How to Honeymoon Alone

“Yeah,” he mutters and runs a hand through his dark hair. It’s wet at the ends, as if he’s just had a shower. The dark mood radiates from him like a cloud.

“You told me to wait for you in the lobby,” I say quietly. “I’m sorry it made us late, but I’m not going to let that ruin our day. Are you?”

He pulls the door open to the car and doesn’t answer. It’s like he’s back to his asshole ways, and I’m not having it. I’ve got enough of my own shit to handle.

“Because if you are, I’d rather not go,” I say. “Thanks, though.”

His hand on my arm stops me. “Wait. I shouldn’t have… I won’t let it ruin the day.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” His jaw works, just once. “I’m sorry, Eden. It’s just been a long day already.”

“Okay, then. Let’s try to make the rest of it good.”

He nods and lets his hand fall back to his side. But the expression on his face doesn’t change, and the serious lines remain etched into the handsomeness.

I get into the back of the car. So far, this trip has been very little lying on the beach doing nothing, and a hell of a lot of risk-taking. Which is probably what I need. Looking back on the past few years and my relationship with Caleb, we took remarkably few risks. Maybe, if we’d have taken more together, he might not have gone out seeking some of his own.

I can hear Becky in my mind, admonishing me for the thought. She doesn’t like to talk about the why’s behind Caleb and Cindy’s actions. In some ways, she’s even angrier than me, because she has no hurt feelings involved to temper the fury. Not like me, who’d needed explanations. In the beginning, it had been all I’d craved.

Just tell me why. Why, why, why?

Of course, there had been no why. No explanations that fit, no justifications that I could accept.

Beside me in the car, Phillip is quiet. He’s looking out the window. I wonder about his dark mood. He was supposed to have been on this trip with his fiancée, or rather his wife after the wedding, so if they broke up right before… what’s he thinking and feeling?

The taxi takes us through the shifting landscape of Barbados. Away from the main road with hotels and restaurants and into the interior of the island. We drive past a golf course and come up on sugarcane fields, stretching as far as the eye could see.

During the wondrous trip, I forget all about the man beside me and his terrible mood.

I’m in a foreign country, with new sights, culture, and history to explore, and my eyes are glued to the passing landscape. The music on the car radio shifts to an upbeat soca song, and I can’t stop the wide smile stretching across my face.

The driver pulls into a beautiful driveway, leading to a large stone mansion. The name of the rum company is proudly displayed across oak barrels by the entrance.

We’re greeted by a smiling young woman with long black braids falling in an intricate pattern down her back.

“Mr. and Mrs. Meyer,” she says. “I’m Angela, and I’ll be your tour guide today. I’m happy to welcome you to the property. We’ll start with a tour of the grounds before heading to the distillery. How does that sound?”

Phillip and I both nod, neither of us correcting her. Of course, this tour was meant for Phillip and his bride. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye as we follow the hostess. He looks more relaxed now than he did in the car, but there’s still something unreadable in his expression.

“So?” our tour guide asks over her shoulder. “What do you know about the history of rum?”

Not much, it turns out. She seems delighted by that and launches into the story while we walk across the beautiful grounds. She takes us to a platform by a vast sugarcane field, lets us sample raw sugarcane, and weaves in the history of the property.

We finally escape the blazing sun by entering the large building that houses the distillery.

“Feeling better now?” I whisper to Phillip, as we pause in front of a giant steel watt of distilled alcohol.

He looks at me sideways, his eyes narrow. Does he need clarification?

“Your bad mood?” I add.

He’s quiet for a long beat, long enough that I wonder if he won’t reply at all. But then, his shoulder nudges mine. “I’m better. But I’m looking forward to the tasting.”

I chuckle, but stop when our tour guide ushers us onward. I take as many pictures as I can. Phillip doesn’t ask this time, just extends his hand for my phone, and I pose in front of a giant copper tub.

We see the barrels, learn about the different vintages, and the fermentation and aging processes. Phillip asks a couple of detailed questions about the distilling methods, his arms crossed over his chest.

I can’t resist commenting on that. “If I didn’t know better,” I tell him as we walk back toward the main house, “I’d think you were a teacher’s pet in school, too.”

He’s wearing sunglasses and I can’t see his eyes, but a smile curves his lips. “I was valedictorian once.”

My mouth opens. “You were?”

“Told you I was competitive,” he says, and there’s a touch of joking arrogance in his voice. It makes me smile.

Our tour guide drops us on the deck of the main house, overlooking a beautiful garden of native plants. She hands us off to the bartender and tasting guide, Ryan, who presents us with four glasses of rum, each a different blend.

And they’re not small glasses, either.

I follow Ryan’s instructions, carefully sampling one after the other. The alcohol burns going down my throat, and by the end, my head has taken on a light cottony feeling.

“These portions are too big,” I tell Ryan. He’s got closely cropped hair and brown skin, offsetting a pair of light eyes behind wire-frame glasses. Judging from his explanation of each vintage’s flavor profile, this isn’t just his job, but his passion.

“They’re Bajan-sized,” he says with a chuckle. “I use rum in everything. Cakes, cookies, barbecue marinade, potato salad. I even used it in my cereal once.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. Curdles milk, though. It might be one of the few things not improved with rum.”

At the end of the official tasting, we get two cocktails each. A planter’s punch and a rum sour, both served in beautiful glasses with garnishes. Ryan tells us we can stay as long as we want and brings out a small bowl of chips before leaving us in the shade in our half-drunken state.

I lean back in the chair. “God, that was a lot of rum.”

“We’ve got two drinks left.”

“I don’t often drink this much. Especially, not rum. Not that there’s anything wrong with rum, you know. It’s a great liquor.”

“Ryan’s not listening,” Phillip says.

I chuckle. “You’re funny sometimes, you know, when you’re not being curt.” Then, I frown. “Not that you’re… sorry.”

He takes off his sunglasses. There’s a glint in his eyes that makes it clear he’s not unaffected by the rum, either. “No, I told you I like honesty. And I was an asshole earlier.”

“Okay. Then, yeah, you kinda were.”

He runs a hand over the back of his neck. “I get that way sometimes, especially about punctuality. It’s not something I’m proud of.”Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.