Page 6 of Saint
“Tori, goodbye. Because you know as well as I do that you would not be dating the nigga that bussed tables at Butter & Sage.” Robyn punctured through my musings, taking an exaggerated sip of her drink.
“Why not? Butter & Sage pays well enough,” I shrugged.
It never mattered to me what a man had. For me, the winning card was held by the contents of a man’s heart. He could be obese. He could make less money than I did. He could even have kids. As a successful woman, I understood that most men weren’t one percenters. I didn’t pigeonhole myself when it came to dating based on superficial societal norms. I loved for the sake of love. As long as that man respected me, made me feel safe and secure, and was a good person, I could be his.
Robyn rolled her eyes. “Well, Homegrown. If a nigga were busting tables at Homegrown, you’d look the other way,” she insisted.
“Robyn, please. If he works at Homegrown, he’s probably too young for me.”
“Okay, but what if he was our age? What if his fine late twenties or early to mid-thirty-year-old ass was busting tables at Homegrown?”
“No contest. Because if that hypothetical man were in such a state, his last concern should be giving his time to a woman.”
“Touché!” Robyn burst into laughter at that, and I joined her.
We settled back into seriousness as I watched her pry onions off her sandwich.
“If you’re comfortable with Javier, I think you should go. I mean, as he said, Komodo Island could inspire your next line of clothing.”
“He’s so eager, though. Doesn’t that seem weird to you? What man would beg for a woman he hardly knows to go overseas? There’s probably a host of willing women. Why me?”
I understood thirsty, but Javier was dehydrated. That was a red flag in my book.
Robyn was digging into her Reuben sandwich as I looked on. When her mouth was finally free of food, she rushed out, “Why not you, Tori?”
I shrugged, feeling like the conversation was over before it even started. Maybe Robyn had a point. Sometimes, I could get far too immersed in my head and overthink.
“Listen, sis, go or don’t go. Just don’t come crying to me over a missed opportunity,” she floated, swatting my hand away as I attempted to steal one of her fries.
I ended up going.
Javier was waiting in the crowd after my show with three dozen blush-pink roses in his arms. It was my favorite shade of pink, so naturally, it brought a smile to my face. After being celebrated and congratulated by my friends, I eased myself into his arms.
“Congrats, baby.”
Once he handed me the roses, he pressed his lips into my hair. We hadn’t exactly established ourselves as a couple, but he’d taken to the term of endearment.
Two hours later, hand in hand, we were boarding a flight to Indonesia. When I entered the cabin, the first thing I noticed were other women. And… men. They were all in the company of other men, which, I guess, wasn’t odd. Javier didn’t tell me we’d be in the company of his other friends, though. It was the only thing I found myself both relieved and annoyed about. Relieved that I wouldn’t be completely alone with him on the trip. Annoyed that he’d omitted such a detail.
Everyone appeared relatively comfortable with their person. Most of the women were snuggling in for the nine-hour flight. Contented that my surroundings weren’t strange, I decided to follow suit.
I didn’t wake up until we’d landed. The overhaul of work to launch a successful show tattled on me. My weariness was intoxicating and evident. Groggily, I swiped a hand down my face, seeking to clear away the sleep it housed.
Once I’d come to my senses, I fished around my bag for my phone. With the device in hand, I texted my parents and friends, informing them that I’d landed safely. My phone sounded off with several messages from the girlfriend group chat wishing me a good time. Ignoring those, I shoved the phone back into its hiding place in favor of giving Javier my full attention. As we deplaned, he muttered something in Spanish to one of his friends, though I couldn’t make out the meaning of the words.
“Llévalos a la villa y luego agarraremos a las chicas de abajo.”
Despite the group we’d flown with, Javier and I broke away to enjoy the island on our own. I asked him if we’d be reconnecting with his friends, but he swiftly told me no.
We arrived at a quaint and cozy villa. The unassuming space looked like a page torn from an old memory book. Though I’d expected something more elaborate—considering how Javier spent money in the States—it was still nice. Behind us was the famed pink beach, which I’d heard so much about. From where I stood, it was magnificent and made up for the modesty of our accommodations.
Behind me, I could hear Javier suggesting that we shower together before enjoying the beach. His intentions were transparent. He wanted me stripped bare to indulge in the heat my body housed. We had yet to have sex with one another, but I ignored every word in favor of sinking my toes in the coral-stained sand.
Saint
The vengeful barreling of waves curling and crashing into the rocky shore at dusk was something only the Lord could have crafted. The roaring was incessant and indicative of the ocean’s power. Despite the chaotic cripple of the collision, there was symphony. Though a chaotic concerto of water, it lulled me flawlessly.
The sun was plunging into another realm where inhabitants would soon be waking to meet a new day, but on this side of the world, it was concluding, leaving the cover of night to loom. The beach was deserted, with even the smallest of marine life tucking in for the evening.