It was one of those hotels that had a cheesy, alliterated name that made the corners of your mouth twist up in the very slightest: not necessarily because the pun was funny, but rather the fact that it existed and no one had the motivation to change it. I hadn't made a reservation, but I didn't think that would matter that much from the sole, battered red pick-up in the parking lot. Needless to say, I didn't think this island got many visitors. There was a bell on the door, and it pealed cheerfully when I entered. The interior of the joint was just like the exterior: faded, peeling, but radiating an aura of tranquility. I could smell some fish platter cooking in the kitchen to the right, mingling with the hush tones of two conversing inside. It sounded like they were arguing about the quality of the ingredients. There was a teenager managing the front desk, her hair a strange gradient of peroxide blonde and dark honey, like she hadn't gone to the salon in a while.
"Hi there," I greeted her, "I've come to book a room?"
She smiled widely, and the blatant show of emotion surprised me. "'Course ya have, hunny. The room's four hundred G a night, can ya afford that?" She tilted her head expectantly, long, mascara-ed eye lashes sweeping as she blinked. I nodded, and she smiled again, her teeth not quite straight. "M'kay, I jus' need to put ya on the ledger. Your name, hunny?" The ledger happened to be a random scrap of paper she dug out from a holey pocket in her jeans, but I provided my name anyway, like this hotel was the Waldorf Astoria.
"Angela Bonaccorsi."
The girl arched a brow, looking up from the scrap. "I think I'll just put Angela B., m'kay?"
I exhaled amusedly, and, feeling awkward, surveyed the room once again. Nothing of interest caught my eye. My gaze returned to the girl. The scrap had gone, God knows where, and now she was eyeing me nervously. Obviously, she was new to serving customers. "Um, what's your name?" I offered.
"Maya," she answered, warming up immediately, "And please, if you will, don't judge me from this stupid place." Maya flung a hand carelessly over the faded scenery and leaned into our conversation. "As soon as Chase will dig his head out of the sand and smell the perfume, I'ma gonna get married and me an' him are goin' to the city to start a restaurant of our own. I told Chase this, and he only scoffed and said: 'If we were ever to get married, which we won't, and if we were going to the city, and start our own restaurant, then I'd do all the cooking, 'cause you can burn a salad.' Well I got all offended, ya see, 'cause honestly, that was a one time occasion--"
"Maya!" Someone's piercing voice called from upstairs, "Are you talking some customer's ear off?"
Maya sighed an age-old sigh. "No, Daddy! I'm just making polite conversation."
Heavy footsteps followed, and a graying man appeared at the bottom of the stairs. His gaze instantly fixated on me, and he groaned. Before he could speak, an elderly lady whose white hair had a strange pink tinge to it now stood in the doorway of the kitchen.
"Jake!", she shouted, and I wondered if anyone on this Island knew any volume below ear-splitting, "Where's Colleen? I need to talk to her about these vegetables. They're ridiculous." She waved a squashed-looking tomato above her head for visual aid. I smirked at the absurdity.
The man, apparently Jake, looked cross. "She's in the laundry room, busy. And please, mother, we have a customer."
The pink-haired lady turned to me, noticing me for the first time. I couldn't help but smile internally at her exceptional observational skills. She gave me an once-over. "Hello there. Name's Yolanda." 'Yolanda' attempted to smile; thin painted lips curling around long white teeth. She threw a glare over to Maya. "Hope my granddaughter hadn't been annoying you." Maya huffed out of the corner of my eye.
"Nope," I smiled, "She's been lovely. I was just learning of her plans to flee to the city to start her own gourmet restaurant--though, I understand, no salads will be served."
Yolanda burst out into barking laughter at that, Jake cracked a smile and even Maya, have gotten over her indignation, and started to giggle after a couple of seconds.
"Oh, I like you, girl!" Yolanda chortled, not unlike a mother hen, and I smiled slightly.
Maybe this would work out. But even as I thought this, I was reminded of what had made me leave the city in the first place, and the smile dropped off my face in an instant.
I had come to the Island to attend my friend Anissa's wedding as the maid-of-honor. Honestly, I hated weddings. Well, not necessarily weddings, but any celebration of love in general. Because of this, my most sarcastic and cynical side was at its prime when I returned to the Inn somewhere between the hours of eleven PM and one AM. In my drunken haze, I decided—because my logic is purely flawless when 'under the influence'—to order another blueberry cocktail, for old times sake. I had visited the island a few years ago for a summer, but only to see Anissa; I had never become that acquainted within anyone excepted Anissa, Irene -- the elderly lady who managed the walk-in clinic where Anissa worked -- and a few others. Even though Irene had always put on this tough, health-maniac exterior, she secretly liked to nurse a blueberry cocktail in the wee hours of the morning. She and I had once stayed up until dawn cackling and sipping at the blue liquid.
A boy whose head was adorned with shiny, peach-colored locks that stood out on all sides of his head save for one bunch that was held back with three bobby-pins served me. The whole time his nose was in the air, his eyes full of contempt—probably at my state of inebriety. I arched an eyebrow at him as I cradled the margarita and counted coins on the counter—I'm a great multi-tasker like that. "Would it kill you to smile?" I asked him drolly.
"Quite possibly," he replied without missing a beat. He reached for a foggy glass, fresh from the dishwater, and started to polish it with the faded rag.
"You wouldn't happen to be Chase, the guy destined to be the future co-owner of Maya's no-salad restaurant?" I prodded.
"Yeah," he replied, eyes fixated on the glass in his hands. I had never thought about it: but apparently, drying glasses must be an exceptionally entertaining activity for socially retarded jerks who can't muster up the manners to be the tiniest bit polite.
"I'm Angela," I offered, "Friends call me Ange."
"Well I guess I won't be calling you Ange anytime soon," he snapped, and turned his back to me.
Woah. Either I had become really bad at taking a hint, or this guy was touchy. "Erm, 'scuse me," I protested, "I was only trying to be a decent human being and all that. I know it's a bit outdated, but don't ya think it's just bad taste to throw it back into my face?"
Chase turned again to face me, his scowl like the scowl a kitten might have if their favorite feather-toy consistently flew out of their reach. "Why should I be nice to the annoying girl at the bar?"
I smirked at him and said sardonically, "'Cause my money is the stuff filling your paycheck."
His expression hardly changed. "Are you flirting with me?" The question caught me off guard, and before I could restrain my features my eyebrows had vanished into my hairline, my eyes had widened so that they were the size of platters and not just plates, and my mouth had publicly set up practice as an official fly-catcher.
I shook my head, furiously, trying to shake the notion out of my memory. Then I was laughing, laughing like something had snapped in my brain when that peachy-haired waiter/cook guy accused me with flirting with him. After a long, hilarious minute, sanity crept back in, not quite mended and still dangerously fragile.
"You must really be socially retarded," I managed to say between the random bouts of giggles that seized me whenever I glanced at him, "If you think me, drunk, being the sarcastic bitch that I am when I'm drunk, is flirtin'! Flirtin'!"
I was laughing again, and the Inn blurred before my eyes. I vaguely remember leaving the bar to go upstairs—having a minor dispute with the doorknob of the door of my room that ended with me accusing it of being in cahoots with the devil right before I remembered how to twist my wrist. My brain works like that.
After that, I woke up to a not-quite-endless-white ceiling. It was more of a faded, brown-tinted white that was chipped every now and again. Same difference.
Three weddings, I had promised myself so long ago after that very first boy broke up with me. Three weddings and then it had to be my turn to stand at the alter. I never was any good at keeping promises.
Anissa's wedding had been the fourth.
Needless to say, I was in one of those 'I'm old and single' moods all day long. If I were at home I would've buried myself in my studies, but I was on vacation, the time where you didn't have to think or worry about anything. And just because I'm naturally rebellious, I started thinking about my love life. Whoop-dee-doo. Because of this I was already feeling kind of 'meh' when the fat squirrel they called Mayor Hamilton cornered me at lunchtime.
"You look strong," was the first thing he said to me. I just assumed he was one of those perverted, desperate old men who hit on twenty-something girls, so I merely flashed my gaze up to his face and back down to the book I was reading. Though it was only the smallest of glances, I saw all that I would ever need to in order to perceive exactly what Hamilton was and forever would be: pathetic with his doe eyes, ridiculous with his unnaturally large nose, and sweaty, and right about here I would provide a description, but for your sake and mine, I'll just leave it up to your imagination. Don't imagine too hard or too vividly, though.
"Thank you," I muttered, and set my mouth into a hard line, trying to look as unsociable as possible. It wasn't that hard: I had a hangover from the night before and generally looked unpleasant anyway. My infamous grimace, however, did not deter Hamilton.
"I bet you could water five rows of crops in under three minutes."
Was that a pick-up line? I bet it stood for something—though, I didn't really think farming innuendo existed. Then again, you could never tell in these small towns.
When I didn't respond, he just got right down to the point, "I've got three farms to sell and one of 'em's got your name on it."
My eyes finally strayed upward to meet his determined gaze. "And what name would that be?" I asked, trying to buy time for myself to think by being purposefully dense.
"Why Angela B. of course!" he exclaimed happily, though I couldn't imagine where he got his enthusiasm. I quickly shot a glance at Maya who was standing near a peachy-haired boy—I couldn't remember his name, Honest-to-God--at the other end of the room. She rolled her eyes and flipped her hair 'nonchalantly' into the boy's face. His nose wrinkled and that familiar kitten-pout appeared.
I stifled a giggle and returned my attention to Hamilton, who was in the concluding sentences of what had appeared to be a long monologue. "So my dear Angela B., would you like to stay on the Island?"
I looked at Hamilton, actually looked twice at him with his pathetic-ness and his ridiculousness and his sweat, and I shook my head. "No," I said laying my book on the table, and he deflated. "At least," I amended, "Not now. I need time to think it over. A few weeks, maybe a season. I'll have an answer then."
That was good enough for Hamilton, and he soon left to buy a dish of omelet rice at the counter—omelet rice? What the hell was that? Putting all suspicious-sounding egg dishes aside, my brain latched onto a new memory.
I need time to think it over.
Instantly I scoffed at the irony. And just this morning I had resolved for this trip to be a trip of no deep thought. Oh well, guess my mind just has that rebellious streak that even I can't reign in, I mentally shrugged and went back to my book. I had only read three words before someone cleared their throat.
Looking up, that someone was an awfully familiar waiter/cook from last night. And I still couldn't remember his name. Caleb? Charlie? Chad? Something with a Ch…
"I don't know how they do it in the city, but here it is customary to greet someone when they are right in front of you," said the Cook.
I arched an eyebrow mockingly, but then winced as my head cried out in protest. "Well, greet me then. Don't just stand there spouting off the technicalities of good manners or whatever." The Cook scowled unattractively, and I could tell he didn't have a comeback to that one because that's all he did—scowl. Then I remembered. "You're name's Chase!" I exclaimed, pointing at him with a short, cropped fingernail. I never was one for manicures.
This time he raised an eyebrow. "Indeed."
I pouted. "No need to be all dry like that. I was drunk; I forgot."
I noticed his eyes were the color of amethysts as they widened, interested. "What do you remember…from last night?" I nearly laughed at his attempt to be subtle.
I did laugh, though, as I answered, "Enough to know that no, we didn't sleep together, and yes, you thought I was flirting with you. And it was hilarious," I teased him with my smile. He reddened, and it only made me smile wider. It had been awhile since I ever made a boy blush—fourth grade, to be exact. Or maybe third. Whatever.
Chase glared at me hotly. "Just for a minute, can we pretend that I have a socially retarded twin brother who said those things to you and you won't think any less of me?"
Snorting, "Why would my opinion matter to you? I'm just another annoying girl at the bar."
He grimaced. "I'm serious for once." I arched an eyebrow, challenging him. "Fine. Jake told me to be nice to you." Chase admitted it like it was a grand, self-sacrificing secret.
I laughed. "You don't have to, if you don't want to—and I'm sure you don't want to. I'm quite content with my book."
For a second, he appeared unnerved—like he really didn't expect me to wave him off so without any hesitation. God, he was arrogant. He had the kind of arrogance that you saw in movies—you never actually though it existed in real life. But after that instant was over, a sort of blank, detached quality consumed his expression. "What are you reading?" Chase asked. It was strange; his words didn't match his tone. They, themselves, could be considered interested. He had work to do; he had no reason to stick around when I'd dismissed him. But his tone was…distant.
"Terry Pratchett," I answered absently.
"Mmm," he acknowledged, and after a few moments of silence, walked away. I relaxed, and smirked at some witty pun weaved in the book's pages. There was a relative quiet in the Inn; the only sounds being Yolanda's slightly crazed mutterings about ingredients and Maya's too-cheerful-to-be-tolerable humming and the slight clang of Chase stirring. It was the calm before the storm—the storm, by and by, I would come to know as 'Luke.'