How to Honeymoon Alone

My stomach sinks as I let my gaze wander over the assembled excursionists. Half of them are my age or younger. Two women in bikinis are posing in front of the boat, while a third takes pictures of them. Beside me, a British couple is standing with their arms around one another, talking in hushed tones.

I’m the only one here alone, and I can feel it.

One of the deckhands must see the expression on my face. “Yeah, it’ll be a cozy one today,” he says with a grin. “I think we might get a proposal, too.”

“A proposal?”

“Yes,” the deckhand says. He flips over a page on his notepad. “It’s fairly common. Pretty setting, lots of drinks to celebrate. Now let me just see… yes, we’re waiting for the final minivan.”

I look down at the line of people who are eager to board. “Is this peak tourist season?”

“Nearly,” he says and looks at me. His smile widens. “Don’t worry, miss, we’ll take good care of you. Once we’re out there, you’ll have the wind in your hair and not a care in the world.”

I smile back at him as happily as I can manage. The people are one thing, but a proposal?

Something twists in my stomach.

I should head down the dock, to join the line waiting to get aboard the gently bobbing catamaran, but my feet don’t feel like moving. Somewhere on board, speakers turn on, blasting upbeat dance music.

I just want to see the turtles.

“Eden!” someone calls.

I look over at the deckhand checking off names. But he didn’t call my name. No, the loud voice comes from the dock next to ours.

Phillip Meyer is striding across the small pier toward me.

“Hey,” he says, slightly out of breath. “You’re scheduled for a snorkeling cruise, right?”

I blink at him. His cheeks are flushed with color, darkening his skin. “Yes.”

“Good. I have one scheduled, too. Similar route and itinerary: snorkeling and dinner. Skip the other tourists and join mine instead.”

I stare at him. “Where’s yours?”

He nods to the catamaran anchored next to the one I’m supposed to be boarding. It’s just as large-a white giant throning on the turquoise waves-but nearly empty. Two crew members are untying the ropes keeping it tethered to the dock, but I don’t see a single tourist.

“That’s your boat?”

“For the next four hours, yes.” His voice sounds strained around the edges. “It was booked for two, so there’s an already-paid-for spot available.”

My brain takes a long minute to work through what he’s saying. “But we barely know one another.”Têxt © NôvelDrama.Org.

“We’ve had dinner together,” he says. “There’s a private tour guide on board and several crew members. We’re stopping to snorkel with the turtles.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes,” he says. “Don’t you want to sit on the bow by yourself? Rather than beside all those people?” He glances at the group of rowdy twenty-something-year-olds beside me who, if I were a betting woman, probably started drinking around noon.

For me, the cruise appealed because of the open-water snorkeling and the beautiful views. For others, it seems the open bar was the selling point.

“Eden,” Phillip says. “I have an entire catamaran for myself, with three crew members. They’re going to cook me dinner. Just for me.”

“Wow,” I breathe.

His face holds a stressed edge. “You won’t be in the way. You would actually be doing me a favor.”

“I would?”

“There are rose petals all over the deck.”

Everything clicks into place, from the flushed cheeks to the tight mouth.

He’s embarrassed.

Just like I will be on a boat chock-full of happy couples, with me being the lone person without someone there to share the experience with. Except he will be surrounded only by the crew, but they will all will know that it was originally meant for two. Because rose petals can only mean one thing.

Phillip gestures to his catamaran. “On or off?”

“On,” I say, “if you get rid of the rose petals.”

“I’ve already chucked them overboard.”

The boat is huge.

Where it might have felt crowded with three minivans full of people, with only two guests, this catamaran feels positively enormous. I could avoid Phillip the entire trip, and without lifting so much as a finger.

I join him on board and receive wide smiles from the crew. If they were curious about Phillip racing across the docks to pick up a seemingly random woman not originally meant to be here, they don’t show it.

Professionals.

“Welcome on board, Ms.…”

“Eden,” I say. “Please call me Eden.”

Giant nets stretch between the hulls at the bow of the boat. I unfold my towel on one of them and lie back. The boat starts moving, and beneath me, the waves dance. We’re full speed ahead cruising down the coastline toward Carlisle Bay.

“Here you go,” Jamie says with a smile and hands me a virgin piña colada. He’d introduced himself as the lead deckhand and let both Phillip and I know that he’d be happy to make us any drinks or snacks we might want. His crisp white polo shirt stands out in sharp contrast to his dark skin.

“Thank you, that looks incredible.”

“Anytime,” Jamie says and looks over his shoulder at Phillip. He’s sitting on a low bench across the deck, wearing dark-tinted sunglasses and looking down at his phone.

He must be doing what one apparently does best on a boat in the Caribbean. Answering emails. How does he even have internet out here?

At least Jamie’s expression makes it clear I’m not alone in wondering.

I keep my eyes on the horizon, savoring the warm air and the spray of ocean off the waves against my face. I feel alive, more alive than I have in weeks. All the anxiety leading up to this trip was worth it, just for this.