The darkness of the long hallway leading between the lobby of the hotel and the extensive veranda on the rear overlooking the Pacific was cut by shafts of white sunlight through the arch-framed windows that lined the corridor. In the late afternoon, each beam of light was alive with particles of dust that moved endlessly, illuminated as if on stage. Outside, she could hear the noise of the ocean and the occasional shriek of a child, interrupted by the endless ticking, clicking, and hissing of the sprinklers on the grass of the lawn. The sound reminded her of her ten-speed bike, the one she'd gained scars on her knees from, learning to ride by herself without anyone there to teach her.
Inside the hotel, it was very dark between the spotlights of the windows, and Sydney drifted slowly between them, rubbing her knuckles gently along the stucco wall. She was alternately blinded by the light in front of the windows, and then blinded with the spots the light made her see in between them. There was no hurry to get back outside in the sunshine. Her shoulders and nose were already peeling a little from the time they'd spent lying on the beach, drunk on tequila and each other. Freckles had emerged across her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose, which she hated. He liked it, of course.
"I've never noticed your freckles—they're cute," he'd shrugged, and then he'd kissed sloppily her on her cheekbone as if to prove it. He was getting freckles too, across the top of his back and on his shoulders.
He was still outside, waiting for her. Her headache had reached critical mass, and she had gone inside to take some painkillers. As she'd splashed water on her face in the bathroom, the sight of herself in the large oval mirror had surprised her: how dark her skin had become in such a short time, her long hair ropey from the saltwater. She'd pulled aside her bikini top a little to inspect the difference in skin tones, pale cream against sun-soaked, the white cotton of her skirt startling against the brown of her thighs. Her appearance had never obsessed her, but now she stared at her image, transfixed as if she were looking at someone else. She felt like someone else: married, on vacation. Who'd have thought?
Married.
She reached the end of the hallway, where it let out into the clubhouse room that lead to the back patio. Just as she stepped down onto the brown Spanish tile, she felt the hairs on her neck stand on end.
What was that? It had happened now three times since they'd arrived 4 days ago, and each time she'd whirled around to find herself staring at nothing, no one watching or following her. She was tired of being paranoid, of being ever watchful. They had taken precautions, but you could never be too careful in this business. Sometimes she half-expected him to turn to her one day and tell her that his name wasn't Michael, that it was something else entirely.
Back outside into the blinding light, she felt the shiver disappear, and she flicked her sunglasses down onto her nose. Her cute freckled nose, she smiled.
1:47 AM, the clock read.
Her headache had not subsided, despite a temporary respite that she suspected was brought on by their lovemaking earlier in the evening. His breathing beside her was deep, even. She envied his ability to sleep, but it was not something he could teach her. Maybe a walk could clear her head, get some fresh air.
The hotel staff had warned them of the dangers of the local environment, and they'd nodded politely but neither had heeded the warnings.
Tonight the moon was nearly full as she walked along the edge of the ocean, far from the hotel. Her feet sank into the damp sand at the edge of the line where the ocean lapped at the beach. There was a light breeze, and it prickled her arms into goose bumps as she walked deliberately, one foot in front of the other.
She wished they could stay forever.
Back in the hotel, she padded barefoot down the hallway, now shot through with moonbeams, when she felt the sensation again.
She whipped around, and there, between two patches of moonlight, he was.
"Hello, Sydney."
Her mouth opened a little, but she closed it almost immediately and swallowed hard. She must've walked right past him in her daze. He was leaning against the wall.
"Sark—what are you doing here?"
"I might ask you the same thing," he said with a tiny smile, "I saw you walking outside—I didn't realize you were a guest here as well."
"I'm on my honeymoon," she whispered. "Stay away from me."
Now he smirked, "Your honeymoon? Well, let me be the first to offer my congratulations to you and… I suppose it is Vaughn you're here with?"
She gave him a withering look, but said softly, "Yes."
Even in the blue cast of the moonlight, she could tell he was very tan, and that his blonde hair, still close-cropped, was nearly white-gold from the sun. It made her uneasy to think that they might enjoy the same things. Sun. Sleep. He was wearing flip-flops. Flip-flops.
"Are you here with someone?" she heard herself ask without really consciously deciding to ask the question.
His smirk broadened. "No one… special," his teeth were very white in the darkness, "But I am certainly not without… companionship."
"Then maybe you should go enjoy it, and stop following me around." With that, she turned on her heel and marched straight back to their room, where she was safe. She heard him chuckle behind her in the darkness.
As she closed the door behind her and leaned heavily on the handle, she noticed—her headache was gone.
