Kissing Frogs - A Tropical Fairytale

It's Not You, It's Me

After we get back, I decide to go for a swim to get away. I change into my suit and purple sarong, then head for the bright blue pool that curves like an 'S.' Spotting the laptop all alone on one of the picnic tables, I hurry over and sit down in front of it. Half the letter keys are worn off and it's covered in scratches and nicks. Still, it works, although I could send a postcard faster than it takes the internet to connect.

I log in to my email account.

My heart constricts. There's one from Miles. Finally.

I open it.

To: jessscotchsundae@casselsprep.com

From: milesfrommars@casselsprep.com

Hey Jess,

Hope you're having fun and the freaksters aren't boring you to death. Florida's awesome. I'm moving here after high school. Ky's cousin ended up getting fake IDs for everyone and the clubs down here are crazy insane. Anyways been doing a lot of thinking and not sure I want to get serious with anyone right before grad, you know? I kinda think the break thing was a good idea. I'm not sure what I'm doing and I think we should experience as much as we can while we're young, right? I still think you're an awesome girl and can't wait for you to see my sexy tan when you get back.

Later babes,

Miles

My heart is hammering. Well, that was pretty clear. He's found someone, then. I log on to Facebook, ignoring all my messages, heading straight for Miles's account. Pictures. So many pictures. Each takes an eternity to load. Him, Alyssa, Ky, Danny, Jason. Random girls. Girls in bikinis. Everyone lifting up red Solo cups. Feeling like I'm suffocating, I slam the laptop lid down.

On autopilot, I walk over to the pool, take off my sarong and dive in. Surfacing, I wipe the water from my face, wade over to the swim up bar and take a seat. My elbows plunk down on the wet blue tile, head resting on fingertips, and I breathe in and out through my nose. So. It's officially over. After all that time invested. I don't know how to feel, what to think. Just numb.

"Would you like some pineapple?" A deep voice interrupts my dark thoughts. I peer under dried palm fronds. Enrique walks toward the bar in his trunks, holding a bowl. Doesn't he ever wear a shirt? He offers the fresh cut fruit, holding my gaze, eyes intense.

"Gracias." I give him a weak smile and take a chunk. It somehow manages to get past the lump in my throat. "It's delicious."

He laughs. "Your face does not agree."

"No, really, it's very good." My eyes fill with tears and Enrique gets blurry.

His tone is gentle. "Panama wins awards for the sweetness of its pineapples." He puts the bowl down, his elbows on the bar, and leans forward. "Do you know how to tell if it is ripe?"

"No, how?" I offer another watery smile. He's trying to distract me.

He lowers his voice as if relaying a huge secret. "You pull one of the green leaves at the top. If it comes out easily, it is ready to eat."

"Oh?" I take another bite, this time really tasting it. It's juicy and sweet, better than any pineapple I've ever had.

"Why are you swimming all alone?" He looks around. "Where are your friends?"

Good question.

"I'm not sure," I say.

"So you are all by yourself?" He raises an eyebrow.

"Looks that way." I try to keep the pitying tone from my voice.

"Do you want to come surfing?"

Surprised, I look up from the blue tile of the bar. My first instinct is to say no. I'm not feeling up to much more than curling into the fetal position on my bed. Besides, something about Enrique makes me a little jumpy. It's probably because he's older and just so ... hot. Miles would definitely not approve.

Something inside me crackles. Then again, his approval is no longer my concern.

"Sounds great," I hear myself say, "but I don't know how."

"It's easy," he says. "I can teach you."

I think for a half-second. I can interview him for my report. Then it'd technically be research. Not to mention going surfing will give me something to tell everyone back at home. Maybe I'll get Enrique to take some pictures and post a few of my own. Serve Miles right.

"Sure, let's go. Just let me grab something." Galvanized, I hop up from the stool and get out of the pool, tying my sarong around my neck. I dash up to my room and grab the pen and notebook I'd bought at the market and shove them in my new bag, nerves going berserk. The compound is silent. Everyone must have gone into town with Mr. A. There's no one to ask permission to go. Better to seek forgiveness than permission anyway.

Feeling reckless, I go back outside and walk up to Enrique who's waiting by a battered red Jeep, two surfboards strapped to the roof, the gate open. Be cool, Jess.

"Ready?" he says, one tanned forearm on the hood of the car, leaning back to offer me a full view of his swimmer's body. I don't think I've ever known anyone with an eight-pack before.

I nod. What am I doing?

"Then let's go, bella." He holds out his hand to help me up into the car.

I take it.