Rebecca and Jetson and I exchange glances. We shrug and follow him out into the humid night air. The streets are damp, the occasional flicker of a streetlamp catching on the wet sidewalk. Palm trees sway in the warm breeze, the smell of saltwater mingling with the sound of waves crashing in the distance. Sunset Cay never sleeps, but this isn’t the vibrant nightlife scene advertised in glossy brochures—this is gritty and real.
Timmy leads us down a nondescript alley and up some stairs to a poky little strip club—a small, dingy little spot with neon lights flickering over the door.
“That’ll be a forty dollar cover per person,” the cashier says, barely looking up from her phone. Timmy looks at us expectantly.
“Did any of us actually want to come here?” Jetson asks, deadpan.
Rebecca and I look at each other and shake our heads. Just another of Timmy’s terrible ideas that he expects others to fund.
“Me neither,” says Jetson. “It seems like Timmy is the only one who did, and he can’t afford the cover for one, let alone four.”
Timmy frowns as we traipse back down the stairs. “Well, I thought that would have been fun,” he says, sulking. His disappointment is palpable, his shoulders slouched, his slightly wobbly pace slowing.
“Yeah, if everyone else was paying for you.” I roll my eyes, shaking my head. “And you were the only one who wanted to go.”
As if on cue, a nondescript woman in a sheer shirt walks past, her lace bra on full display. Timmy spins around like a compass drawn to magnetic north, his eyes wide as he watches her pass. He just about drools on the sidewalk.
“What?” he says, catching my irritated expression. “I get to look at girls, and say ‘yeah you!’ if I want! I won’t touch any of them, just look.”
“Can you at least pick an attractive person to drool over then?” I snap, my patience wearing thin.
He’s pouting because he didn’t get to see some half-assed strippers, and trying to start an argument by being disrespectful.
I’m putting this sloppy behavior down to his level of intoxication, which seems to be getting steadily higher even though I haven’t seen him drink anything in quite a while. Maybe he’s in stealth mode. At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn he’d been going around taking sips out of random people’s drinks. There’s no other real explanation for it.
At one point, we need to share the sidewalk with a family headed in the other direction. “Watch it!” Timmy shrieks at them for no apparent reason.
“What the fuck, dude?” Jetson says under his breath, and the three of us exchange glances as Timmy charges on ahead.
His behavior is more than over the top, but I try to shake it off. I’m enjoying spending time with Rebecca and excited to have a new friend here on the island. It’ll be nice to plan girl outings and do fitness classes and restaurant stuff together. And she and Jetson seem like a solid couple, so we can do double dates. I glance at them and they offer me a sympathetic look. This isn’t what I had in mind when I thought of a night out.
But I shake it off. I’m not going to ruin what could still be an enjoyable night out with friends because Timmy decided to have three too many drinks, or whatever this is.
This has to be a one-off, him stumbling around this way.
Nobody behaves like this all the time.
43
COCK-BLOCKER
Afew days later
The sun is warm and bright as we wander down the main shopping strip lined with colorful stores. Timmy was apologetic the morning after his Irish bar antics, blaming his behavior on drinking too much, and he’s been relatively calm ever since.
“Come,” says Timmy, grabbing my hand in his and leading me into an indoor arcade.
We go into a surf shop that smells like sunscreen, saltwater and soft cotton, the kind of place that feels sun-kissed and easygoing. Boards are stacked along the perimeter, and racks of T-shirts, board shorts and caps also line the walls. As we wander in, a low indie song drifts from the speakers, adding to the laid-back vibe.
I have so much fun exploring surf shops with Timmy. He gets so excited discovering the latest designs, although he’s always confident he could design something much more interesting himself. And, based on what he’s shown me so far, I’m also confident he can.
I trail behind Timmy, my fingers brushing against soft hoodies and linen beach pants. The store feels alive with colors that represent the ocean and our tropical location—bright blues, pastel pinks,sandy neutrals—the lighting causing everything to glow with a sunny, golden hue.
Timmy, as usual, gravitates toward the hats. He scans the shelves thoughtfully, his fingers tapping on the bills of a few before he picks up two. He holds them against me, selecting one. “This is the one,” he grins, holding it out to me. “Try this on,” and then he turns me so I can see myself in the mirror.
It’s pretty, from a popular surf brand, a black hat with brightly colored plumeria and a map of Sunset Cay on the bottom of the bill.
I hesitate for a second, surprised by how deliberate he’s being, then I take the cap and slip it onto my head. The fabric feels cool against my skin, and the color underneath the bill automatically warms my complexion.