alone.
“What does the room look like?”
I scooped up the phone and rose from the bed.
“Actually, really nice.” I traipsed into one of the bathrooms, the full soaker tub enticing me much more than the pool I’d passed on the way back from check-in. Well-meaning friends often gifted bath bombs for relaxation, but stuffing myself into my tiny tub at home with my knees almost to my chest didn’t do the trick.
“The bathroom is nice, the tub is huge.” I spotted a terrace attached to one of the bedrooms and peeked out the sliding door. There was an adorable little table framed by two chairs and a gorgeous view of the beach behind the hotel, nothing but palm trees and waves crashing onto the white sand.
“You missed out on a great terrace with a view. I don’t even have to leave the room.”
“But you will,” Nicole tried to yell but was cut off by her hacking cough. “You arenotgoing to be a recluse on this vacation. Don’t make me feel even worse,” she told me through more sniffles.
I sighed and cupped my forehead. I never did anything alone, not even before I married Colin, my now ex-husband, and had two daughters ten years apart. Other than family trips, I never planned any vacation, especially not with just me in mind. As I’d attempted to zone out on the two-and-a-half-hour flight from New York to Florida, I tried to recall a time when I’d planned anything for myself. It was always for the girls, my mother, or whatever everyone else wanted to do.
Nicole had pushed me to go on this trip for just that reason. After years of trying to save a marriage that I could no longer deny was dead in the water, I felt, other than my girls, life had become listless for me. I had no idea how much time I’d wasted on a daily basis trying to keep us together until I stopped.
A vacation where I didn’t have to map out the daily activities or make sure the menu appeased my picky kids seemed like too foreign a notion to even consider. Nicole kept sending links to all the resorts to convince me how great it would be to get away for a few days and just be Kristina, no worries or responsibilities other than what book to read or what cocktail to have next.
It took so long to agree because without my family, who was I? I’d stopped paying attention long enough to forget.
“You don’t have to leave the resort. Meals and drinks are all included. Your only worry should be tan lines.” She chuckled, then lapsed into coughing again. “But youwillleave the room. Just do me a favor. When you meet a guy you want to spend the night with, sneak a picture of his license and send it to me.”
“What?” I screeched at the phone. “I have no intention of doing that, and out of curiosity, why would you need his license?”
“Just for security, in case of anything. And share your phone location with me if he takes you anywhere.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry aboutin case of anything. I am not ready for that yet.”
“Kris, you and Colin separated a year before the divorce.” Her audible sigh made the reminder sting even more. “And weren’t together for a long time before that. Okay, so even if you don’t want to spend the night with someone, a little flirting isn’t bad, right? Chat up a hot lifeguard or sexy bartender.”
“Right,” I said, pushing off the bed with the phone still in my hand as I looked myself over in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door, my flowy, almost see-through cover-up teasing my black bathing suit underneath.
In the last year, when it started to become evident that Colin and I had no future despite how we were trying to force it, I’d thrown myself into exercise. I’d escape to my basement every day at five a.m. and work out until I’d collapse into a ball of sweat, trying in vain to escape the problems I’d have to face once I went back upstairs and started my day.
I still found solace in those thirty minutes every morning, and my one method of self-care granted me toned arms and legs and the shadow of abs across my abdomen. I felt confident enough to pack a real bikini instead of the tank top two-piece swimsuit I’d usually wear to water parks with the kids. I’d been waxed and threaded within an inch of my life in preparation to strut around in this new suit, but with all the much younger, perfect bodies I’d spied by the pool on my way to check in, I doubted I’d be the one to have to ward off all the attention, which was fine by me.
“Go get some rest,” I said, not wanting to address anything Nicole had said about flirting or ponder once again how long my marriage had really been over. “I’m going to lounge by the pool with a piña colada and try to kick-start my vacation.”
“Yes, that’s the spirit! If you do meet any hot lifeguards, sneak a picture. I’ll try to pretend I’m there ogling with you.”
“Sure, Nic.” A chuckle slipped out of me. “Get some rest.”
“Get someaction.”
“Check your temperature, I think you’re hallucinating. No action other than a frosty drink and maybe some fried bar food later. Sleep.”
I ended the call and snatched up my purse. Perhaps I could do this and relax enough that maybe I wouldn’t be so damn tense upon my return. My sweet six-year-old, Emma, crawled into my lap several times a day because I looked “sad enough for a hug.”
Chloe, my fifteen-year-old, hadn’t said anything about the divorce since we’d sat them both down and explained their father would be living in his own apartment permanently, instead of coming and going as he had over the past few years. She never complained, did extra chores without being asked, and even requested that I teach her how to make simple dinners so she could give me a break some nights.
