Love in All the Right Places (Chick Lit bundle) (21 page)

Chapter 11: Season Break

After riding a plane, a motorboat, and a van, Bea and I finally arrived at our Asian-themed resort. The weather was just the right kind of sunny. As I sipped my welcome drink, I watched the tourists parade in different versions of summer wear—bikinis, wifebeaters, Daisy Dukes, and colorful sundresses.

After entering our rooms, I dove into the cool linen and buried my face in the soft pillows.

“You’ve got to be kidding!” Bea moaned. “Look, I let you sleep the whole time in the plane because I knew you were tired from overtime.” She put down her luggage. “Now the first thing you want to do is sleep?
Again
?”

I held up a palm, my voice muffled. “Five minutes.”

I felt my left arm being wrenched from its socket.

“NO,” Bea said firmly. “
We
are going to change into our beachwear, slap on some sunscreen, and have our late lunch. Then we’re hitting the beach. That’s where you can sleep while I attend to my tan.”

I dug my heels and protested, but in the end, I caved in. It was probably just as well. If she hadn’t dragged me off, I would’ve probably slept in the whole day.

We felt like pigging out a little on our first official Boracay meal, so we marched to the
talipapa
and ordered fresh crabs. When the sun mellowed, we walked to the shore, spread out our sarongs, and settled on them.

As I peeled off my sundress, Bea let out a wolf whistle. “Wow, don’t look now, but
someone
has got her sexy back.”

I crossed my arms in front of my chest. It had been years since I last wore a bikini. “I still have a bit of tummy flab,” I said, sucking in my gut. “And my hips could use some trimming.”

“You’ve always had a curvy body,” Bea declared loyally. “You look great.”

I brought out my phone and checked my messages. “Relax,” Bea teased. “Vince has been waiting for you his whole life. I think he can wait a few more days before you guys can finally”—she raised her eyebrows suggestively—“do
ze
deed.”

“Bei!” I mock-slapped her with my bag.

After baking in the sun, we hit the ocean. The great thing about this beach was that you could swim several feet from the shore without hitting deep water.

The beach was a hub of activity. There were people flying kites, playing volleyball, and riding banana boats and jetskis. And I was right there, engulfed in all that summer madness. I
loved
it.  It was definitely a big change from staying on the sidelines—more accurately, behind the camera—documenting the action from a detached point of view.

The sun started to set in the horizon—a perfect egg yolk dripping honey glow on us all. I couldn’t help but gasp because it was just so postcard perfect.

* * * *

Breathe, I told myself.
Just breathe.

I focused on the rise and fall of my tummy—something that was supposed to slow down my heartbeat—at least that’s what the teacher said during that one yoga class I had taken years ago.  Right now my heart was beating so fast I was pretty sure that the dude adjusting my harness could hear it.

“You can do it, Crissygirl!” Bea yelled from her seat in the boat. She had just finished her turn, and her cheeks were glowing. My best friend Bea. That traitor Bea.

Sure it was
my
idea. Blame it on the countless travel shows I had watched, where they featured excited tourists with huge parachutes mushrooming above their heads, feet dangling in the air, euphoric faces whipped by the wind. After the ride, they would all say the same thing—that it was the closest one could get to flying, to feeling free.

So on our second day in Bora, I told Bea, we
must
go parasailing. And immediately she agreed.

Bea had acted the same way as the parasailers on TV, whooping exultantly in the air while I took photos from below. After fifteen minutes, she gradually went down—the picture of health. Her eyes were shining, and she was grinning from ear to ear.

Now it was my turn, and my insides felt like they had morphed into sludge. I wanted to scream at the harness guy: I’ve changed my mind! Get me out of here!

But before I could turn my thoughts into actual words, he let go of me; and the billowing parachute sucked me out of the boat, lifting me higher and higher until Bea below became a tiny dot.

Don’t look down! Again I focused on breathing slowly. The choriburger we had for lunch was threatening to heave up my throat. Only the embarrassing thought of vomiting from hundreds of feet up in the air kept me calm. 

It felt like an eternity when I finally felt myself being pulled down. As I got closer to the boat, I faked a big smile.

Bea frowned. “Are you okay? You look pale.”

“I’m fine,” I said, willing my chin to stop quivering.

But the harness dude wasn’t fooled. He opened a small bottle of ammonia, which I sniffed gratefully. For the rest of the ride back to shore, I closed my eyes and drifted off.

When we finally reached solid ground, I felt a lot better, so we marched to our favorite snack stand to celebrate with choco-banana milk shakes. The sweet goodness slid down my parched throat, making the horror of vertigo seem like a distant memory.

I whisked out my phone and texted Vince about my latest adventure.

“Well,” Bea said, grinning, “no regrets, right?”

“Right!” I slammed my fist onto the table. “At least now I can cross parasailing off my bucket list. And I’m never going to do it again!”

My phone trilled Vince’s reply.

Let’s do tandem parasailing when we go there together. I miss you.

“Never say never,” Bea quipped. I looked up to see her gazing at the distance.

“Hey.” I nudged her hand with my phone. “You never updated me about you and Mark. Have you guys talked?”

“Oh yes.” Bea turned to me, the rims of her shades glinting. “And we haven’t been talking for a week.”

“What? What happened?

“Well, on our last date, I couldn’t take it anymore. So I asked him point-blank if we were getting married anytime soon.”

I nodded for her to go on.

“And he just . . . sort of froze. Then he said he would propose when he feels ready. And so I told him, what about me? I’m ready. Don’t I count? After that, he clammed up. When he dropped me off, I asked for a cool-off.”

“Oh, Bea.” I touched her arm. “You guys should talk it out more.”

“I know.” She sighed. “But maybe I should have just kept my mouth shut. Did I need to tell him how I really felt? Was it worth risking everything?”

“Yes,” I said firmly, “especially if you’re thinking of spending the rest of your life with him.”

Bea said nothing.

“Hey.” I raised my glass. “Here’s to taking risks. No regrets, right?”

Bea clinked my glass, blowing out her cheeks. “Still working on it.”

* * * *

If Bea and I had one thing in common, it would be our coping style. Bea dealt with grief the same way I did—by keeping herself busy. She was on go-go-go mode, filling every minute with activity.

She booked a whole day’s worth of island hopping and snorkeling. But toward the end of the tour, we decided to ditch the last two islands because we had already tired ourselves silly. 

When we got to the shore, we laid out our sarongs under the shade and napped the day away.  After that, we agreed that beach bumming was much more fun.

I received another text message.

How are you? Can’t wait for my pasalubong
.☺
See you when you get back.

I had already bought souvenirs for family and officemates, but I couldn’t find anything that I thought Vince would like. I decided to trust serendipity to work its last-minute magic—maybe at the airport?

“Wh
y the frown?” Bea teased. “Because it’s our last day in Bora, or is it because you miss Vince Charming?”

The four blissful days had flown, but honestly, I was looking forward to going home.

I changed the subject. “We should celebrate our last night here. Let’s go someplace fancy.”

So that night, we trooped to a swanky Italian restaurant, sunkissed, smelling of the sea, and unabashedly “Bora-fied.” Bea was barebacked to show off her henna tattoo (a tribal-inspired bird with its wings spread out), while I had my hair done in thin, tight cornrows. My scalp was itching like hell, but hey, I wanted to rock the island girl look.

We ordered their famous oven-brick-fired pizza, and ravioli just because it sounded more sophisticated than spaghetti. Over red wine, we did our usual tradition—the Q & A portion that Bea always initiated on the last day of every trip.

“So what have you learned about yourself from this trip?”

I paused, seriously considering my answer. “That I need to be good to myself more, that sometimes I have to step back to get the bigger picture. I think now I know better about what I want in life.”

“Like?”

“Like I want to have more ‘me’ time, to pay more attention to my passions, to spend time with people who care about me and whom I genuinely care about,” I said. “And you?”

“Hmm . . . that I’ll be okay whatever happens between me and Mark.”

Across the table, we smiled at each other.

Finally we decided to call it a night; we needed to pack our things for our early morning flight the next day. 

I pushed open the glass doors at the same time someone was pulling it open. The guy stepped aside to let us pass. I raised my head to smile my thanks.

“Crissy?!” he said in disbelief.

I met liquid eyes so familiar that they walloped me back into the past. Eyes that I had looked into so many times, so many moons ago.

“Benj!”

Chapter 12: Plot Twist

What in the world was Benj doing here? Time stood still as I stared at him, my world reduced to this one person standing before me. I pored over his features as if my life, or at least my sanity, at that very moment depended on them.

Was this Benj? Yes, those were the same brown eyes that pulled you into their depths, crinkling at the corners, framed by somewhat bushy eyebrows. The same nose that slightly wrinkled when he smiled broadly. The same dimple on that lower left chin that looked like someone had playfully poked it with a finger when he was just a doughy little baby. Is that really you, Benj?

Before I could ask the question aloud, he had swept me into a tight bear hug, obliterating all my doubts. From the top of my tight braids down to the soles of my sand-peppered feet, I was awash with a tingling of the electric-shock variety—like someone had swiftly woken me up from a deep sleep.

“How are you?” He asked me the question I had longed to hear five years ago when my cellphone rang U2’s “The Sweetest Thing” (our theme song) for the last time. Instead, at that time, he had launched into a monologue, outlining the many reasons why it was best for us to part ways. 

He didn’t wait for my reply. “Wow, you look great!”

I probably mumbled something unintelligible. I couldn’t remember. Then I blurted, “Benj, what are you doing
here
?”

In the course of our conversation, we had somehow maneuvered ourselves outside the restaurant, out of the way of entering and exiting clients. My half-functioning brain understood this much:

1. He was on a month-long vacation.

2. He had been in the country for two weeks and had so far visited Palawan, and now Boracay.

3. He had brought along his coworker Duffy, who wanted to soak in the tropical sunshine, and (insert evil grin here) meet the local ladies as well.

At this point, a towering burly guy with blonde hair was smiling and leaning toward me.  Dazedly I took his outstretched hand, while I heard Benj exclaim, “
Whoa!
Is that you, Bea? How are you?”

I turned my head to see Benj hugging Bea. My best friend had a stony look on her face, arms glued to her sides.

“Benj,” she muttered, “what a surprise.”

Benj stepped back and looked at me, seemingly oblivious to the cold reception. “Still partners in crime, eh?” At the word
crime
, my head had jerked up. It was a crime for him to still have this effect on me.

“So how long have you guys been in Bora?”

Bea answered coolly, “We leave tomorrow morning.”

“So soon?” Benj’s face fell, and suddenly I felt sorry for him, transporting me back to the days when I constantly bent over backward to make everything better for him. 

Then he quickly recovered. He always did. “Then we should
definitely
meet for drinks later!”

* * * *

In the restroom, I was looking at myself but not really seeing myself. The girl who stared back at me from the mirror had a tiny crease on her forehead, just as dubious if she was indeed her own self.

This stranger had the wild-eyed look of someone who was about to take an exam she had not studied for. I shook my head, willing my two selves to merge, to literally put myself together.

“So . . .” I adjusted my tube top and turned to Bea, who was watching me. “Do you think we should go to a club, or just a bar?”

Slowly Bea lifted her eyes to meet mine. “Crissygirl, do you think this is a good idea?”

Nervously I ran my fingers through my hair, which had turned wavy from the braids I had just dismantled. Suddenly the reggae look had lost its appeal.

“Of course. We’re both adults. What’s past is past.” I turned back to the mirror, watching my glossy lips move. “I want him to see how well I’ve been doing without him.”

I caught Bea’s relieved reflection in the mirror’s edge. “That’s good, because I thought . . . I mean, if you were thinking of actually . . .” She shrugged her shoulders. “Just don’t forget that he was a jerk. Think about the time when you were crying yourself to sleep, when you offered to turn your back on your life here to follow him to the States, and he turned you down flat. And if all else fails, think about the time when you fell asleep in a cab because you were totally plastered and couldn’t be woken up, so the nice cab driver took you to the nearest police station, and you spent the night there while we worried sick about you,” she finished breathlessly.

Okay, so that last bit was something I had always wanted to erase from memory. After drowning my breakup sorrows in tequila, I had woken up the next day with a bad taste in my mouth, blinking at the bright fluorescent light above me, two sleazy-looking cops staring at me. I jolted out of the long wooden bench, answered some awkward questions, and called my near-hysterical parents to pick me up.

“Yes, I will remember all that, thank you very much,” I said drily. “So let’s just do this okay? I think I need this for closure.”

Bea grinned, then looked thoughtful. “There are too many distractions in the club so I vote for the bar! Let him focus on you—and only you. Then he’ll feel sorry that he ever left you.”

* * * *

The first one was to take the edge off my nerves. The second was to oblige Benj, who insisted we had another round. So I was now on my third—or was it fourth—margarita, and I didn’t anymore know why I was drinking this much. 

I even had a long island iced tea in between because Bea had refused hers, already paid for by an insistent Duffy, who was obviously making the moves on her. And just as obviously, Bea was giving him the cold shoulder. 

Under my lashes, I had studied Benj all evening and concluded that he was even more attractive now, having grown into a manlier version of his college self. His hair, which used to be wavy, was now shorn, showing his angular features. From the neck below, he had pleasantly filled out, displaying a good solid chest and beefy arms.

We played catch up, and I willed my witty self to take over; but sadly, it refused to make its appearance that night. So I just smiled and nodded at the right moments, and eventually turned to alcohol for salvation.

A couple of drinks later, the bar had transformed into hell. Or at least it looked like it, as light from the red Chinese lanterns bounced on people’s faces. The speakers blared techno music, its repetitive and hypnotic beats drilling through my brain.

Bea, at last, had decided to ask the million-dollar question. “So, Benj, are you still with Cara?” I involuntarily flinched at the name, and my bleary eyes snapped to Benj, who gave an easy laugh.

“Oh, we broke up a long time ago. It didn’t work out.”

Bea nodded several times as if she were expecting this. “So how’s the love life? Are you dating anyone? Getting married anytime soon?”

Benj put his hands up in surrender. “Hey, if my love life’s the thing to finally get you talking, so be it.” He grinned. “Let’s just say I’m keeping my options open. I have a long way to go before settling down.”

So Benj had changed beyond his hairstyle and buffed body. When we were together, he was gung ho about commitment. Well, at least he
seemed
so at that time.

“Do you want to know about my love life?” Duffy cut in smoothly. “I’m single—impeccably unattached. Yep, it’s just me, looking for a nice girl.”

Bea ignored him and touched my arm. “It’s getting late, and we start early tomorrow. Let’s go.”

To my surprise, Benj put his arm around me. “Come on! We haven’t seen each other in ages!  Just one more round—please?”

“Oh, I think Crissy’s had enough.” Bea’s tone could have cut through steel.

“Crissy?” Benj turned to me with those soft eyes.

I looked ’round at everyone’s expectant faces. Bea looked panicky. Duffy, merely curious. And Benj, with the pleading look. Why was
everyone
ganging up on me? I needed to think. I closed my eyes and let gravity do its job as my head dropped onto Benj’s shoulder. He still wore his old cologne, and I drew back a little, remembering Vince. Irritated, I retorted to myself:
Whom does the scent remind you of—Vince or Benj?

All this was forgotten when Benj nuzzled my hair, whispering, “You’re so sexy, it’s crazy. I’ve missed you, Crazy Crissy.”

I raised my head. “Bei, you go ahead. I’ll stay just a bit a longer, okay?”

Bea’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. 

“It’s okay, Bea.” Benj put his arm around me. “I’ll take care of her.”

He was looking me full in the face, an unspoken possibility hanging between us.