Kissing Frogs - A Tropical Fairytale

The Cherry on the Hot-Fudge (and by fudge, I mean poop) Sundae

"What's up?" I inject an artificially casual tone into my voice.

His green eyes are stormy, his angular jaw tense. "Did you have fun last night?"

"Um, yeah." I bite my left pinky nail.

"That's it?" he says.

"Well, until we got busted, of course," I add, but those don't seem to be the words he wants to hear. He looks down with one of his penetrating stares that peel a layer off me. I shift uncomfortably, not sure if I should broach the kiss with Enrique or not. I decide not.

"Well," he finally says, "happy birthday."

"Thanks." I'm relieved he let me off so easily.

"And I definitely think we can forget about our non-dates." His voice is quiet. The perpetual playful glint in his eyes is gone.

I feel like he's punched me in the gut.

"Fine by me." I look at my chipped fingernails, striving for blasé. "They were your idea anyway."

"Cool. See you later." Without a backwards glance he walks toward the compound and leaves me standing there in my towel staring after him, feeling like a very big pile of frog crap.

***

Dinner is a meal of something called ceviche, which is mixed raw seafood cooked in lime. I'm sure it's normally delicious, but definitely not the best hangover remedy. Everyone looks a little green when Carlita serves it with a flourish. I wonder if she made it on purpose.

Afterwards, I grab the computer to check my emails. There are a zillion birthday messages and a few emails from some of my friends. Both Alyssa and Ky have finally sent me emails, but they're devoid of any real message, going on about what a great time they're having and how they don't want to go home. Not one question about me or how things are at my end of the world. I'd probably just depress them to death anyway. Nothing from Miles, of course. An email from my parents says they tried to reach me and to call them back.

I ask around for the phone but nobody knows where it is. Which means one thing: Mr. A probably has it. Crap. My parents will be choked if I don't call. And I always like to thank my mom on my birthday for having me and all that. God knows she'd hated all that weight gain and the stretch marks. I suspect that may very well have been a contributing factor to my lack of a younger sibling.

I go to the boys' villa and knock. There's no answer so I open the door and poke my head in.

"Mr. A?" I call out. No answer.

I walk inside.

"Mr. A?" I call again.

"In here," Lola calls.

I go down the hallway to the living room. Lola sits beside Mr. A on the couch, mopping his sweaty brow with a facecloth. He still looks pale but a lot better from the nasty puce of this morning.

"How are you feeling?" I ask.

"I'll survive." His voice is raspy. "The doctor seems to think it's just a twenty-four hour thing."

"You should be feeling better by tomorrow," Lola declares. Mr. A looks up at her, gratitude shining in his eyes.

"I was just wondering if you had the phone." The words tumble out, aware I'm intruding.

"It's on the table." He nods across the room.

"Thanks." I walk over to get it, taking a deep breath. "Was there anyone in particular you were calling?"