HARLEM
The sunlight bounces lazily off the turquoise waves, and I swear it’s mocking for being so deep in thought on a day this perfect. I take a slow sip of my margarita and sigh, the salt on the rim stinging my lips just a little, like the universe reminding to stop thinking so much.
I’m lounging on a beach chair in a two-piece bikini and a pair of oversized sunglasses shielding my eyes. Briannon and Renee flank like the queens they are; Bri, with her bright red toenails digging into the sand, and Renee, completely engrossed in her phone, probably texting so new "investnt banker" she t at the bar last night.
I should be out there with the others, splashing in the water, laughing, pretending to not be thinking about a man, but this lounge chair feels like ho. The heat on my skin, the sound of the waves, it’s peace I haven’t felt in years.
Except I can’t stop thinking about Ezra.
It’s been five days since I last saw him. Five awkward, confusing, emotionally constipated days. He’s been avoiding , or maybe I’ve been avoiding him. I can’t tell anymore. All I know is, he hasn’t co by, and I don’t even know which of the countless resort villas is his to go check. Not that I would, of course.
I sigh again. "Girl, relax," I whisper to myself. But my brain never listens. That’s when a shadow falls across , blocking my sunlight.
I lower my sunglasses and look up; Tyrone. Tall, tanned, curls that look like sin, holding a glass of sothing citrusy. The kind of man who doesn’t just walk; he arrives.
"Miss Tamrin," he says, voice like velvet. "Fancy eting you here. How have you been, might I ask?"
Before I can answer, Briannon nearly chokes on her drink beside . She slides her sunglasses down her nose, staring at him like he just descended from heaven. Renee doesn’t even glance up from her phone.
"Oh... hello," I manage, sitting up slightly. "I’ve been fine, thank you, Tyrone." He smirks, all charm and mystery. "That’s good to hear. Though, I think my friend might be broken. Do you happen to know why?"
I blink. My heart drops. "Uhm, no. Not really," I mutter. He studies my face for a mont, eyes gleaming with unspoken aning. "I see. Well, don’t let interrupt your relaxing, Miss Tamrin." He gives a polite nod, turns, and strolls away like he didn’t just throw a verbal grenade at .
"Was that a threat?" I whisper under my breath. Briannon gapes. "Who was THAT?"
"A friend of a friend," I say too quickly. She watches his retreating back. "He’s hot as hell."
"He might be taken," I reply, giving her an apologetic smile. "All the hot guys are," she groans, pouting.
"Not all," I murmur, slipping my sunglasses back into place, though my mind screams one in particular.
Later that evening, I’m standing in front of Ezra’s villa, holding a box of red velvet cake like it’s a peace offering, or worse, a confession. One of the staff told which room was his. I told myself it was just a friendly gesture. But now, standing here, I feel like the biggest idiot alive.
I raise my hand to knock but freeze. This is so unlike . The real doesn’t show up with snacks for n who ignore her. Before I can talk myself out of it, the door opens.
Ezra stands there, looking surprised. His dark hair is slightly tousled, his green eyes tired but soft. Behind him, there’s a suitcase.
"Harlem," he says, voice calm but strained.
"Ezra," I reply, trying not to sound nervous. "Headed sowhere?"
He rubs the back of his neck, avoiding my eyes. "I have to go back to Germany. Sothing important ca up. I was actually coming to tell you."
I stare at him, cake box in hand, feeling stupid. "Oh. I thought you were staying for the full two weeks. Is Tyrone going with you?" He nods silently.
I nod back, trying to keep my expression neutral. "That’s... good. Well, goodbye." I turn to leave, desperate to escape before I crumble, but his hand finds my arm.
"Harlem," he says softly. "How have you been?" My throat tightens. "Good," I lie with a forced smile.
He studies my face, clearly unconvinced. There’s a sadness in his eyes that nearly breaks , but he doesn’t say anything more. He lets go of my arm. I walk away, heart pounding, pride barely holding upright.
Back in my room, I drop the cake on the table, grab a fork, and dig in like I’m punishing myself with sugar. The frosting is too sweet, the sponge too dense, but I keep eating. Maybe it’ll fill the hollow feeling in my chest.
The TV is on so random Netflix K-drama, n with perfect jawlines and emotional depth I’ll never find in real life. I drown in the noise, the sugar, the ache.
Did I do sothing wrong? Say sothing? Or is this about what I DIDN’T do? I think back to the boat ski day. The way he looked at ; like I was the only person on the planet. It scared . I pulled away because that kind of gaze burns holes through walls I’ve spent years building.
So now, I guess, this is the consequence of fear. He’s gone, and I’m here alone, eating cake on the floor of a luxury villa in the Maldives.
I laugh dryly, a single tear slipping down my cheek. "Congratulations, Harlem," I mutter. "You’ve officially hit the cliché heartbreak trope."
The TV hums softly as I stretch out on my bed, the leftover cake beside , and my heart heavy with things I’ll never say.
And before I know it, I drift to sleep, dreaming of green eyes, ocean waves, and the taste of red velvet.
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