Hooking Up
Page 23
“Yes.”
“How in the world did that happen?”
“There aren’t a lot of flights to Bora Bora, I guess we just happened to book the same one.”
“I mean, why the hell is he in Bora Bora of all places?” It’s more a mutter than an actual question.
“He said it was last minute. I guess since his date was responsible for ruining my wedding he was getting out of Dodge.”
“So it wasn’t orchestrated?”
“Orchestrated? What do you mean?”
“Nothing, never mind. Bane is talking to Lex. It sounds like their father pushed a project that wasn’t supposed to happen for a few months forward because of Brittany Whore-ton’s dick gargling. That’s crazy that you’re in the same place at the same time. Too bad he’s not at the same resort as you.”
“It’s probably better he’s not. I’ve embarrassed myself around him enough as it is. I’d rather he not witness more of my drunk and disorderly behavior.” I’m fidgeting again.
“Come on, Amie, how wild of a coincidence is this? I mean really? How does that even happen?”
I’ve asked myself the same thing and I really can’t answer it. “It’s no big deal. He’s on the other side of the island.”
“For now. I can’t imagine he’ll stay at the same place the entire time. He’ll probably have to move around.” I can hear Bancroft in the background, his tone annoyed but the words too muffled to catch. “I’m glad he’s there. You said you have his number, right?”
“Yeah, but it’s not like I’m going to call him. He’s here on business. He’ll be busy.” The beta testing comment was just a joke, and he’s notoriously flirty. At least that’s what I’m going to keep telling myself. I have a feeling if I call him, I’m going to do exactly the same thing I did when I found him in my bridal suite, and I won’t have any kind of logical excuse for it other than the sheer desire to get him naked and ride him.
“At least you know someone local.”
“I guess that’s true.”
The driver pulls off the main road, and suddenly we’re in the cover of palm trees and the reception becomes shoddy. We try to talk around it, but it proves impossible. “Can I call you later, once I’m settled?”
“Of course. Have some fun and wear sunscreen!”
“I’ll do my best.”
I end the call as we pull up to the main resort building. In the distance the inactive volcano cuts deep green in to the backdrop of pale blue water and the white sand beach. I check into the resort and my bags are transferred into a golf cart. We make the short trip down a narrow path to my private hut tucked between the palm trees lining the water.
Once my bags are brought inside, I tip the concierge and then I’m left to take in the lavish accommodations.
While the exterior is quaint, the interior is sheer luxury. Rose petals dot the white comforter covering the king-size bed, a gauzy canopy lending a hint of privacy and sensuality. A living room with a couch and a TV is set to the left, a small kitchen with a table for two is positioned close to the sliding doors that lead outside. Beyond that is a massive bathroom, boasting a beautiful soaker tub.
I cross the bungalow and step out on to the private deck. The view is spectacular. It’s the perfect location. The perfect honeymoon. Except I’m alone. The anger and the sadness I’ve wavered between coalesces and becomes thicker; a sludge I feel stuck in.
I pull up the most recent voicemail from Armstrong and debate whether I want to hear what he has to say. I’ll have to listen to it eventually, so I bite the bullet and hit the play button:
“This is the fourth time I’ve called in the past twenty-four hours. This standoff is unhelpful, Amalie. Do you realize how embarrassing this is for me? How can I account for your disappearance? What will people think? Do you have any idea what they’re saying? I don’t know what else I can say or do to rectify this situation. As I’ve said before, it was an unintentional mishap. Haven’t you made mistakes in the past? Surely you can find it in your heart to forgive me this transgression.”
“You’re the fucking mistake.” I delete it so I don’t succumb to the temptation to stew in my own idiocy and listen to it again. In all the messages he’s sent he continually mentions forgiveness, but it seems like he doesn’t actually care about the forgiveness part, it’s just about saving face. It’s disgusting and appalling. There’s no excuse for what he’s done.
The view grows blurry as the tears break free. I step off the deck and sink into the sand, wishing this wasn’t my life, and that I didn’t feel so empty.
* * *
Bora Bora is incredible. The resort is beautiful. It’s also the absolute worst place for a rejected bride. There’s a reason why this hotel is touted as the most romantic honeymoon destination in the world. Because those are the only people here. Happy couples in love greet me at every turn. Gorgeous, sexy people kiss and hold hands and stroll the beaches. They sit across from me at every meal and feed each other chocolate-dipped strawberries. I can literally feel people’s pity. There’s no escaping the humiliation or the loneliness.
For the first twenty-four hours, the concierge kept asking after my husband. I may or may not have accidentally said he was probably off getting a blow job, so he was unlikely to arrive anytime soon.
Three days in and I’m miserable. It doesn’t matter how beautiful my surroundings are, the endless happiness of other couples celebrating their love is painful to witness, in part because I’m alone, but also because over the past few days I’ve begun to truly accept the awful mistake I made in marrying Armstrong. I should’ve trusted my instincts and not listened to my mother, because I need to face reality.
The truth is, I married Armstrong because I got wrapped up in the idea of a perfect love instead of trying to find the real thing. I wanted this to work so badly that I allowed him to dictate my choices, not just for the wedding, but in every single part of my life.
It was so much bigger than just manipulating what I wore and ate, although that was definitely part of it. He was subtle in his manipulations, making comments about how things looked on me, what was appropriate and what wasn’t.
All of the things he said and did were meant to make me question myself and undermine my confidence. Worse than that is the way I let him drag me down and make me feel less—less important, less valued, less than good enough. If I had stayed with him I would’ve continually questioned my worth and I probably would’ve ended up falling down a rabbit hole of self-loathing filled with Botox injections and insecurity.
I should’ve taken Ruby’s concerns seriously, but I didn’t and now here I am, alone on my honeymoon, wishing I could go back in time and erase the past year of my life. But I can’t. So this loneliness is my present.
Messages from Armstrong have been constant. It appears my brother made an attempt to deliver the annulment papers a couple of days ago according to one of Armstrong’s many voicemails.
“Annulment papers, Amalie? Honestly? Don’t you think that’s rash? It’s imperative that we have a reasonable discussion, but it doesn’t appear I’ll be able to do that face-to-face with you considering you’re on our honeymoon. Don’t think I didn’t notice the charges on my credit card for the new bathing suit! Or the other items you’ve purchased. I know you went. Do you have my passport? You’re making this extraordinarily difficult.”
“How in the world did that happen?”
“There aren’t a lot of flights to Bora Bora, I guess we just happened to book the same one.”
“I mean, why the hell is he in Bora Bora of all places?” It’s more a mutter than an actual question.
“He said it was last minute. I guess since his date was responsible for ruining my wedding he was getting out of Dodge.”
“So it wasn’t orchestrated?”
“Orchestrated? What do you mean?”
“Nothing, never mind. Bane is talking to Lex. It sounds like their father pushed a project that wasn’t supposed to happen for a few months forward because of Brittany Whore-ton’s dick gargling. That’s crazy that you’re in the same place at the same time. Too bad he’s not at the same resort as you.”
“It’s probably better he’s not. I’ve embarrassed myself around him enough as it is. I’d rather he not witness more of my drunk and disorderly behavior.” I’m fidgeting again.
“Come on, Amie, how wild of a coincidence is this? I mean really? How does that even happen?”
I’ve asked myself the same thing and I really can’t answer it. “It’s no big deal. He’s on the other side of the island.”
“For now. I can’t imagine he’ll stay at the same place the entire time. He’ll probably have to move around.” I can hear Bancroft in the background, his tone annoyed but the words too muffled to catch. “I’m glad he’s there. You said you have his number, right?”
“Yeah, but it’s not like I’m going to call him. He’s here on business. He’ll be busy.” The beta testing comment was just a joke, and he’s notoriously flirty. At least that’s what I’m going to keep telling myself. I have a feeling if I call him, I’m going to do exactly the same thing I did when I found him in my bridal suite, and I won’t have any kind of logical excuse for it other than the sheer desire to get him naked and ride him.
“At least you know someone local.”
“I guess that’s true.”
The driver pulls off the main road, and suddenly we’re in the cover of palm trees and the reception becomes shoddy. We try to talk around it, but it proves impossible. “Can I call you later, once I’m settled?”
“Of course. Have some fun and wear sunscreen!”
“I’ll do my best.”
I end the call as we pull up to the main resort building. In the distance the inactive volcano cuts deep green in to the backdrop of pale blue water and the white sand beach. I check into the resort and my bags are transferred into a golf cart. We make the short trip down a narrow path to my private hut tucked between the palm trees lining the water.
Once my bags are brought inside, I tip the concierge and then I’m left to take in the lavish accommodations.
While the exterior is quaint, the interior is sheer luxury. Rose petals dot the white comforter covering the king-size bed, a gauzy canopy lending a hint of privacy and sensuality. A living room with a couch and a TV is set to the left, a small kitchen with a table for two is positioned close to the sliding doors that lead outside. Beyond that is a massive bathroom, boasting a beautiful soaker tub.
I cross the bungalow and step out on to the private deck. The view is spectacular. It’s the perfect location. The perfect honeymoon. Except I’m alone. The anger and the sadness I’ve wavered between coalesces and becomes thicker; a sludge I feel stuck in.
I pull up the most recent voicemail from Armstrong and debate whether I want to hear what he has to say. I’ll have to listen to it eventually, so I bite the bullet and hit the play button:
“This is the fourth time I’ve called in the past twenty-four hours. This standoff is unhelpful, Amalie. Do you realize how embarrassing this is for me? How can I account for your disappearance? What will people think? Do you have any idea what they’re saying? I don’t know what else I can say or do to rectify this situation. As I’ve said before, it was an unintentional mishap. Haven’t you made mistakes in the past? Surely you can find it in your heart to forgive me this transgression.”
“You’re the fucking mistake.” I delete it so I don’t succumb to the temptation to stew in my own idiocy and listen to it again. In all the messages he’s sent he continually mentions forgiveness, but it seems like he doesn’t actually care about the forgiveness part, it’s just about saving face. It’s disgusting and appalling. There’s no excuse for what he’s done.
The view grows blurry as the tears break free. I step off the deck and sink into the sand, wishing this wasn’t my life, and that I didn’t feel so empty.
* * *
Bora Bora is incredible. The resort is beautiful. It’s also the absolute worst place for a rejected bride. There’s a reason why this hotel is touted as the most romantic honeymoon destination in the world. Because those are the only people here. Happy couples in love greet me at every turn. Gorgeous, sexy people kiss and hold hands and stroll the beaches. They sit across from me at every meal and feed each other chocolate-dipped strawberries. I can literally feel people’s pity. There’s no escaping the humiliation or the loneliness.
For the first twenty-four hours, the concierge kept asking after my husband. I may or may not have accidentally said he was probably off getting a blow job, so he was unlikely to arrive anytime soon.
Three days in and I’m miserable. It doesn’t matter how beautiful my surroundings are, the endless happiness of other couples celebrating their love is painful to witness, in part because I’m alone, but also because over the past few days I’ve begun to truly accept the awful mistake I made in marrying Armstrong. I should’ve trusted my instincts and not listened to my mother, because I need to face reality.
The truth is, I married Armstrong because I got wrapped up in the idea of a perfect love instead of trying to find the real thing. I wanted this to work so badly that I allowed him to dictate my choices, not just for the wedding, but in every single part of my life.
It was so much bigger than just manipulating what I wore and ate, although that was definitely part of it. He was subtle in his manipulations, making comments about how things looked on me, what was appropriate and what wasn’t.
All of the things he said and did were meant to make me question myself and undermine my confidence. Worse than that is the way I let him drag me down and make me feel less—less important, less valued, less than good enough. If I had stayed with him I would’ve continually questioned my worth and I probably would’ve ended up falling down a rabbit hole of self-loathing filled with Botox injections and insecurity.
I should’ve taken Ruby’s concerns seriously, but I didn’t and now here I am, alone on my honeymoon, wishing I could go back in time and erase the past year of my life. But I can’t. So this loneliness is my present.
Messages from Armstrong have been constant. It appears my brother made an attempt to deliver the annulment papers a couple of days ago according to one of Armstrong’s many voicemails.
“Annulment papers, Amalie? Honestly? Don’t you think that’s rash? It’s imperative that we have a reasonable discussion, but it doesn’t appear I’ll be able to do that face-to-face with you considering you’re on our honeymoon. Don’t think I didn’t notice the charges on my credit card for the new bathing suit! Or the other items you’ve purchased. I know you went. Do you have my passport? You’re making this extraordinarily difficult.”
