By Kirsti MacKenzie
Jess says the Australian couple has a crush on me. We’re eating lunch on Naxos in the blistering sun. The square is quiet but for tourists buzzing past on motorbikes. Says it around a mouthful of chicken gyro. I can’t tell if she’s pissed or amused because her eyes are hidden behind knockoff RayBans she bought at a gift shop in Athens.
“How do you know?”
She tilts her head, chewing. “They laugh too hard at your jokes.”
“I’m funny.”
“Not that funny.”
We spent the first night before the trip fucking because we agreed: no fucking on the boat. Day broke over Santorini and we sipped coffee stupidly, watching cruise ships idle in the Aegean. When it was time to go to the south port we were sunburnt and met an older couple on the boat. Thought maybe it was just the four of us until more showed. One American, who announced that she was newly divorced. One tour guide, a handsome middle-aged Spaniard. And one last couple: Tom and Amanda from Australia.
“They’re always inviting you places,” she says. “But not me.”
“You’re implied.”
She squinches her nose like nah.
The guide tried to teach us to sail ‘til he realized we were all useless. Everyone promptly got sea sick except for us and the divorcee. We stuck these scopolamine patches behind our ears. Magic. The Australians sat in the galley, playing crazy eights and taking turns throwing up. I waited to use the john while Tom yakked. Amanda dealt me in. I was gone half an hour and Jess came looking. Took two islands for her to bring it up.
“They’re Australian,” I say. “Friendly.”
“Don’t play dumb, Ben,” she says. “It’s not a good look.”
~*~
On Paros we go for a group dinner. In the harbor, fishing boats knock together. Locals drink espresso under the rippling cafe awnings. Octopus hang over wooden railings, drying in the late sun. Jess takes pictures with her phone. Tom and Amanda stray from the group onto a stone breakwall. Tom catches my eye, waves me over.
“See,” gloats Jess.
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“Oh, am I?”
I don’t want to give her the satisfaction but when she trails after me onto the breakwall Tom frowns, says something to Amanda.
“Coincidence,” I say.
“Sure,” says Jess.
Jess wanders toward a little stone tower at the end of the breakwall, leveling her camera phone at different angles.
“What’d you get up to today,” asks Amanda.
“Swimming,” I say.
“We’re going to rent four-wheelers tomorrow,” says Tom. “You should come.”
“Sure,” I say. “I’ll ask Jess.”
Tom cuts Amanda a look, then turns back to me. “You two been together long?”
“Two years.”
Tom whistles.
“She’s quite,” says Amanda, “something.”
“Sure is,” says Tom. “Something, alright.”
“Gonna pop the question?” asks Amanda.
“Like what do you want for dinner?” I joke.
Big, open-mouthed laughs. A little too loud, a little too long.
~*~
The restaurant tables slope toward the harbor wall. String lights hang above us. Servers bustle past with flaming platters of saganaki and jugs of sangria. Across the table, Jess sits next to the divorcee and our Spanish guide. The Australians sit on my side of the table. Stray cats wait underfoot for scraps. The older couple never joins us for dinner.
“Well,” says the divorcee, squeezing the Spaniard’s arm. “Look at us.”
The Spaniard signals for another ouzo. He orders for the table. Squid breaded and fried, head and all. Whole sea bass spread wide on beds of rice with strings of lemons trailing from their insides. Grilled octopus arms crowning salads. Chewy, boiled tentacles and whole, unshelled shrimp on beds of linguine, nestled next to calamari and open mussels.
“They’re so—” says Tom.
“—whole,” finishes Amanda.
We tuck into the meal, taking a bit of everything. The Spaniard cracks his shrimp and sucks the meat from his fingers. The divorcee asks him what part of the squid she should start with. Tom and Amanda take turns spearing tentacle bits from the pasta, giggling.
“Ben,” says Amanda. “You have to try this.”
She spears a boiled tentacle chunk and rotates her fork in the linguine, then holds it up to my face. Tom watches us. Across the fork I see Jess’ eyebrows jump.
“That’s cool,” I say.
“Just try it,” says Tom.
“Chewy,” says Amanda. “Won’t kill you.”
She holds the fork closer to my mouth. The Spaniard drains his wine, looking pained. The divorcee has her nails and fork dug into a mussel. Her mouth hangs open. Jess puts her cutlery down, tents her fingers over her dinner plate.
“C’mon,” says Amanda.
When I open my mouth to protest, she shoves the fork toward my lips. I splutter and the food falls to my lap, leaving a greasy patch on my pant leg. Stray cats dart to pick up the fallen treat.
“Fumbled that one, mate,” says Tom.
~*~
We pick a beach on Mykonos that’s only kind-of nude. EDM thumps from the beach clubs behind us as we settle on reclining beds under a thatched umbrella. About half the sunbathing women are topless. Old Greek men stand naked in the surf, gold chained and pot-bellied, hands braced against their lower backs like pregnant women. Jess lies on her stomach, paperback spread under her chin. I reach across and unhook her bikini top.
“Should ask Tom and Amanda first,” she says.
“Don’t start.”
“They tried to spoon feed you.”
“Jesus. You’re jealous.”
We should be laughing, but she gets like this sometimes. Notices someone, stews about it, goads me into a fight. She props herself on her elbows, rests her chin on her palms.
“It’s not like that,” she says finally.
“Then explain it to me.”
“Did they invite you to do anything today?”
I clamp my mouth shut, fuming. I could lie to her, but lying would make it worse.
“Four-wheeling.”
Sea wind whips past us. She brushes strands of her hair out of her face, re-ties her ponytail. When she sits up, her bikini top falls. I want to take it back now. Want to tell her to cover up. Her nipples perk in the breeze. Two women next to us smile and whisper to each other.
“They like you,” she says.
“So?” I explode. “I’m not going to fuck—”
“No,” she says. “It’s not about that. This happens everywhere we go. You’re quiet and you’re serious and you come off—I don’t know—scholarly, maybe. But then something happens. You crack a joke. Something small, a surprise. This little gift. They laugh and laugh and laugh and all of a sudden, you’ve got them. People just—like you. You don’t even have to try.”
I suck my cheeks and bite down. “You said I wasn’t funny.”
“I lied.”
The lifeguard, a young Greek guy, climbs the stand next to us. I can see him peeking down at Jess’ boobs and I want to punch him.
“People like you, too,” I say.
“They didn’t ask me to go.”
“You hate ATVs.”
“Still,” she says.
~*~
When we get back to the boat Tom and Amanda are passing a magnum of bubbles back and forth. Chug chug. I ask them how it went with the ATVs. Amanda holds her left hand out.
“He asked me what I want for dinner,” she says. “For the rest of our lives.”
“What?” whispers Jess.
Tom gives her a strange look. And it pops out of her: one brief, damning hah. He takes a big swig, stares her down. And I see it now: her blurt, her guileless reactivity, her lack of poker face, choking on her foot always. Strange, to see her this way. To have the things I love made charmless in the eyes of another. The way I’ll never be able to unsee it.
“It’s not—” Jess sputters, gesturing at me. “—I just mean—you invited—”
“She means congrats,” I say.
“Headed for dinner, to celebrate,” says Tom. “Should come, mate.”
Jess purses her lips, expels a bunch of air. Pushes past me, headed for our cabin.
“Windmills,” I say. “We’re going to see them.”
I find her perched on the bottom bunk, flexing her toes. Her ponytail is falling out, thick and wavy from the salty breeze. I climb the top bunk, lean my head and shoulders over the edge. Dull thumping sounds from Tom and Amanda’s cabin. She looks up at me.
“Don’t ever.”
“What.”
“While four-wheeling,” she says. “And for the love of god, don’t invite anyone.”
Maybe she should be jealous of them. She’s always wanted to elope. If I had a ring, this would be the time to give it to her. Not on the beach. Not under the windmills. Not at a restaurant while the sunset explodes across the sea. Now. But I don’t have a ring. We’ll go on like this for seven more years. Nine days on a boat with six other people will be the closest thing we ever get to a honeymoon. I want to tell her, to explain, but all I do is agree: Never ever.
“They broke the rule.”
“Rule?”
Jess looks toward the thumping sounds. “No fucking on the boat.”
“People like you,” I say. “I like you.”
“You have to.”
“No,” I say. “I really don’t.”
And she laughs then, so loud and so long that the thumping stops.
Kirsti MacKenzie (@KeersteeMack) is a writer and editor in chief of Major 7th Magazine. Her writing has been published in X-R-A-Y, Rejection Letters, trampset, Autofocus, Identity Theory and elsewhere. Her best work can be found in dive bar bathroom stalls. You can read the rest here.