a statue,” says Gabriel, looking over my shoulder. “For worshipping. Not for loving.”
How can Spanish guys get away with saying stuff like that?
Oh, here’s the downlow on Gabriel. I got it all before we left the hotel. He’s thirty-four, Spanish, never married, no kids of his own, sold his first tech company when he was twenty-five, works between New York and Silicon Valley, and has an apartment on Columbus Circle. Basically, he’s your average run-of-the-mill very rich guy. The girls are his half sisters from his dad’s second marriage to an American woman. I get the feeling they’re growing up with wealth, and he had to make his own.
Gabriel sits down and picks up Us magazine and, for a few minutes, we all read quietly.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
“Almost always.”
“The hotel made me these. Not quite as nice as the avocado and prawn salad I usually get to go when I’m at Eden Rock on St. Barts, but not bad.”
Gabriel pulls out some sandwiches that the hotel must have made for him. Freshly cooked fish sandwiches on soft, buttered white bread. Like the ones I ate just a few hours ago on the Hamartia .
Suddenly, I’ve lost my appetite. But I take a sandwich anyway and force myself to eat it. The girls are chattering away.
“St. Barts is boring. I like Turks way more.”
“I liked Antigua the best.”
“No way!”
Eventually, they calm down and go back to their magazines, and Gabriel turns to me with a little grin. I smile back. His hair is still messy, probably from being on the beach all day, and he has a nice face, if a little pouty-pretty for my taste.
“So, we have to work out what you owe me for this trip.”
A cold fear spikes through me. “What?”
“I fly you to New York, smuggle you through passport control, and you think it’s all for free?”
My heart is beating in my mouth. Holy shit, not again.…
“In return, you have to buy me dinner sometime.”
Oh. That’s all he meant.
I smile glassily up at Gabriel, trying to look composed, my mind racing.
What was I doing, really, walking into a hotel bar in a bikini like a goddamn Bond Girl, confident that somehow, I’d find a way home? I’d just swum God knows how far, all the while thinking how stupid I was for walking into such a horrific situation, how clever I was to not trust that goddamn boat boy who followed me … but how stupid was it to trust the next total stranger I met? Just because Gabriel had his sisters with him, just because he seemed nice and polite, I decided to get on his private jet? What the fuck is wrong with me?
I keep making the same mistakes. That’s why I’m stuck in this ridiculous, destructive holding pattern. I make the wrong choice. Every single time.
I glance up at Gabriel. If it was this time a week ago, I’d date him until he dumped me. I know I would. But that’s not what I want anymore. And it’s definitely not what I need.
“I’m sorry, Gabriel. I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression. I’m not … looking for anything. Uh, romantic.” Interesting choice of words.
“Okay,” he says, with an “easy come, easy go” shrug. “So you just want to get back to New York and say good-bye, is that it?”
I feel bad. Why do I feel bad? Like I owe him dinner. Like he gets to be with me in exchange for giving me a ride home. Why the fuck am I thinking like that? Sex in exchange for what I want. That’s what Stef said. Is that how I think? It’s not, it’s really not. I accepted those gifts because I never had much spending money and the guys always did. Because I like clothes and nice things, and they liked buying them for me. Because I thought they liked me and I really, really liked them, especially Mani. And most of all, because I thought that when they gave me something, it meant that I was worth being with.
I was wrong.
That’s it. My life has been all about guys for far too long.
I want my life to be about me.
I want to be single. I want my home. I want
How can Spanish guys get away with saying stuff like that?
Oh, here’s the downlow on Gabriel. I got it all before we left the hotel. He’s thirty-four, Spanish, never married, no kids of his own, sold his first tech company when he was twenty-five, works between New York and Silicon Valley, and has an apartment on Columbus Circle. Basically, he’s your average run-of-the-mill very rich guy. The girls are his half sisters from his dad’s second marriage to an American woman. I get the feeling they’re growing up with wealth, and he had to make his own.
Gabriel sits down and picks up Us magazine and, for a few minutes, we all read quietly.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
“Almost always.”
“The hotel made me these. Not quite as nice as the avocado and prawn salad I usually get to go when I’m at Eden Rock on St. Barts, but not bad.”
Gabriel pulls out some sandwiches that the hotel must have made for him. Freshly cooked fish sandwiches on soft, buttered white bread. Like the ones I ate just a few hours ago on the Hamartia .
Suddenly, I’ve lost my appetite. But I take a sandwich anyway and force myself to eat it. The girls are chattering away.
“St. Barts is boring. I like Turks way more.”
“I liked Antigua the best.”
“No way!”
Eventually, they calm down and go back to their magazines, and Gabriel turns to me with a little grin. I smile back. His hair is still messy, probably from being on the beach all day, and he has a nice face, if a little pouty-pretty for my taste.
“So, we have to work out what you owe me for this trip.”
A cold fear spikes through me. “What?”
“I fly you to New York, smuggle you through passport control, and you think it’s all for free?”
My heart is beating in my mouth. Holy shit, not again.…
“In return, you have to buy me dinner sometime.”
Oh. That’s all he meant.
I smile glassily up at Gabriel, trying to look composed, my mind racing.
What was I doing, really, walking into a hotel bar in a bikini like a goddamn Bond Girl, confident that somehow, I’d find a way home? I’d just swum God knows how far, all the while thinking how stupid I was for walking into such a horrific situation, how clever I was to not trust that goddamn boat boy who followed me … but how stupid was it to trust the next total stranger I met? Just because Gabriel had his sisters with him, just because he seemed nice and polite, I decided to get on his private jet? What the fuck is wrong with me?
I keep making the same mistakes. That’s why I’m stuck in this ridiculous, destructive holding pattern. I make the wrong choice. Every single time.
I glance up at Gabriel. If it was this time a week ago, I’d date him until he dumped me. I know I would. But that’s not what I want anymore. And it’s definitely not what I need.
“I’m sorry, Gabriel. I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression. I’m not … looking for anything. Uh, romantic.” Interesting choice of words.
“Okay,” he says, with an “easy come, easy go” shrug. “So you just want to get back to New York and say good-bye, is that it?”
I feel bad. Why do I feel bad? Like I owe him dinner. Like he gets to be with me in exchange for giving me a ride home. Why the fuck am I thinking like that? Sex in exchange for what I want. That’s what Stef said. Is that how I think? It’s not, it’s really not. I accepted those gifts because I never had much spending money and the guys always did. Because I like clothes and nice things, and they liked buying them for me. Because I thought they liked me and I really, really liked them, especially Mani. And most of all, because I thought that when they gave me something, it meant that I was worth being with.
I was wrong.
That’s it. My life has been all about guys for far too long.
I want my life to be about me.
I want to be single. I want my home. I want
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