The Men I Didn't Marry (15 page)

“How about a swim?” he asks.

“I don’t have a suit.”

Kevin gestures to the deserted landscape. “You may notice that there aren’t a lot of people around.” He takes off his shirt and puts his arms around me. We kiss and I feel the waves lap at my ankles. A moment later, he tugs gently at my shirt.

“I was crazy about you in high school, but you were such a good girl, I never got to see your breasts.”

“Have you been thinking about them for the last twenty years?” I ask, teasing.

“No,” he says honestly. “But definitely for the last twenty-four hours.”

Laughing, I scamper away into the water, and dive bravely into the breaking surf. Kevin follows and playfully swims alongside me.

“Should I beg?” he asks.

“That would help,” I say, only half-joking. The truth is, nobody except Bill has seen these breasts in maybe forever. Unless you count the spray-tanning tech and Biddy, the bra saleslady at the Town Shop. She’s an expert, and she assures me that mine are quite nice. But still, I pirouette away, splashing a storm of water into Kevin’s face.

“Feisty,” he says, swimming after me.

“I’ll let you catch me,” I say, slowing down.

“I would anyway,” he retorts, kissing me as we both tread water. “You can swim but you can’t hide.”

What the heck. This wet T-shirt’s obviously not concealing much anyway. And if I loved the freedom of Kevin’s convertible, I’m even more emboldened by the freedom I feel in the vast, limitless ocean. This is a deserted beach, for heaven’s sake. I wiggle away and duck under water, emerging a moment later holding my T-shirt and bra. I make a show of tossing them into a wave while smiling at Kevin.

“Very nice. Worth the wait,” he says admiringly, paddling over to cup his hands tenderly around my breasts.

But I jerk away. What am I doing? I’m not the topless type.

“My T-shirt! I love that T-shirt!” I say, pulling away, panicked that my favorite Juicy Couture is being carried out to sea. And even more panicked that after all these years, Kevin’s made it to second base. Though I don’t think there are bases anymore. In the lingo of the MTV generation, does this mean Kevin and I have “hooked up”?

I swim as fast as I can toward the errant red T-shirt, which is bobbing up and down in the ocean like a warning sign. “
Stop
!” it’s screaming to me. “
Stop Whatever You Were Thinking of Doing
!”

“I
did
stop,” I tell my Juicy, at least in my head. “I’m sorry I threw you away. Now I need you back.”

“You have me back,” says Kevin, who’s effortlessly floating on his back next to me. Is my fast swimming really that slow? And even worse, did I talk to my T-shirt out loud?

“I didn’t mean you,” I say keeping my back to Kevin as I stop to tread water and catch my breath.

He looks around the empty sea but graciously doesn’t ask which imaginary friend, or fish, I might be having a conversation with.

“Let me get that shirt for you,” Kevin says, and I watch as he propels his strong arms through the water to retrieve it. He returns quickly and slips the shirt over my head.

“There you go. Feel better?” he asks gently.

Embarrassed by the whole episode, I smile and nod my head. How can I tell Kevin that taking off my T-shirt felt too reckless? After all the years of being with nobody but Bill, I want to move on, but I’m not sure I know how. And even scarier, I feel a real attraction for Kevin—not just the old one, but a brand-new appeal.

“Sorry for being an idiot. I don’t really know how to do this anymore.”

“Do what?”

“Be with a guy.”

“I’ll tell you how to be with this guy. Just relax and don’t worry, okay? There’s no rush. Remember, we’re on island time.”

I kiss him gratefully on the cheek. And then I look anxiously toward the shore, which now seems miles away.

“We’ve drifted,” I say worriedly.

“I’ve already told you. No worries when you’re around me. I’ll get you home safely. Climb on.”

Following his directions, I lie on Kevin’s back, fasten my arms around his shoulders and wrap my legs at his waist. Hmmm? Is this really the most efficient way to get someone to shore? I don’t remember this position from any Red Cross lessons. But Kevin must know what he’s doing. I relax and let my now-chilled body sink into his muscular form. Beneath my wet T-shirt, my nipples rub appreciatively against his smooth, wet skin.

Yup, Kevin definitely knows what he’s doing.

Chapter ELEVEN

BACK AT THE HOUSE, Kevin disappears into the kitchen to whip up what he promises will be the best dinner of my life. I duck into the bedroom to change out of my wet T-shirt and soggy shorts and put on one of Kevin’s shirts. It’s long enough on me to be an improvised minidress. I glance in the mirror. Not a look I’d wear in New York, but not half-bad, either. For once, I’m not worried about my thighs. The Cellulite Exorcist might have recommended fourteen more weeks of treatment, but having a man find you attractive works even better.

“Whatever’s on the grill smells fabulous,” I say, joining him in the kitchen.

“Nothing on it yet. You’re smelling the charcoal,” he says with a grin.

“Mmm, well, then, maybe we should have that.”

“Good idea. I’ll save the steaks for someone else,” he says. “Should be another date coming over later.”

“Blond or brunette?” I ask.

“Don’t remember. Which one would make you more jealous?”

“You don’t need to make me jealous,” I say, laughing. “We’re not in high school anymore.”

Kevin stops mixing his marinade and puts his arms around me. “I’m glad we’re not in high school. I think I was too young to really appreciate you back then. I like you even better now.” He kisses me gently. It’s a sweet, romantic moment, which, of course, I can’t leave alone.

“You only like me more now because you finally got to see my breasts,” I tease.

“Well, that helps,” Kevin agrees with a smile. He pauses and flexes his fingers. “And you haven’t broken a single digit yet.”

I laugh and look around, ready to offer to help. But just as I’m about to explain how talented I am at tossing a salad, the doorbell rings.

Kevin looks up, surprised.

“Your other date,” I say calmly. “Should I sneak out the back?”

“I have no idea who that could be,” Kevin says. He wipes his hands on a dish towel and heads to the front door. A moment later, I hear loud, cheerful voices offering a chorus of congratulations.

“Hey, good work getting that movie gig with Angelina Jolie, Kev!” booms one guy.

“You work, we all work!” says another. “Thought we’d come over and surprise you with a little party to celebrate.”

“PAR-TEE!!” holler a couple of other revelers.

“Hey, guys, thanks,” says Kevin. “But this might not be the best time. I have someone here.”

“You bagged Angelina already?” asks a male voice admiringly.

The crowd who came to party now push past Kevin, in search of the star. But as they head into the kitchen, all they find is me.

“Hi,” I say tentatively to Kevin’s buddies, who troop in bearing six-packs of beer and big bags of chips. Two of the women are carrying plastic bowls filled with food.

“My famous pasta with mango and black beans,” says a well-tanned woman in shorts and a colorful tank top. She puts her container on the counter and holds out her hand to shake mine. “Hi, I’m Susie. I sometimes work with Kevin on shoots.”

“Hi, I’m Hallie.”
I sometimes ride on Kevin’s back
is the first way I think of identifying myself, but I amend it. “I’m an old friend.”

The rest of the group—a good-looking collection of scuba instructors, sailors, and other assorted ex-pats—also make their introductions. Most mention what a great guy and good buddy ol’ Kevin is.

“Don’t let them fool you,” says Kevin, coming over to put an arm around me. “Half this crowd of beach bums have come by figuring I’ll hire them to work on the movie with me.”

“Well, won’t you?” asks Kevin’s friend Dave, wearing a T-shirt that says “Divers Go Deeper.”

“What choice do I have? My good buddies. The best of a bad lot,” says Kevin with a fake sigh.

They pop open cans of beer and rowdily toast Kevin. One guy breaks open a bag of chips and Susie busily takes the Saran Wrap off the food and passes around paper plates. So much for my quiet romantic dinner with Kevin. Someone turns on the CD player and the thumping beat of Latin music fills the room.

“Salsa!” calls out a woman named Carla whose long red hair swings practically to her waist. She wiggles her hips and snaps her fingers over her head, then grabs Kevin. “Come dance with me,” she says.

They sidle into the middle of the living room. Two guys push the furniture against the walls, creating a makeshift dance floor, and quickly the rest of the party pairs off, moving to the beat. Mr. Divers Go Deeper grabs my hand. We don’t really need to talk; his clothing tells me all.

“Salsa me, baby,” he says sashaying in front of me.

I shake my head. I can’t dance. And even if I could, I’d worry that the bottle he’s now jubilantly waving in the air would send beer raining all over me.

“No, thanks. I have no rhythm,” I say truthfully.

“I’ll lead,” he offers.

“But I can’t follow.”

“You can follow me,” says Kevin, coming to my rescue. He hands off Carla to my would-be partner, and the new twosome glides into the center of the room.

“Waltz?” I ask Kevin hopefully as he pulls me into the classic ballroom dance position. “I can probably handle three-quarter time.”

“This is four-four time. Just remember the first step occurs on beat two, not beat one.”

“That clarifies it,” I say, refusing to move my feet.

Kevin starts to dance, practically dragging me.

“What are you waiting for?” he asks.

“Beat two,” I explain.

“I’ll count out loud,” he says patiently. “One, TWO.”

He steps forward and so do I. Almost immediately, we bang smack into each other.

We both step back to rub our foreheads. Then Kevin bravely resumes a dance position and soldiers on.

“Just mirror what I do. Listen to the music and move to the tempo,” he says good-naturedly.

I’ve always prided myself on moving to the beat of my own drummer. But on the dance floor, that doesn’t seem to be working to my advantage. I look around and watch in amazement as the various partners launch into complicated patterns of dips and dance steps.

“How come everyone knows how to do this?” I ask.

“It’s just a matter of swaying your hips in rhythm with mine,” Kevin says.

I try to mimic his movements one more time, but then I sigh. “It’s hopeless.”

“Never,” says Kevin. “It’s instinctive. To quote George Bernard Shaw—and I’d like to point out that very few men do—dancing is just the vertical expression of a horizontal desire.”

I think about it a minute. “Horizontal desire, check. It’s just the vertical expression that’s giving me trouble.”

“Better than the other way around,” Kevin says. Then spinning me toward him, he whispers, “Let’s try again—and focus on that horizontal desire.”

This time when Kevin puts his hand on my back and draws me closer, I just relax and stay attuned to his gentle lead. We start with small steps, and I let his hand holding mine guide me around the dance floor. Look at that. Nobody’s laughing at me. In fact, nobody’s even noticing. Except Kevin.

“You’re doing great,” he says encouragingly. “Ready to try some swivels?”

“I’m ready for anything,” I say throwing back my head.

“What I like to hear.” Kevin starts to explain something about twisting my hips one way and transferring my weight to the other foot. Then there’s something about bending a knee.

“Why don’t you just lead,” I suggest.

“You told Diver Dave you don’t follow.”

“I wouldn’t follow Diver Dave. But I’d follow you.”

Someone turns the music a little louder, and the new tune bouncing off the walls is even faster paced. Kevin and I are whirling around the room—and colorful visions are whirling in my head. I feel giddy in his arms, and instead of analyzing why, I’m just enjoying it.

We dance the whole night away. At one point Diver Dave cuts in, and I don’t even mind. I take a break to grab some food in the kitchen and talk with Susie and Carla. It doesn’t take long to get their stories. Before escaping to the islands to become a scuba teacher—and Kevin’s occasional underwater assistant—Susie was a loan officer at the Montreal branch of the largest bank in Canada. Carla was the vice president at a sales company in Philadelphia.

“How’d you get down here?” I ask.

“Plane,” Susie says and laughs.

“I mean, why? What made you come? Or more to the point, why’d you stay?”

Susie looks around the room, at the friendly, easygoing crowd milling under the whirling ceiling fans. The double glass doors off the living room are open to the vast expanse of ocean, which is sparkling under a full moon.

“Better question. Why would you leave?” asks Susie.

“Happens to a lot of us,” says Carla. “I jumped off the merry-go-round for what I thought would be a two-week vacation. But then I thought, what about the other fifty weeks of the year? Shouldn’t you try to be happy every day of your life?”

I take a sip of beer. Happy every day of your life? Being a mom means you feel happy if your kids are happy. You stop thinking about finding happiness yourself.

“What about your jobs?” I ask.

“Amazingly, the bank has survived without me,” Susie says, and laughs again.

“And, amazingly, I survived without the corporate world,” says Carla.

“Very nice to trade in three-piece suits for two-piece suits. You get a much better tan in a bikini,” says Susie.

“So what’s the story?” asks Carla, smiling at me. “Are you staying down here with Kevin?”

I start coughing on a gulp of beer. “Not at all. Nothing like that. I’m going back to New York tomorrow.” As I say those words, it dawns on me that I wish I had a little longer to enjoy swimming in the ocean, swigging Corona from a bottle, and reveling in my newfound talent as a salsa dancer. And I wish I had a little more time with Kevin.

But everyone in the room seems to want a little more time with Kevin because, well after midnight, the party is still going strong. Not until almost 2 A.M. does Diver Dave mention that he has a boat going out in the morning and really needs to get his full four hours of rest.

“You definitely need your beauty sleep,” jokes Carla. “You’ll get better tips from the tourists if your eyes aren’t puffy.”

“I rely on the tightness of my Speedo to get good tips,” says Dave.

“You learned that trick from me,” quips Carla, and she throws him a kiss as he heads toward the door.

The rest of the group helps clean up the kitchen and push the furniture back to its original places in the living room. Nobody seems to notice the carpet of chips on the floor or the beer-can sculpture on the mantelpiece. But at least they’ve tried. They take a long time saying their good-byes, but finally only Kevin and I are left.

Suddenly exhausted, I sit down on the couch and Kevin comes over to me.

“It’s really late,” he says, draping an arm over my shoulders. “Why don’t you stay here instead of going back to your hotel? I’ll drive you to pick up your car at the airport in the morning.”

I give him a hesitant look.

“You can stay in the guest room,” he says.

“It’s a deal.”

He leads me to a pretty, pale blue room with a double bed and the same patterned pastel spread you find in every hotel room on every island in the world. I look for the usual shell-framed painting of a beach, but instead three vibrant poster-sized underwater photographs grace the wall.

“Yours?” I ask Kevin, admiring the brilliant clarity and the way he caught a moment with angelfish lined up and looking like they were throwing him kisses.

Kevin nods. “Took these years ago.”

“You’re good,” I say.

“Very good. And I keep getting better.”

“You do.” Still in my improvised minidress, I pull back the bedspread and lie down on the crisp, cool sheets, then stretch out my arms and yawn.

“Mind if I join you for a moment?” asks Kevin.

I pat the space next to me, and Kevin slides in and cuddles me close. “This has been fun,” he says.

“A great day. A happy day,” I say, and with my head snuggled tightly against his strong chest, I immediately fall asleep.

I wake up in the morning later than I’d planned and look over at Kevin, still asleep in his shorts and T-shirt. Breakthrough: I’ve spent the night with a man. In fact, if you take a literalist interpretation, we’ve actually slept together.

Somehow during the night, Kevin’s arm has ended up curled around my waist and my leg is intertwined with his. I gently pull away to get up, and Kevin flutters open his eyes.

“Mmm, that was a good night,” he says.

“Did anything happen in bed that I should know about?” I ask, teasing.

Kevin rolls over groggily. “I’d never waste my talents. You should be fully awake to appreciate me.”

“Cocky, aren’t you?” I giggle and punch him lightly on the arm. Fortunately, he doesn’t comment on my bad double entendre.

He starts kissing me lightly on the neck, but then I glance at the clock and jump out of bed in a panic, the happy, calm spell I’ve been feeling broken.

“What’s wrong?” asks Kevin.

“I can’t believe I slept this late. I have to get back to the hotel to check out, and then to the airport to turn in my rental car and get on the flight.” I shake my head and then repeat, “How did I sleep this late?”

“You were relaxed. Maybe you felt good lying next to me,” says Kevin.

“Well, now I feel a little crazy,” I say. I rush into the bathroom to splash cold water on my face, then grab my pocketbook, smear on some lip balm, and check that my passport is still in the little zippered case.

Meanwhile, Kevin hasn’t moved. Doesn’t he realize that I don’t have my car here? I need him to drive me back. I have a million things to do today. But Kevin just lazily rubs his hand across the pillow.

“Look at that beautiful day out there, will you?” he asks, pointing to the sunshine streaming in the window.

“Beautiful, wonderful, very yellow sun. Now come on, please.” I go over to the bed and tug at Kevin’s arm. “Help me out here. My flight’s in a few hours.”

“And there’s another flight tomorrow. And the day after that.” Kevin rubs my hand.

“But my flight’s today.”