The Other Guy (6 page)

When people tell you that things look better in the morning, you should consider severing ties with them immediately, because they are lying to your face.

The only thing that definitively changed between the night before and the light of the morning sun was that I was drier. Which was nice, but I would've also appreciated being less confused. No amount of sunshine would help me be less me.

I showered and dressed slowly, unable to stop myself thinking about Nate, about kissing Nate, about how laughably cliched it was, the big romantic kiss in the rain -- someone definitely needed to make a movie about me. But then, if it was a movie, someone would have yelled cut long before Jeremy Renner-me had the chance to word-vomit all his baggage.

If it was a movie, the kiss would be the end of it, and we'd all leave the theater happy in the knowledge that Emory and Nate go on to lead deliriously happy lives filled with quippy banter and hot sex.

My insides tightened lushly into a corkscrew at the thought, and I resolved never to think of Nate and sex in the same sentence again.

I considered skipping breakfast, afraid to run into Nate, afraid of how much anticipation I'd harbor if I went and he wasn't there.

But I was supposed to be a better version of myself here, for at least this one week; I had come, fueled by spite and defiance, resolved to find the means to be the kind of person who could look heartbreak in the face and remain standing. And that kind of person wouldn't be afraid of a little continental breakfast.

Mustering up what little courage I had in reserve, I stepped out into the sun and went to get me some eggs.
He was there.
Our eyes met, and his eyebrows lifted, the mild expression on his face telling me that the ball was entirely in my court. I scooped it right up and strode over with my breakfast to his table, leaving my apprehension to tumble, anchorless, in the wind at my back.
"Hi," Nate said, and I got the feeling that the only reason his smile wasn't wider was that he was trying very hard not to let it. At least, that's why mine wasn't.
"Hi," I said.
"Well," said Nate, kicking out the chair opposite him so I could sit, "what do you want to do today?"
"Anything," I said, meaning it in that moment. We could sit here all day drinking lukewarm coffee and I'd be wholly content.
Nate nodded. "Okay. You wanna get scooters again and hit up the places we didn't see last time? I could take more pictures of you looking like a serial killer to show your friends and family when you get home."
That also sounded lovely.
"Yeah, if by serial killer you mean international male model superstar, then yes."
"Of course that's what I meant," he said, nowhere close to placating, and not being at all stealthy about sneaking a strawberry off my plate.
I pointed my butter knife at him, choice weapon of the serial killer about town. "You're on thin ice, buddy."
Nate rolled an insouciant shoulder, letting my empty warning slick right off. "Nah, you'd be caught within days. Those nice people over there are going to remember that I was last seen with you."
I followed the line of his gaze to where a group of young holidaymakers were tucking into their breakfasts with avid enthusiasm, paying absolutely no attention to us. "What's to remember? They haven't even noticed the both of us staring at them."
It was the perfect set-up, though I didn't realize it until Nate was out of his chair and leaning over me.
"This," he said. With his hands on either side of my face, Nate bruised a kiss to my lips.
Where last night's kiss had been tentative and curious, this one knew exactly what it was doing, and what it was doing was lighting a white fire inside me that burned its way from my core to the tips of my nerve endings.
And fuck, but if it wasn't fantastic.
After an eternity that managed to condense itself into what must have been only a matter of seconds, Nate pulled away, the light in his eyes playful and a little bit smug. He patted my left cheek twice, as if to jolt me out of catatonia, which I might have normally found an unfair presupposition, but it turned out that I kind of needed it, because I didn't even remember having stood up or circling my arms around him.
"Yup," I said, once I remembered how to form words. "That-- that leaves an impression."
Nate laughed softly, and I kissed him again, for the hell of it.
One of the girls at the other table did a "Whooo!" at us, and while I slowly shriveled up and died of embarrassment, Nate inclined his head toward her to acknowledge her approval.
"You guys are so cute together," our personal, onewoman cheerleading squad offered without provocation.
"Oh, thanks," Nate said, beaming, his fingers playing with the back hem of my shirt.
We chatted with the affable group, all Australians, for a few minutes, trading tips on what things to see and places to avoid. They invited us along on a day trip they were taking to another of the nearby islands, but Nate graciously declined for the both of us.
Once they left, we sat down again and Nate leaned forward conspiratorially. "We're
cute
together," he announced.
"In all fairness, I think that's mostly down to you. I'm just happy to be here."
Nate made a face at me. "Come on, I wouldn't have started flirting with you if I didn't think you were cute. Better than cute."
"Oh," I said, pausing with a fork of pineapple halfway to my mouth, "you really were flirting that day? When we first met? I didn't-- I can't tell these things."
"Yeah," he laughed. "I was definitely flirting. I noticed you right off the bat, and I said to myself, 'Self, you will regret it forever if you don't talk to him.' So I did."
"Huh," I said.
Nate cocked his head, his eyes narrowing. "You don't believe me, do you?"
I shrugged, making a noncommittal sound.
"Emory," he said sternly, "you're a very handsome young man."
"Well, now you just sound like my Aunt Catherine."
"Who is apparently a brilliant woman," Nate countered. He held up a hand to shush the clever rejoinder on the tip of my tongue. "We will discuss this no further. This court rules that Emory James is a comely young gentleman of stainless repute, and any indications otherwise will be subject to penalties by law."
It was my turn to narrow my eyes at him in bemusement. "You have problems."
"Yeah, well, you have a nice face," Nate said mildly.
I considered this for a moment. "This is unwinnable, isn't it?"
He nodded solemnly. "For you, yes. If you surrender now," he offered, "I won't go into raptures about how your eyes sparkle like the ocean on a clear day."
"Jesus Christ," I said.
Nate flashed me a grin, his foot hassling my shin persistently underneath the table. "I'll do it, man; don't think I won't. And I'll do it in front of people, too."
"You're ridiculous, you know?"
"And
you're
--"
"Okay, okay, okay." I waved my hands in front of his face. "I'm everything you say that I am and more, you weirdo. Will you shut up about my face now?"
He folded his hands neatly in his lap, his work done. "Yes. Now, eat up, there are escapades to be embarked upon."
In an attempt to get the last word in, I bounced a red grape off his head.
Nate narrowed his eyes. "That was uncalled for. This isn't a high school cafeteria, you know; you can't just start food fights whenever you feel like it."
"That's exactly the kind of talk I'd expect from someone with no ammunition," I said airily, plucking another grape from the bunch and lobbing it carelessly at him.
He tried to snare it out of the air with one hand but fumbled it, and it ended up squishing in his hand. He laughed, grabbing the napkin next to my plate to wipe off the juice, and tossed the used napkin at me.
"Wager," he said. "Next three grapes I will catch in my mouth."
"What if you don't?"
"Does it really matter?"
Agreeing that it didn't, we spent the next ten minutes laughing like idiots trying to throw grapes into each other's mouths from increasingly greater distances. The other people scattered about the restaurant would definitely remember us.
After a particularly skilled toss on my part, we left the table to go in search of scooters, ending up at the same rental place we'd gone to the first time. Now that I was sufficiently experienced in scooting, we took off with a minimum of fuss, a warm island breeze and the occasional bug on our faces.
Between the two of us we decimated the local supply of young coconuts by drinking about three thousand of them everywhere we went, pausing in our wanton destruction only to devour street food on sticks and photograph them beforehand, if we remembered.
By late afternoon we rolled up to a beach park the Australians had recommended to us, equal parts stunning seashore and lush vegetation. Nate unpacked his camera as soon as we parked and locked our scooters, indecision all over his face as the panorama unfolded itself to him, unable to even pick a place to start shooting.
I liked watching him at work, his intensity and passion out for all the world to see. He framed his pictures with careful precision, always aiming for the angle that gave him the best light. He'd shown me some of the photos he had taken today on his camera viewscreen, and though I'm not exactly a connoisseur of the fine arts, he was definitely wasted on the matrimonial services he usually did.
I left him to do his thing and eased myself onto the grass, drinking in the scenery. It was the kind that made people seriously consider leaving their jobs and lives. I could see the allure -- out here, even with the other tourists milling around, it was unbelievably serene; looking out onto the ocean felt like you were staring into glittering blue swathes of forever.
Plus, the coconuts were plentiful and delicious.
Nate ambled over eventually, juggling a variety of lenses as he reorganized his camera bag. "Hey," he said softly, and offered a hand to pull me up.
I resisted the urge to yank him down instead, and rose to my feet, brushing loose grass from my person. "Get what you wanted?"
"Yeah," he said. "Great view."
He held his hand out again, palm up this time.
"What?" I said.
"Portrait of a serial killer?" he said. "Sorry, I mean, portrait of a chiseled serial killer."
"Smirking doesn't become you," I said loftily, though I put up no additional resistance and surrendered my camera to him.
While he talked me through the basics of smiling, I wondered if I should ask to take a picture of him as well, for future reminiscences' sake. What we had here couldn't last; I'd remember it fondly, but it wasn't a forever kind of thing, and we both knew it.
It wasn't totally ideal, but I could live with it. After all, I'd tried the whole till-death-do-you-part thing with someone once, and what a spectacular failure that had been. Maybe it was just better to go with a till-vacation-ends-or-you-runout-of-money-do-you-part plan. Nobody would find you pitiful then, just cavalier.
Besides, I could go only so far with being somebody new. Vacations were all well and good for trying something different, but once I returned to all the trappings of my real life, there wouldn't be room for a new me. Whether I was old or new, I still had to deal with being dumped, being pitied, and being sad and occasionally thinking I would die alone. There was no way I could change myself enough to not be any of those things.
This, here, was just a one-off, a respite from myself. This wasn't really me, but I'd enjoy not being me while I could.
"You know, showing your teeth is a sign of aggression in chimps," I said, being a willfully intractable pupil.
He arched a single eyebrow at me, obviously unimpressed with my fine grasp of simian trivia. "And you just compared yourself to a chimpanzee."
"Yeah, well, you're the one who's attracted to me, so I think I'm the one who comes out on top in the end."
Nate laughed. "You're an idiot."
"Again," I said complacently, "you're the one who likes me."
He let out a loud, long-suffering sigh, theatrical, resigned to his fate. "I do like you."
"Yeah?" I said, spreading my arms open, littering gauntlets everywhere with impunity. "What are you gonna do about it?"
"I," Nate declared, "am going to make you smile."
He sauntered toward me in a manner that would probably be outlawed in some of the more conservative countries, his eyes hooded and dark as he stood with his face mere inches from mine. Our lips brushed briefly, barely a touch at all, but it still sent a frisson running through my veins.
"You can't do this every time you want me to agree with you, you know," I said, with what I thought was a valiant attempt at equanimity.
"I know," he said, and, out of nowhere, poked me in the side.
There was a loud squawk, which I am prepared to swear in front of a jury of my peers did not come from me, and I jumped away, laughing.
"Yes!" Nate crowed, pointing a victorious finger at me. "I knew you'd be ticklish."
"Wow," I said, rubbing my side. "That was low. Like intentionally hitting the batter low. You're going to pay for that, Harris. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but
soon
. I shall have my revenge."
"I look forward to it," he said brightly.
We strolled around a little bit more, mingling around some of the other park visitors, and he managed to get a proper picture of me, without me making a gargoyle face and without him harassing me about doing it wrong.
As we inspected the last picture, a middle-aged woman who had been standing nearby asked, "Would you like me to take one of you both?"
"Oh. Uh," I said.
"Yeah, that would be great," Nate filled in, handing my camera to her.
She made the universal gesture for
Stand closer together
, and I squished into Nate's side, my arm slung loosely around his shoulders, while his snaked around my waist, resting his hand at my hip.
When she passed the camera back, Nate fumbled with his bag strap and unhooked the camera bag from his neck. "Would you mind taking another one on this one, too?" he asked.
As he explained to her what to do on his vastly more complicated camera, I smiled to myself, pleased to know that I'd be a part of his future reminiscences as well.
We took the picture, and Nate checked the viewscreen. "Perfect," he murmured. "Thanks."
The woman smiled and gave us a friendly nod, going on her way.
Having absorbed our fill of paradise, Nate and I went back to get our scooters, and rode leisurely back toward base camp, stopping once along the way for a dinner of the cheapest and tastiest seafood I'd ever had the pleasure of stuffing my face with.
Once we dropped off our scooters, we headed toward the beach again, settling down at what I had dangerously begun to think of as
our
spot. Taking its cue, a sand crab scuttled away at our approach, vanishing into its burrow.
I dug my toes into the sand. We'd missed the sunset, but the ocean at dusk had its own enigmatic charm.
"So, um," said Nate, uncharacteristically diffident. "My flight leaves tomorrow morning."
Even though I knew this would come, at some point or another, something in my chest still coiled tightly, unpleasantly. "Oh," I said.
Nate trailed a finger along the length of my forearm. "I'm sorry I didn't say anything sooner, but I didn't want to have it hanging over our heads all day, you know?"
"Yeah," I said. "Yeah, I get that. I'm leaving in a couple of days too, anyway."
Now that it had come to it, saying goodbye was a lot harder than I'd thought it would be. How had I become so attached to a person in less than a week?
Nate looked at me. "What do you want to do?"
For all my intentions at being anyone else but me, I couldn't leave this to anyone
but
me. Practically speaking, I still knew next to nothing about Nate -- other than what we did for a living, we'd managed to exchange little personal information; I didn't know where he was from, or where he had grown up, or what his family was like, or his favorite color.
What all this boiled down to was simply a summer fling. Well, a slightly off-season fling since it's cheaper to fly during non-peak times, but still -- it was just a fling. A spectacular fling, as flings go, but never meant to last.