The Two Week Stand by Samantha Towle

one

Dillon

I’m the first to step off the seaplane and onto the jetty, saying hello to the staff member waiting to greet us all.

Moving aside so the other passengers can get off, I stretch my back out.

Eleven hours on a flight from Manchester to the Maldives and then a forty-five-minute flight on a cramped seaplane to the island, and I’m finally here.

Alone.

Nope. I’m not going to get upset.

I’m not gonna think about him.

Or her.

I’ve spent enough time crying over what they did to me. No more.

I’m literally in paradise, surrounded by beauty. I cannot be sad here.

Even though I tell myself this, I still feel my throat start to burn, the hurt wanting to climb its way into my eyes.

I get my sunglasses from my bag and slip them on.

Swallowing back my emotions, I take a deep breath.

The air is heavy. The heat here is like nothing I’ve ever known.

I’ve been abroad before but only to Spain with my girlfriends. I thought it was warm when I was there. It’s nothing compared to the heat here.

When I landed at Malé airport, I began to seriously regret the leggings and long-sleeved shirt I wore to travel here. It had been freezing when I left home to head to the airport. Thought I was being smart, wearing something comfy to travel in.

But being here now, on the island, I can feel the sweat starting to gather around the nape of my neck and my armpits.

I need to shower and change ASAP. Then, eat something and fall into bed.

I’m knackered after all the traveling.

Retrieving a scrunchie from my bag, I gather my long hair up off my neck and tie it up in a haphazard bun. I know for a fact that it looks like shit. I’m not one of those girls who can put her hair in a messy bun and it come off looking amazing. I usually end up looking like I lost a fight with a bush.

But I’m not here to impress anyone, and I’m fucking melting, so shit hair bun it is.

I press my hand to the back of my neck to remove the sweat there, and then I surreptitiously wipe my hand on my leggings.

I look to my left, and the woman standing there, who was on the seaplane ride here, is watching me, a judgy look on her face, like I’m the grossest thing she’s ever seen.

Of course she’s totally put together.

We can’t all look amazing after a long-ass flight. Some of us are smelly and gross.

Deal with it, lady.

I give her a pointed look—through my dark glasses, of course—and she looks away.

The guy she’s traveling with comes over and kisses her. She lifts her hand to his cheek.

My eyes catch on the massive rock and gold band on her finger.

An ache deep inside of my chest tries to claw its way out.

What the hell was I thinking, coming here?

It’s going to be full of couples and happy newlyweds, who are going to make me want to poke my eyes out.

Come on your honeymoon alone, Dillon. It’ll be fine, Dillon.

Note to Dillon: you’re a fucking idiot.

The greeter guy asks us all to follow him down the jetty to the island.

I let everyone else go first.

All fucking couples.

I am the only solo person here.

What did I expect, coming here?

The Maldives is couples central. Not sad, pathetic, single women central.

I should have stayed home.

And lost thousands of pounds on this trip.

I couldn’t get a refund.

Apparently, my fiancé fucking … I can’t even say it without wanting to throw up.

Basically, cheating fiancé wasn’t listed on my travel insurance as a reason for cancellation.

And the travel company wouldn’t let me change to a different destination. It was literally two weeks before I was due to get married when I found out the truth. And a week before I could even bring myself to contact the travel company.

So, it was either stay home and drink myself into a coma. Or come to paradise and drink myself into a coma.

I chose the latter.

I just didn’t take into consideration the happy couples I’d be surrounded by.

Looking at these blissful bastards in front of me makes me wish I were back in my home with a few bottles of Prosecco in front of me and a serial killer documentary on TV for company.

I hear my phone ding in my bag, and I pull it out.

Text from my aunt Jenny. I texted her when I landed in Malé airport to let her know I’d arrived.

How is it? Send pics ASAP! Love you. xxx

I smile at her message even though I blame her for me coming here too. She was the one who first suggested it. I asked her to come with me, take Tim’s place, but she couldn’t get the time off work with such short notice. Neither could any of my girlfriends.

But Aunt Jen encouraged me to come alone. Said the time away would do me good.

I’m seriously doubting it now. But here I am.

I’m just gonna have to suck it up for the next two weeks.

Doing as Jenny asked, I lift my phone and take a few pics of the island that will be my home for fourteen days.

It’s the first time I’ve actually paid attention to the island since I landed here, which says a lot about my mental state at the moment, but this place is absolutely stunning. I’ve never seen anything like it before.

It actually slows my steps.

There were some gorgeous sights on the seaplane flight here, but being here on the island and seeing it in all its beauty is something else.

I feel something shift in my chest as I stare at the lush greenery in front of me, the clear blue water lapping against the soft white sand, the water bungalows that sit off to the right and left side of the island.

I’m staying in a water bungalow.

The water bungalows are a little more expensive than the beach villas, but Tim was paying for the whole wedding, so I wanted to contribute something more.

I felt so guilty that he was paying for the wedding, but he had insisted.

Still, I spent a frigging fortune on this honeymoon. Maldivian holidays don’t come cheap.

And considering I don’t have a job that pays a lot of money and I don’t come from a wealthy family, like he does, and that he fucked me over in the worst possible way, I’m glad he stumped up the cash and lost it all. The wedding venue wouldn’t refund at such short notice. The rings had been bought. The cars booked. My dress all paid for …

It’s still sitting at the store. I never did pick it up.

There was no reason to.

Fuck, I hate him.

And I hate her more.

Stop, Dillon. Don’t think of either of them.

Pushing all thoughts of the hell I’ve endured over the past two weeks, I snap a few photos of the island, beach, and the bungalows and send them to Jenny. Then, I put my phone away just as my feet hit the sand and we’re under the shade of palm trees.

Unfortunately, I’m wearing my favorite pair of Converse, so I can’t feel if the sand is as soft as it looks.

But I will later.

That can be my something to look forward to.

That, and shower, food, and sleep.

I follow the group into the main reception area.

And there is air-conditioning.

Thank you, gods!

The greeter guy tells us all to take a seat and that someone will be over to check us in.

I grab a single comfy-looking chair on its own in the corner, leaving the two-seaters for all the lovebirds.

God, I’m such a loser.

A waiter appears in front of me with a glass of bubbly, which I happily accept.

I down it in two swigs.

Christ. I needed that. I only wish there were more.

I set the empty glass on the table in front of me just as a super-pretty Maldivian woman takes a seat across from me, a tablet in her hand.

“Hi, I’m Najam. I will be checking you in today. Can I take your name, please?”

“Dillon Dawson.”

I booked the honeymoon in my name, thankfully. I was going to have a double-barreled surname. I didn’t want to give up my dad’s surname. It’s the only thing I have left of him.

That, and the fact that Tim’s surname is shit. Prickett.

Apt really because he is a prick.

She taps on her tablet. “Yes, of course. Miss Dawson and Mr. Prickett. You are on honeymoon. Congratulations!” She beams at me. “Mr. Prickett is here, yes?” She glances around, looking for him.

My heart sinks. I can feel my face reddening.

I’m thankful I’m still wearing my sunglasses, so she can’t see my eyes, which are definitely watering. I take a breath before speaking, “Um … no, it’s just me,” I say in a quiet voice. “No Mr. Prickett. Just me.”

Her expression drops. Eyes pitying. “Oh. I am sorry.”

“Don’t be. You didn’t cheat on me.”

Her eyes widen in shock. Clearly, she doesn’t get my stupid brand of humor.

I always use jokes as an attempt at deflection. They fail ninety-nine percent of the time. Like this one. Obviously, I’ve never learned to stop.

“Sorry. I was, um, it was a lame attempt at humor. Ignore me.” I wave my hand, like I can somehow erase the last minute.

“Oh, okay.” She sounds all awkward now. About as awkward as I’m feeling.

I just need to get the key to my bungalow and get the hell out of here.

She glances down at her tablet. “You are staying in one of our most wonderful senior water villas. Number seventy-eight. Very lovely and private. The views are stunning. Please wait while I go and get your key.”

She quickly disappears. Don’t blame her. Wish I could disappear too.

Needing something to do, I get my phone from my bag and check the screen.

A message from Jenny is waiting for me.

OMG! It’s gorgeous. Wish I were there with you! Call me once you get settled in. Love you.

I wish she were here too.

Or maybe Chris Hemsworth … or Liam. Both are divine. Also ’90s Jon Bon Jovi. And 2000s Brad Pitt, circa Troy. Actually, I’d take 2021 Brad Pitt, to be honest. Dude is still hot as sin.

Yeah, in your dreams, Dillon. They’d probably only cheat on you anyway.

Jesus, I’m maudlin.

I don’t reply back to Jenny’s text. I’ll just call her later, like she asked.

I slip my phone back into my bag just as the check-in woman reappears.

“Here is your key. Number seventy-eight. If you follow the signs just outside to the senior water villas, yours is at the very end of the jetty. Your luggage is already waiting for you in your room. Dinner is at eight p.m. Your bed will be turned down every night and made every morning while you are at breakfast.”

I take the key from her. Standing, I pick up my bag and hang it on my shoulder. “That’s great. Thank you”—my eyes quickly drop to her name tag. I’m shockingly bad at remembering names. Well, my memory is pretty bad overall—“Najam.”

“You are very welcome. I very much hope you enjoy your stay here. Anything you need, please call reception or come in to see us. And, Miss Dawson, I hope this is okay to say … and does not offend you … but Mr. Prickett is a very stupid man.”

That raises a smile, and not much does nowadays.

“It’s more than okay. Thank you, Najam,” I tell her again with sincerity.

She nods at me and heads back to the reception area while I make my way out of here, past the happy frigging couples who are still checking in.

I step out of the lovely, cool, air-conditioned reception into the stifling heat. Glancing around, I look for the sign that Najam mentioned, which will direct me to my bungalow.

I spot the sign for senior water villas and follow the direction it’s pointing in.

I somehow make it to the jetty leading to the villas without getting lost, which is a miracle for me. Directions are not my strong point.

Much like my ability to pick fiancés.

I step onto the jetty, reveling in the absolute peace. The only sound is the water lapping the legs of the jetty.

I walk along, paying attention to the numbers on the bungalows as I pass them.

Finally, I reach number seventy-eight, which is at the end of the jetty, just as Najam said it would be. I cast a glance at my neighbor, number seventy-nine, and send up a silent prayer that whoever is staying in there aren’t newlyweds.

Who am I kidding? They’ll most definitely be newlyweds, and they’ll have loud sex every night. Because this is me, and my luck pretty much sucks at the moment.

I let myself inside the bungalow. My luggage is waiting just inside the door.

There’s air-conditioning in here too. Heaven.

Shutting the door behind me, I slip my sunglasses off and see just how light and airy this place is. I step in a little farther and see the bathroom off to my left. I wander in and see it opens out onto a private area, and there’s a bath outside.

A frigging outside bath!I don’t remember seeing that in the description when I was booking this place.

I can’t wait to get a bath in there. Relax with a glass of bubbly and a good book. Crime book, of course. Normally, I love a good romance book. But I’m not in the mood to read about fictional people’s happily ever afters.

Murder … now, that I can get on board with.

No romance is allowed in this bungalow.

It’s a romance-free zone.

Leaving the bathroom, I wander into the main room. Plenty of closet space for my clothes. Not that I brought loads.

Mostly bikinis, shorts, and tank tops. Some summer dresses and outfits to wear to my solo dinners.

Nothing fancy.

Although I did bring a pair of heels with me, I can’t see them getting much use. Walking on sand in heels is a definite no-no.

Thankfully, I brought some wedges and nice flip-flops, the kind with a bit of bling on them, in case I have to dress up.

I honestly don’t know what the dinner dress code is here.

I’m imagining it to be quite relaxed.

And I’m seriously overthinking this.

When I reach the bed, my bag slips off my shoulder and thuds to the floor, right along with my stomach.

The bed is all laid out with a sprinkling of rose petals and some towels arranged into the shape of a heart.

At the end of the bed, there’s a small table with a bucket of champagne and two glasses. A fruit basket and a card.

I walk toward it and pick up the card. Removing it from the envelope, I read it.

I don’t realize I’m crying until a tear hits the card, smudging the ink.

Fuck this.

I dry my face with my hand. Toss the card onto the floor and grab the champagne from the bucket. Unwrapping it, I pop the cork with proficiency that I didn’t know I had, and I take a long swig from the bottle. Fuck the glass. It’s not like I’m sharing it with anyone.

Grabbing a banana from the fruit basket, I walk out onto the terrace, into the heat, and sit down on one of the two loungers.

Two loungers and only one of me.

I glare at the empty lounger, like it’s somehow its fault that my life went to shit in the span of a few seconds.

A few seconds … walking in and seeing something no person ever wants to see … was all it took for my life and future dreams to dissolve into pieces before me.

Honestly, I’d toss that sun lounger into the ocean, but I don’t want to have to stump up the cash to replace it.

That, and the sea life doesn’t deserve to have its home invaded by my anger.

Still, I put my foot up against the side of the lounger and push it as far away from me as I can.

God, look at me. I should change my name to Eeyore. I’m like a sad fucking donkey.

I need to sort my shit out. Cheer the hell up.

But first, I need something to eat; otherwise, I’ll be a cheap date tonight.

Putting the bottle down on the floor beside the lounger, I peel open the banana.

It’s actually a hella big banana. Bigger than my ex’s dick—that’s for sure. Probably has more potential to fill me as well.

I snort a laugh.

Tim used to hate it when I snorted, so I used to try not to do it.

See, there is an upside to all this. I can snort a laugh without the prick complaining.

I snort again and then a couple more times, just for the hell of it. Then, I take a big bite of banana. Chew and swallow and then chase it down with some more champagne.

I might be alone and miserable. But I’m in paradise. In the most gorgeous bungalow, looking out over the water. I have an outside bath and alcohol, and that always helps dull the pain, making me feel less alone and sad.

I’m a happy drunk, always have been, so I’ll just keep drinking this champagne until I’m feeling happy.

Or as happy as I can.

I get my phone and open up the Music app, and then I select a song that never fails to lift my spirits and pump a bit of strength into me—Christina Aguilera’s “Fighter.” I hit play, and then I put the champagne bottle to my lips and take another drink.