iii. And La Marguerite
The early morning Caribbean sun is just starting to stream in through the slits of the wooden blinds when she rolls off of him. He quickly follows, trailing after the breathy moan coming from her perfect mouth. She sighs into his demanding kiss and digs her nails into his shoulder. He sometimes thinks that those crescent-shaped marks deserve to be branded into his skin forever so he would never forget her, but then he rolls his eyes. Like he could ever forget her, even if he wanted to.
She might not be permanently etched onto his body, but no one and nothing that came before or will come after her could make him feel like this. He tries to think back, but the feel of her smooth, warm skin against his makes his brain turn to a jellyfish in the flowing ocean waves. He tries to remember if he ever felt this way with Haley. He knows it's cruel, to compare these two women who couldn't be any more different.
He decides that Haley never made him feel so loved, so capable of giving his love. He's never felt so alive, except when he's with her. She was right, that night on the beach when she confessed that he made her forget the worst parts. He doesn't know what parts she forgets when she's with him, but when he's with her, the worst of humanity doesn't seem real.
She lets out a light chime of laughter when she pushes his shoulder back again. "We need to get up, Aaron."
He buries his face in her neck and sucks a slight red mark onto the crease between her shoulder blade before she climbs out of bed, shamelessly and gloriously naked.
"But you don't need to work today," he argues. "We could stay in bed all day, all night, all tomorrow morning before we have to go in to the bar."
She just lets out another giggle and throws him his swim trunks from her wicker chair.
"No way, mister. I'm teaching you how to surf today!" She slips on her black bikini bottoms and adjusts the ties on her hips. He stares in fascination at the thin strings holding the piece together. She shimmies into her top and a sundress as he kicks his legs over the side of the bed and pulls on his swim trunks.
"Emily," he starts and he realizes he never wants to stop saying her name. He catches her eye and forces himself to swallow the thick, instinctual hesitation in his throat. "How do you feel about moving back to the States? With me."
She stares, eyes wide with terror like an animal caught in a trap. For as long as he lives, he will never forget her. But he will also never forget the look on her face when she simply says, "No."
He never does learn how to surf.