An Island Affair

I should never have let even an ounce of me love you. I’ve always guarded my heart, protected it by choosing not to trust anyone, not to open up.

Why was it so easy to let down my barriers for you? It must have been the island life. The carefreeness of everything. The “live in the moment and enjoy the present” attitude that I’d been rocking.

It wasn’t a vacation. You were there studying medicine, and I was, well, living my life to the fullest, avoiding winter, and enjoying unemployment abroad for the time being. I had two months to soak up every glorious moment of those days in the Caribbean.

It was all too easy for things to fall into place when we kept bumping into each other on that small island. You were easy to talk to. After my first month there we were messaging more frequently, spending time together at karaoke night on Thursdays. It all happened fast as an arrow zipping through the air.

Our first kiss was late at night on the beach, while most were asleep, and all was quiet and still except for the ocean itself, with its waves crashing against the shore where we strolled.

Our second kiss was on the property of a resort that we snuck into, which became our favorite pastime. It wasn’t particularly difficult to enjoy the luxuries of those resorts without getting caught. From there it was reminiscent of a romance novel, which was nothing I’d ever experienced before. Yet I knew it couldn’t end well.

I wasn’t wrong.

We shared many magical nights of drinking on the sand, under the moonlight, but our last time doing so was turbulent. It was a wilder ride than when I drove us around on that damn moped that I loved, but you feared I’d kill myself on.

It all started with fire building, ocean tag, and sword fights using branches.  Throughout the night the bottle of rum slowly dwindled.

I hadn’t noticed the quantity you’d been drinking.

We left the beach and entered the nearby bar where a live band was playing outside. A spontaneous night of drinking and dancing alongside strangers was appealing to me, though you were already quite intoxicated.

Then another drink.

An attempt at billiards.

Light conversation.

Then you pulled out your knife, but no violence ensued. Instead you took it upon yourself to carve our initials into the wall.

But we weren’t “S+L.” We weren’t anything. Despite my growing feelings I knew we couldn’t ever be anything. You’d made that clear enough. You had a girl back home whom you had no plans of breaking up with. You told me I shouldn’t stay longer on the island to be with you. You overtly rejected any future with me. So I did not swoon at the gesture. In fact, that was when I called it a night.

Though it’s not when the night ended.

We made our way up Calliste Hill beneath the moon’s glow. Your affection ceased being sweet when you gripped my side and bit my ear hard enough to cause me pain.

I’m not prone to violence but as you hurt me in those ways my knee-jerk reaction was to push you away and smack you on the arm.

I grew especially tired of you when you began marching down the street and chanting derogatory phrases that I barely understood. I needed you gone.

“I don’t think I can drive you home without you falling off my scooter. You're too drunk, but you can't sleep over.” I said. You, however, had no intentions of leaving.

You held me and whispered into my ear, “I’m falling in love with you.” My heart did not melt, nor did my lips curl into a smile. I certainly didn’t utter the words back.

In fact, my first thought was are you kidding me! I needed to talk, to yell at you for all the mixed messages. We headed to my porch.

I couldn’t fit in many words before you stripped down to nothing right there on my porch, in full view of the neighbors.

I stormed off, groaning at the crudeness. When I returned you had your pants back on, at least.

“I’m gonna throw up.” You told me. “I don’t want you to see.”

“Throw up over the porch! Not on it.” I instructed. But you didn’t listen and left me with a huge mess to clean up.

You didn’t listen then, and you didn’t listen when I told you to get dressed after showering. You just remained crouched on the toilet, nude, with your head in your hands. It was a pitiful display.

Eventually you were dressed and exited the bathroom, to be met by me and a friend whom I'd called to give you a ride home. He graciously drove to my aid like I was a damsel in distress, which I kind of was. You refused to go home with a stranger, ironically, considering I later found out that you ended up taking a taxi that night.

Perhaps the climax of the story would be when the fighting began, nothing physical, just you and my friend shouting. I paced my kitchen as I listened to your voices outside in the halls of Relax Inn. I was surprised none of the other tenants yelled at you for the chaos you created.

You didn’t even know what you were doing, all you knew is you wanted to speak to me. I decided I was the only one who could put an end to the madness.

I calmly told you that we were done. Whatever was going on between us was over, and you needed to leave. I’ll admit it didn’t feel good seeing you hang your head and cry. Due to the stigma of males needing to be tough and hide their emotions, it isn’t often I see a guy cry, which made it almost shocking.

With that I convinced you to leave. I watched from my porch as you walked down the hill in the middle of the road. I watched as you were nearly hit by a car. Then I heard the crash of broken glass, which turned out to be your knife smashing the drivers window. This of course angered the driver. More shouts and curses followed, and then you jogged back up the hill and onto apartment property, once more.

Leaning over the porch railing I yelled “Get out of here!” and then you disappeared into some bushes. That was the end of it. It wasn’t the last I heard from you though.

You tried to explain, to apologize. It didn’t matter, because it was over, and less than a week later I was back in the states. The transition was rough. Going back to normal life after living in a dream for two months was bleak.

The temptation to talk to you grew stronger the longer we were apart. I couldn’t talk to you if I wanted, though.  You had blocked me.

It was for the better. I didn’t want to be with an alcoholic who loses control, has anger issues, and not to mention is a cheater.

While I never truly loved you, I could feel myself slipping down that rabbit hole. I didn’t land in a magical world, I just hit the ground with a splat and a core full of regret.

I had to hate you in order to not miss you. I had to believe you were using me, that it meant nothing, despite the sweet things you told me.

You’re nothing more than a player who used smooth words to draw me in, make me feel like a queen, so you could get what you wanted. A pretty face, a little fun in between studying.

You described it to a friend as “an intense fling.” There was a point where I wanted more than a fling, but in the end we’re better off apart.

Over half a year later I check my phone only to see the little icon with your picture, the one where your girlfriend is standing next to you with your arm around her.

“Hey beautiful. How is u?” was what you said, as if nothing had changed.

I was done with your games, and I told you how I felt. You blocked me.

Rage filled me, because I should be the one doing the blocking. It’s been almost a year now, and I guarantee, the next time you reach out to me I will be.