Finding Carolina's
Copyright© 2026 by duncan idaho
Chapter 7: The Last Night’s Promise
The bar was busier than I’d ever seen it. Every stool taken, every table occupied, the amber light struggling to reach the corners through the smoke and bodies.
The reggae bass vibrated through my chest as I stepped through the red door for the last time.
My last night on the island. Tomorrow morning, I’d be in a taxi heading to the airport. By noon, I’d be back in my apartment, staring at my laptop, the Caribbean already feeling like a dream I’d half-remembered.
But tonight was still mine. I scanned the room before I’d even reached the bar. And there she was. Adrianna sat at a table near the back, her back half-turned to me. She was with a man, middle-aged, balding, wearing a polo shirt that looked expensive and uncomfortable.
He leaned toward her, talking too close to her face, and she laughed politely, her hand resting on his arm. My chest tightened. The feeling surprised me. I had no claim on her. That was the whole point of this place, transactions, clear and honest. She was working. She had to make money. I knew that. I’d known it from the start. But knowing didn’t stop the twist in my stomach.
I turned toward the bar, found an empty stool, and sat.
The bartender, a thin man with gold teeth I recognized from my first night, set a napkin in front of me.
“Beer,” I said.
He nodded, reached for a bottle.
Before the bottle touched the napkin, I felt her. The warmth at my back. The faint floral smell I’d memorized. Her hands slid over my shoulders, down my chest, her fingers spreading across my shirt like she was claiming territory.
“I thought you were with another guy,” I said.
Her lips brushed my ear. Her voice came low, rough at the edges, the accent thicker when she was close.
“There is only you.”
I turned on the stool. She stood behind me, wearing a thin blue top that tied at her neck and a skirt that barely covered the tops of her thighs. Her hair was loose, falling in soft waves past her shoulders. The gold chain caught the light, glinting at her throat. Her eyes were wet at the edges.
“I didn’t think you would come back,” she said.
“I couldn’t leave without seeing you. Its my last night, I leave in the morning.”
I held her a moment longer, my forehead still against hers, before I pulled back just enough to look at her. The yellow light caught the dampness on her cheeks.
“How much longer do you have here?” I asked.
She was quiet for a moment, her fingers tracing patterns on my chest.
“Almost three months.”
I blinked. “Three months?”
She nodded, a sad smile touching her lips. “The girls come here for three to six months at a time. Some stay longer, if they need the money. But I just arrived.”
“You’ve only been here a week.”
“Yes.” She laughed, soft and self-deprecating. “A week. And I found you on my second night.”
I tried to process that. She was barely settled, barely started in this life, and I was already leaving. The thought sat heavy in my chest.
“You came here alone?” I asked.
“With a friend from home. She’s working the other bar, across the street.” She shrugged, the motion making her bare skin shift against me. “We needed the money. The island is full of tourists with open wallets and closed hearts.” She said it without bitterness. Just fact.
I touched her face, tilting her chin up. “And what about your heart?”
She held my gaze. “I didn’t think I’d find someone who made me want to keep it.”
The words hung between us, fragile and real. I kissed her again, slower this time. A promise I couldn’t keep, but meant anyway.
Her fingers curled around mine. She squeezed once, hard, then pulled me off the stool.
“Come with me.”
She led me through the bar, past the tables, past the man in the polo shirt who watched us go with a look of disappointed understanding. Past the hallway where her first room had been, past the last room at the end, through a door I hadn’t noticed before, a narrow door behind a curtain, barely visible.
A backdoor. It opened onto a small courtyard, enclosed by high walls covered in bougainvillea. A single string of lights hung overhead, casting soft yellow glow on a rusted iron table and two chairs.
The music from the bar was distant here, muffled by the walls and the leaves.
She closed the door behind us, and we were alone in the tiny hidden space. The night air was cooler, carrying the smell of flowers and damp stone.
“I found this place my second night,” she said, her hand still holding mine. “When I needed to breathe.”
I looked around. The courtyard was barely larger than her room, but it felt open, the stars visible above the walls, the bougainvillea spilling over the edges in bursts of pink and red.
I reached for her, pulling her back against me, my arms wrapping around her from behind. Her spine pressed into my chest, and I felt her breath hitch.
“I’m sad that you are leaving,” she said, her voice small, almost swallowed by the rustling bougainvillea.
She tilted her head back, resting it against my shoulder, her eyes fixed on the stars above us. I held her tighter. “I know.”
She turned in my arms, facing me, her hands finding my waist. “I knew you would go. I knew it the first night. But I didn’t know it would feel like this. Like a goodbye I wasn’t ready for.”
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