Burning the Map (22 page)

“I know. That's what I mean. It's just been such a long time….” I trail off, realizing how lame my excuse is. It's noteven an excuse, really. “And you need your sleep,” I add.

“I need
you,
” he says with conviction.

I give him a weak smile. I can't fight the feeling that if I have sex with John, I'll misplace the self-contentedness I've recently found and I'll slip back to my old ways. I consider going through the motions and fantasizing about Francesco, but that would be cheating on John more than I already have.

“In the morning.” I take a step back and my legs bang into the wood frame of the bed. “Ouch,” I say, bending down to rub the spot. “It will be better when we both get some sleep.”

“How will it be better?” His eyes flash with anger. “What's with you?”

“Nothing. I'm exhausted, and I'm still surprised you're
here. Just give me a little time, all right?” I move away from him, unable to look at his face for fear he'll read my mind and understand my reluctance. Neither of us says anything for a while. A heavy silence hangs in the air as I walk into the bathroom and begin to wash my face.

After a minute, John comes up behind me in the mirror, putting his hands lightly on my hips. I meet his gaze in the glass, and I'm struck by the disparity I see there. My too-blond hair, bleached by the sun, and the golden tan of my face seem a sharp contrast to the pale of John's skin, the washed-out green of his eyes. We don't look like a couple, I think. We don't look anything like two people who've spent two years together.

“Are we okay?” he asks quietly.

Tell him,
I think.
Tell him. Get it off your chest.
Jenny's words ring in my head.
“You just know.”
But I don't know anything, and besides, I don't have to decide right now. This is no place to tell him I've betrayed him, no place to have a discussion about our future. We have years to make these decisions if we want.

“Casey,” John says, his eyes pleading with me.

“Yeah. We're okay.”

His eyes are still concerned, but he gives a grudging nod.

A few minutes later, when I'm curled in the crook of his arm, I'm amazed to find how safe he makes me feel. The soft, familiar skin of his chest, his just-scrubbed-clean scent—it's like a haven. I banish the questions about him, about us, to some far corner of my brain, and I will myself to sleep.

I
n the morning, John sleeps soundly, not surprising after an international flight. I try to move as little as possible, though, and practically hold my breath. I'm still not ready to have sex with him. At about 10:30, Kat pounds on the door. I know it's her because I hear the clatter of junk spilling on the tile floor and her voice whispering an obscenity.

When I open the door, she's stooping down, collecting sunscreen and sunglasses and ponytail holders. She has on low-slung shorts, a minuscule aqua bikini top and a towel over one shoulder.

“We gotta get Johnny some sun,” she says, standing and shoving a magazine in her bag.

I smile at her, appreciating the attempt to include John.

I've escaped the sex issue again, and within thirty minutes, the four of us are on the packed bus heading to Paradise Beach.

John gazes out the window as the bus twists through the narrow, dusty streets, passing locals leading donkeys or zipping around dangerously on scooters.

“This is great,” he says, turning on the ripped leather seat to look at me.

“Isn't it?” I nod, pleased that he's happy.

“John, look,” Sin calls from the seat in front of us. She points to the immense stretch of beach and water playing out below us as the bus clears the hill and begins its trek down to the other side of the island. I love her for those two simple words.

Once we're at the beach, John watches warily as Kat and Lindsey reach behind themselves and unfasten their bikinis. As their tops are flung off, his eyes dart to my face, his eyes a little big. I try not to laugh at his stunned expression. I decide to leave my top on today to ease his discomfort. It seems the least I can do.

Kat and Lindsey commence public breast rubbing with sunscreen, and like a chameleon, John's pasty face turns deep crimson.

“Are they going to be like this all day?” he asks, leaning over to me and whispering.

“Like what?”

He scoffs. “You know what I'm talking about.”

“Probably. Look around you, John. Most of the women here are topless.”

“But I
know
them,” he says before he flops back on his towel, his face turned firmly away from Kat and Lindsey.

John stays supine for no more than fifteen minutes before he trots off to the bar for iced teas. When he returns, he applies and reapplies sunscreen, then asks if anyone needs anything else to eat or drink. Kat requests a Diet Coke, and I ask for a piece of fruit. I watch him as he walks across the sand again, his white legs stepping through the labyrinth of bodies with determination. Normally, I would love him waiting on me like this, but it irks me now. I realize that he has no relaxation skills. They seemed to have trickled out of his head and body as he worked harder and harder, climbing
more furiously up the partnership ladder. He might spend two hours on Sunday morning reading the paper, and he'll have beers with his buddies once every week or so, but that's it. He just can't seem to take it easy anymore.

When he comes back the second time, John sits, his body turned purposefully away from Kat and Sin, and begins brushing each speck of sand off his sandals with fastidious flicks of his hands.

“Want to take a walk?” I ask. Although I probably should be forcing him to keep his body still for half a second, I can tell by his shifting eyes and pursing mouth that he's antsy to the point of bursting. When you've been with someone day and night for two years, it's nearly impossible to hide a mood, and I'm creating an activity for him the same way you would a toddler.

John jumps at the opportunity, practically leaping from his towel.

We stroll at the water's edge so that our feet get splashed by a wave every few seconds. I don't attempt to fill the conversational void between us with tidbits or ramblings as I normally would. Perhaps sensing something, John stops and pulls me into a crushing hug.

“I love you,” he says, for what must be the fiftieth time in two days.

I nod, smiling slightly. “Me, too.” That much I know for sure.

He stands, squinting through the sun and into my eyes. “But…” he says, as if providing me the opportunity to disclose something unsaid. He hasn't been this perceptive lately, yet there are too many things unsaid already. I wouldn't know where to start.

“But what?” Lame, I know, yet nothing else comes to mind, and for once, I want John to do the work.

“Look,” he says finally. “I'm not an idiot. I know something's wrong.”

I pause. “It's not that anything's wrong exactly,” I say at last. I'm terrified of this conversation and yet excited that we might have a meaningful exchange. “It's just that things are different now.”

“Like what?” he asks, his brow furrowed. “What's different?”

“Lots of things.” I pause again, wondering how to begin. How to tell him that I'm a different person than I was when I left Chicago a few weeks ago. “For one thing, I'm close with Kat and Lindsey again, and I won't give that up.”

“I wouldn't want you to.” He loosens his grip from around my waist, taking a slight step back as if affronted.

“I know you wouldn't.” To his credit, John has never once tried to keep me away from my friends. I did that all by myself.

John nods and rubs my forearm a little. “Is that it?”

“No. For another thing, my parents are divorcing, and I don't know yet how that'll affect me, but I'll need you to support me.”

“Of course.” Then a startled expression crosses his face. “Wait a minute. When did you find this out?”

“Last week. I called home and my mom told me.”

“God, I'm so sorry, babe.” He gives me another hug.

“Thanks,” I say, loving the comfort. I snivel a little. “My dad's not even living at home anymore. I tried to call him at work, but he wasn't there. I think he might be having an affair.”

John leans back, his eyes wide, his mouth open a little. “No. Don't even think it, not until you know for sure.” He runs a hand through my hair, cupping my face.

I plunge on, thrilled by his response. “I knew there were problems, you know, but to actually split? It doesn't seem real. Everything's changing and…I'm scared.”

“Of course you are. Of course.” He pats my back, and I
let a few tears sneak out. It's so good to be standing with him like this.

I suddenly know for certain that I want to give it a shot with him, and in order to do that I have to be honest. I have to put Princess Denial in the dungeon.

“I have to tell you something else,” I say, turning my head to the side, resting it on his chest so I don't have to look him in the face. Instead, I see the sapphire water and a few Jet Skiers, a calm seascape compared to the warring emotions in my head.

“What is it?”

“I—I…” I stutter to a stop. How do you tell someone something like this? “I was with someone else.”

“What?” He shoves me away from him, anger making his face spot with red.

I stumble back a foot or two, holding up a hand as if I can stop the progression of his thoughts. “Listen to me. I didn't sleep with anyone.”

“What does
that
mean?”

I move with cautious footsteps closer to him, giving him an abbreviated version of my night with Francesco, keeping the specifics and the details out of it. But John keeps backing away from me, shaking his head and running his hands through his hair.

“And that was it?” he says, his eyes moving all over, from me to the water to the sand and back again. “Just that one night?”

“Yes. I saw him the next day, but we didn't do anything.” I think about Francesco kissing me outside the hotel when he dropped me off for the last time. “Not really.”

“And then
that
was it, though, right?”

“Well…”

“Well, what?” He cuts me off.

“I kissed someone in Ios, too.” It sounds so horrible to my
own ears, so freakishly, soap-opera-y horrible. “It was a peck. Nothing else. And that's it, I swear.”

“Jesus, Casey, I can't fucking believe you.” For a moment I think he's going to cry—something I've never seen him do. His pale green eyes well up.

“I know. I'm sorry I hurt you.” I try to touch him, but he yanks away, batting at his eyes with the back of his hand.

Then he goes still, his eyes narrowing, and I know he's picked up on something, those attack-dog lawyer skills homing in on some off-kilter detail. I review my words. There's nothing, I think, nothing. Because I've finally been honest.

“You're sorry you hurt me?” he says, repeating my words.

“Yes, of course.”

He nods, as if he gets it now. “But you're not sorry it happened, are you?”

I stand mute. I can't lie to him. Not now.

“I'm right, aren't I? You're not sorry it happened,” he says, still nodding.

“Only because it…I don't know.” I rub a hand over my eyes. “Because it made me feel like I used to, but I am so, so, so sorry. I want to make it up to you. I want us to try to make things better between us.”

“I
am
trying, Casey. I flew here to be with you. I'm trying to make sense of this new you.” He spits out the last two words. “I'm trying to talk to you. I'm trying…” He trails off, his last words lingering in the air.

I glance down at my bare feet, unable to find any words that will comfort him. When I look up, his eyes are raw, his lips and jaw making small tense movements.

After another painful, quiet moment, he turns and stalks away.

 

“What happened?” Kat says when I make my way back to the towels a few minutes later. “John just grabbed his stuff and left.”

She and Sin are sitting up, their faces worried. They've even put their tops on.

“It's such a mess,” I say, drooping onto the sand, rubbing at my forehead. “Why did he have to come here? It's forcing everything to a head, and I didn't want to deal with this yet.” My voice comes out like a wail.

“What do you mean, forcing it?” Sin says. She and Kat draw closer.

“I told him. I had to.”

“About Francesco?” Kat says.

I nod, rubbing harder at my head, as if I can erase the scene.

“And Billy?”

I nod again.

“Shit,” I hear Sin say. “How'd he take it?”

“Obviously not well!” My voice rises, and Sin reaches forward, patting me on the back. “I think I really hurt him, you guys. It killed me.”

“What are you going to do?” Kat asks.

“I have to find him.”

 

John isn't waiting in the room as I expected. I set off, walking the village streets in my bathing suit and sarong, my flip-flops making slapping sounds with each step. The place is quiet, since most people are at the beach, which makes my search a little easier, but I don't see him anywhere. I look in each taverna, expecting to find him getting quietly blotto. I look in the stores, in the cafés. I even stop people who look like they might speak English, asking them if they've seen a nice pale boy with light brown hair and washed-out green eyes. No one gives me any clues.

Finally, after wandering for hours like a lost mutt, I decide to take one more look at the bars by the pier. If he's not there, I'll wait in the room. He has to come back for his clothes eventually. He'll never leave without his best blue pants.

As I turn the corner onto the street that leads to the docks,
I see him, head down, walking quickly. After a few seconds, he raises his eyes and spots me. I search his face for some hint as to his mood, his thoughts, but he gives nothing away. When he reaches me, he wordlessly takes my hand, leading me to the pier where we'd talked last night. We sit side by side again, legs dangling over the water. John raises a hand and brushes a lock of hair from my eyes. He opens his mouth as if to say something, and then, as if thinking better of it, closes it with a short shake of his head.

He turns his whole body to face me, fumbling in his pocket. He pulls something out, but it's hidden in his hands. He brushes it lightly like he's dusting it off, and I see that it's a small, blue velvet box.

He opens it. At the same time, he opens his mouth and says simply, “Marry me.”