Marisol laughed, batting her eyelashes. She leaned forward and put her arms together, highlighting her ample bosom. “If you’re so uptight about rings and things then I’ll give her the book and say it was dropped off by a very handsome but very anonymous and very married stranger. How’s that?”
Reed felt his face flush in the silence.
“I didn’t think so,” she said. “Hold on a sec. I think she’s in the dorm.”
The beer was ice cold, a Pacifico, a mild Pilsner that reminded him of Heineken but still had a flavor all its own. Marisol had rimmed the lip of the bottle with a slice of lime and pushed the rest through; it floated, suspended in the yellow neck like a green shell. The best beer he’d ever tasted.
A heavyset girl in a lemon-yellow halter top and jeans came over to Reed carrying a plate of corn tortillas, salsa, an avocado, and refried beans. She plopped herself down next to him and split open the avocado with a paring knife, stabbed the pit with the point and twisted, popping it out neatly. Flicking the seed off into the bushes, she sliced up one half and held out the other to Reed.
“Want some?”
She held a slice up to Reed’s lips, and waited. He took the piece with his fingers instead of opening his mouth, and she watched him as he chewed it and swallowed. “Good, right?”
“Delicious.”
“This half’s yours if you want it.” She placed it on the table. “Where are you from?”
“Boston.”
“I’m from Pennsylvania. So we’re both from the East Coast.”
“Never really thought of Pennsylvania as ‘coast.’“
The girl laughed. “That’s because you’re actually on the coast. You get to be a snob about it. What I meant was that we’re closer than if, say, I was in India.”
“I guess it’s a small world.”
“I’m Cindy.”
“Reed.” He paused. “You didn’t travel in India with Lance, did you?”
“With Lance? No, I just met him, here at the hostel. Why?”
“Nothing. Thought maybe it was a small world.”
Cindy shrugged. “Isn’t the avocado good? Here, have another piece.”
She handed it to him. The flesh of the fruit was the texture of butter, soft and perfect, the place where she’d cut it already discoloring in the air. Cindy held out a wedge of lime, he nodded, and she squeezed it for him. He slipped it into his mouth, savoring the combination of sweet flesh and tart juice, letting his tongue move around the flavors, tasting it as if for the first time.
Marisol approached. “Found them. They’re in the girls’ dorm. You can’t go in there normally, but since I’m okay with it, it’s fine if you poke your head in. Nobody’s changing clothes or anything.”
“Go get ‘em, Romeo,” Cindy said, sounding sad.
Reed took a final swig of beer to calm himself, then went to the dorm and knocked.
“Come in,” someone said, and he turned the handle.
The room was small and dark, with a row of bunk beds along each wall and a set of lockers. Someone had hung up three sets of panties on a coat hanger to dry. The three girls were on a lower bunk, sitting close together. One of them, the rich type, was crying. The other two were comforting her. A bottle of red wine with a dark blue label was at their feet, unopened, along with some plastic cups.
“Excuse us?” the tall girl asked, frowning. “This is the girls’ dorm.”
“Marisol said it was okay to ask you if….” He trailed off. “This is a bad time?”
The brunette looked at him, her face as unreadable as a beach smoothed by a wave. She could have been bemused or furious by the intrusion and he wouldn’t have been able to tell. He felt his cheeks flushing.
“Kind of,” the tall girl said. “Is it important?”
Reed shook his head.
“No, sorry. This can wait.” He shut the door quickly, the book still in his hand. He returned to Cindy and sat down beside her.
“Crash and burn, huh?” she said.
He held up his bottle and Cindy tapped hers to it. They drank. He could see her watch. Twenty full minutes before the bus left gave him time to finish his beer.
“Don’t feel bad. It doesn’t matter.”
“What?”
Cindy looked at him. “You okay? You need a back rub? I was studying to be a masseuse for a semester in college.”
“No thanks.”
“But I’m really good,” Cindy said, reaching for his shoulder. He pulled away. Cindy’s weight shifted away from him, and they finished their beers in silence. When he’d had the last sip, Reed excused himself and went to the bar.
“Another?” Marisol asked.
Reed nodded. “Can I get it to go?”
“Don’t drown yourself in sorrows,” she said.
“Here. Just tell her it’s from me.” He handed it to her.
“That’s a sweet gesture,” Marisol said. Then she handed it back. “But there she is.”
Reed turned around. The girl had just closed the door of the female dorm and was walking toward the back of the garden. She had a thin journal under her arm. Reed watched her choose a hammock, pull the top over her head, then fall back into it, as natural as if she’d been born a Maya.
“You can tell her yourself,” Marisol said.
“Give me a bottle of wine,” he said. “The one with the blue label.”
Marisol handed it to him. “I’ll put it on your tab.”
Reed swallowed, picked up the warped book in one hand and the bottle in the other, and crossed the courtyard. He realized he would be staying overnight in Tulum. The monumental implications of this fact passed quietly through his head as he walked toward the girl on the hammock, someone who probably didn’t care if he lived or died, someone he might never see again. Yet even if he regretted it for the rest of his life, he was going to force himself to talk to her.
Clione Roux
Reed’s footsteps crunching across the gravel made the girl shift position and look up from her journal. She’d been writing, and as she turned her expression seemed to shift from curiosity to annoyance. For a moment Reed thought he should just head into the bungalow, pass right by without even bothering to say anything. He could melt past, forget about it. Anything would be easier than trying to fumble through a conversation.
