Chapter 1: Paradise Found

This trip to the Spanish coast with my son, has been on mind for some time. Honestly, he’s a wonderful boy, and turning into quite the handsome young man. The sad truth is, Skyler can hardly remember his father. In truth, raising him on my own was quite a challenge.

When you consider his cheating father filters in and out of his life, a new chippy in toe each time. Fills his head with nonsense about how important business is, while he goes through women like tissue paper. Well, frankly, I’ve done a wonder.

A bellhop in white gloves leads us to the suite, shoes clicking across marble so pale the tiles sound forbidden. Skyler’s taller by a head, but he follows me, my heel tips scraping tiny black streaks across the stones. The air’s thick with lemon, beach salt, a haze of luxury. Once we’re in our room, I do what any human with a pulse does, race for the windows.

The entire wall’s a sheet of glass, no frame, no seams, the kind of design that only rich European movie villains afford. I lean in, palms pressed to cold, ocean-sprayed glass, drag a streak of condensation with my breath. Down below, the beach’s a thousand bright towels, umbrellas, blue, red, and yellow.

Laughing, loud, honest.

“Baby, you see this?” I say, my voice bounces off every surface: glass, polished plaster, the stone Buddha hunched in the entryway.

Skyler hauls the duffel bags inside, sets them in the shadow of the Buddha, careful not to knock over its beaded necklace. Always so careful, this boy. The bellhop bows, mumbles about the mini-bar, vanishes. The door clicks with the drama of a bank vault. We’re alone.

“Mommy, there’s two bedrooms.”

Hearing him without it registering, I say, “Not big deal, we can make this work, Skyler.”

“What?”

“You said there’s only one bed, didn’t you?”

“No, there are two separate bedrooms.”

“Oh, I thought you meant ... Never mind that’ll work.” Disappointing, I’d booked one bedroom with one king sized bed.

I swirl across the suite, feet slipping on the marble, summer dress feathering up at the knees. I pretend I’m still runway-ready, a slip of a thing in aquamarine cotton, when really I haven’t done a single plank in weeks. I toss my purse on the giant white sectional, flop next to it, bounce once, twice, grabbing the throw pillow. It’s velvet, dove gray, absurdly soft. I hug it to my chest, sink in.

“This is sick. Insane. Come sit, you have to feel this,” I say, but Skyler hovers by the minibar instead, prodding the Nespresso machine like he expects it to explode.

“Oh my god, this is amazing!” Sky says, his face is so much like his dad’s, sometimes I can’t look at him straight on. Same dimpled chin, same lashes. At this angle, though, he’s all mine. Hair sun-bleached, the old childhood cowlick still fighting the comb, and eyes narrowed like he’s bracing for an earthquake.

“This is great,” I say. Patting the seat next to me, but he won’t come. Fine. I pull my feet up, crisscross, tossing the pillow at him instead. He catches it, barely.

“This place is nuts,” he says, his mouth curves, almost a smile. He’s trying, I know it, I can’t stop myself from pushing harder.

Hopping up, I run my hands along the wall. Tracing the seams, admiring the god-tier finish. I flick the light switches. I open the credenza. Riffle through the minibar, I count the shiny liquor bottles the little glass jars of cashews. I keep talking the whole time.

“You want a drink? Wait, don’t answer that, you’re still a child. Shouldn’t’ve raised you so pure, huh?”

“Well, Mommy, I could try a drink.”

“Let me think on that, okay?”

He shrugs, not meeting my eyes, and flips through the welcome book, page after page. He doesn’t read it, really, but I catch the flush at his collar when I tease him. He’s pretending he’s not watching me, but I know the game. I’ve played it since before he existed.

Spinning, I ask, “How do I look?”

“Beautiful,” Skyler says.

“You’re going to love the pool here,” I say, I float over, drop a hand to his shoulder, light as a flower. The muscle there’s gotten solid, more than I expect, I squeeze, testing. He stiffens, but lets me. I could swear his pulse jumps under my thumb.

“Oh, sweetie, you could use a tan,” I add, giving his butt cheek a gentle little slap, more affection than force.

At last, he puts the welcome book down, finally, and looks out the window past my shoulder, eyes extra wide.

“Don’t want skin cancer,” he says, deadpan. So funny, this kid. He gets that from me, at least.

Throwing the sliding door open, I pace to the balcony. The wind slams my hair into my face. The ocean’s louder out here, as if it’s right underfoot, I inhale so deep my lungs might burst. I stretch both arms over my head, arching back. The way I used to when photographers asked for something “more feline.” My dress pulls tight at the chest the breeze plasters it against my legs. I can feel him watching now, really inspecting me, though he tries to hide it behind the pillar of the doorframe.

“You were a model before you married Dad, right.”

“Uh, hu, sure was. Come see,” I say, beckoning him to join me.

With his hands in pockets, he moves slow, but I don’t miss the way his eyes flicker at my bare thighs. Or how he licks his lips when he thinks I’m not looking. I feign not seeing his interest. I learned ages ago the best way to handle a man’s attention is to let it simmer.

The terrible truth is, Sky’s so shy he’s never asked a girl for a date.

As we stare at the sea, he leans on the rail next to me, silent. The way I did when he was little, I rest my chin on his shoulder and were transported back when the world hadn’t fallen apart yet. The boy’s so much taller now, I rise on my toes for old times’ sake. For a second, he lets himself relax, his shoulder touches my cheek. I could stay like this forever.

Wrapping my arms around his waist, hugging him.

Without warning the moment passes. I pull away ruffling his hair, messing it more, and turn to the room.