How to Honeymoon Alone

Some things are hard to do alone. Putting together large flatpack furniture, for one, or surviving high school. Ordering dinner alone in a restaurant is another one. But my best friend glares at me through my phone screen, unable to comprehend that simple fact.

“Just sit down,” she says. “Order and eat. Who cares what anyone else might think?”

I lie down on my hotel bed. “I do.”

“No, you don’t. They don’t matter.”

“True, and it’s not like I came to Barbados to hide in my hotel room.”

“Definitely not. You went to have the best two weeks of your life,” Becky says. She’s sitting on her familiar paisley couch, with a pregnancy pillow beside her. My future goddaughter is the only reason she couldn’t be here with me. “You’re going to get back at-no, scratch that. I won’t say his name, and you’re not even allowed to think it.”

I salute her. “Yes, ma’am.”

“No, you’re going to eat dinner at that luscious-looking hotel restaurant, you’re going to enjoy the warm weather, and afterward, you can reward yourself by watching old reruns in your room.”

“Pregnancy has made you bossy,” I say.

Her husband’s voice comes through the phone, unseen but close by. “You said it, not me!” he yells.

Becky hushes him. “I’m talking to Eden.”

“Hi, Patrick,” I say.

“Hey, Eden,” he calls back. “Enjoy some sunshine for me!”

“Will do!” I meet Becky’s gaze. “But you’re right, you know, bossy or not. So what if I’m the only person there eating alone?”

“Doesn’t matter at all,” she agrees. “It’s not like you’ll see a single person there again after you come home.”

“Exactly.” I sit up and look over at my suitcase, half-opened on the carpeted floor. It’s spilling colorful sundresses like a store on Black Friday. “I’ll wear my red dress.”

“That’s right,” she says. “And Eden? I want a picture of you with a colorful, tropical drink as proof.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine.”

“Good,” she says and smiles at me through the screen. “I wish I was there with you.”

“Me, too,” I say. “Thanks.”

“Anytime. Now go have fun and come back with a tan for me to be jealous of.”

We hang up and I’m alone in my empty, quiet hotel room. My windows don’t give me a view of the ocean. That had been too expensive. Instead, they offer a view of the beautifully manicured garden of the Winter Resort. The newly opened luxury hotel is everything Caleb and I had hoped for when we booked it for our honeymoon.

And I’m going to make sure I enjoy it all. Even if I have to provide picture proof for Becky as I do it.

The first few weeks after I’d learned about Caleb’s extracurricular activities, even getting out of bed had been a struggle. Dragging myself to the coffee shop down the street had felt like running a marathon.

So, as I was speaking to Becky on the phone one day and mentioned what I wanted to cook for dinner, she’d said, send me a pic or it didn’t happen.

She’d known, even if I hadn’t told her, that more days than not it didn’t happen.

And so I’d sent her pictures of all of it, and in the three months since my engagement ended, the small, normal acts have stopped feeling like a sporting event. The hurt isn’t unbearable anymore. It’s not a weight on my shoulders crushing me down to earth. It’s a backpack instead, still heavy, but it doesn’t slow me down.

Maybe I’ll get to take it off entirely one day.

I pull on a red dress and chuck my phone, wallet, and guidebook into a crossbody purse. This is my trip. Mine. I had planned it, insisted on it and dreamed of it for years.

As a teenager, I’d kept a vision board over my desk. It had changed a lot over the years, but a few images had remained-steadfast pillars among an ever-changing sea of dreams.

One of them had been the turquoise-blue of the Caribbean Sea, softly lapping against a white-sand beach and framed by palm trees.

This trip is my first time out of the country, if one doesn’t count the road trips from my home in Washington State to Vancouver, Canada, and I don’t. Not really. No, this is it. I’m here. I’m doing it.

And the absolute last person I should be thinking about is Caleb.

I run a brush through my brown hair in too-aggressive strokes as if I can comb him out of my thoughts.

I feel calmer when I finally ride the elevator down to the lobby. My walk takes me through the resort’s garden, as the softly chirping insects serenade me as I stroll through the open colonnade.

The restaurant opens to the garden on one side and the sea on the other. No windows are needed in the perpetually warm climate.

The air is hot and humid, wrapping around me like another layer of clothing. But the breeze from the sea cools me down in gentle gusts. The Caribbean Sea, that is.

A wave of giddiness sweeps through me.

I’m abroad, I think, and no one can take that away from me. The magic is right here. It’s in the new experiences, the calm ocean, and the sandy beaches. I just need to reach out and grab it.

I stop by the maître d’s stand. The linen-clad tables beyond are filled with dining guests and the place looks packed. I rock back in my sandals and peer around. There’s no empty table in sight.

Maybe I can get away with room service and binging an old TV show after all.

“Good evening,” a smiling host says. “Do you have a reservation for tonight?”

“I don’t, no. I can see that you’re pretty busy. Is there a space for one?”Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

“Just one?”

“Yes.” I can feel myself shrink.

“Let me check…” He looks down at the screen and taps it a few times. “We do seem to have a table available. You’ll get our last one of the night!”

“Oh, that’s wonderful. Thank you.”

Next to me, a man clears his throat. “There you are,” he says to me. “Sorry, I’m late. Table for two, actually.”

I stare up at the stranger.

His head of dark-brown hair towers over me by a few inches, and he’s wearing a white button-down. He’s also watching me meaningfully.