Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 33633 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 168(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33633 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 168(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
I wince and slip my sunglasses over my brown eyes.
Now what?
I like children, or at least I don’t mind them. But I did not escape the noise of New York City to be bombarded by the noises of little Tommy being pissed that little Billy won’t share his beach ball while their parents scream at them to share or else.
I look around the pool deck, hoping to locate a tranquil cranny somewhere. But more families line the space. Not to mention the couples scattered throughout the families, snuggled together or petting each other suggestively.
You have a right to be here just as much as anyone else, I tell myself in my most confident tone. So what if it’s a people jungle?
Determined, I stride toward a vacant lounger, smushed right between a family with a toddler and a couple clearly on their honeymoon. No one looks up when I drop my bag onto the ground, and in fact, the couple next to me continue to coo while staring into each other’s eyes.
Rolling my eyes discreetly, I slide the chair closer to the pool’s edge, trying to make a little more space for myself. I plop onto it with a soft thud and wiggle until I’m comfortable. I close my eyes and lean my head back so that the sun can hit my city-pale face.
This isn’t so bad, I decide. I can tune out the noise.
But then a giant splash hits me in the face, soaking my hair, bag, and chair. A screech of laughter follows as I open my eyes and sputter helplessly. But the kids playing don’t notice at all, and I suddenly feel like a jerk for being so moody.
Danger be damned, I decide as I snatch up my bag and swing my dripping hair over my shoulder.
I need an adventure.
3
Morgan
My damp flip-flops slap against my feet as I make my way across the manicured grass toward a more secluded section of the resort, hopefully away from all the other guests. Occasionally I glance around, hoping that I look inconspicuous because I’m a coward—I know that if anyone asks me where I’m going then I won’t be able to continue my mission.
To my relief, once I’m out of the general pool area, there are only a handful of other people. Most of them are clearly too caught up in their own business to care what some random girl is up to.
Then again, I’m not much of a troublemaker— in fact, growing up I was something of a teacher’s pet, too nervous to do much of anything, let alone break rules. But the Mirago air is stirring something deep inside of my gut, some unnamable emotion that demands I misbehave, just a little. Plus, I really can’t imagine spending my vacation surrounded by amorous couples and noisy families.
I have to get out.
I study the resort map I pulled up on my phone a few minutes ago, looking for the small garden that is supposedly full of local plants. More importantly, it appears that the garden area might have a way to access the beach just beyond the resort.
Every now and then, I glance at the signage scattered around the resort as I work my way toward the empty garden. No one is on this side of the property, and the few people I do see are too caught up in their own affairs.
Stealthily, I make my way through the garden and stalk toward the back wall. The fence here isn’t white and tall like it is in other parts of the resort but instead made of flimsy chicken-wire. It looks like the kind of wiring they use to keep visitors off sand dunes: more of a warning than actually preventing anyone from crossing.
I bend down, pretending to be interested in a plant as I feel along the bottom edge of a fence.
Just as I suspected, the mesh wiring isn’t attached to the ground at all. And it doesn’t appear to be connected to anything except the vertical wooden posts that are scattered every few feet.
Sinking even lower to the ground, I pull the mesh upward. The wire curls without a problem, revealing a gap large enough for me to squeeze through.
Perfect.
With a final glance over my shoulder to make sure that no one from hotel security might be following me, I drop low and attempt to shove my way through the hole. I have to squirm around to actually fit through the opening, my backside rubbing against the soft wire and threatening to tear my already thin sarong.
Somehow though, I squeeze through. Sand-covered and a little sweaty, I peek back over my shoulder, certain that someone must have witnessed my escape.
But there’s no one. For the briefest moment, I wonder if I’m the only person even on the island, and that maybe this is all a dream.