Burning Moon (8 page)

“Can I make an observation, Lilly?”

This statement made me nervous, but I agreed.

“You're not actually as powerless as you think you are.”

“What?” I snapped at him yet again. I didn't know where he was going with this, but I had a very strong feeling I wasn't going to like it.

“Well, you keep saying how you feel everything is going wrong, how the world is conspiring against you. I think you have the power to change that.”

He was making no sense. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you're stronger than you think. You made the decision to come on your honeymoon alone, that's a pretty brave move—I don't think there're many women who could have done that. And maybe what's happened to you is a good thing—”

I cut him off. “How the hell can any of this be a good thing?”

“Perhaps all the ‘bad stuff'”—he gestured air quotes, which I hated—“that keeps happening is actually, well, good. Maybe it's steering you in a different, a better direction? Perhaps you weren't supposed to get married.”

“What?” I flew out of my seat clutching my towel for dear life. “Of course I was supposed to get married. What the hell are you talking about? Do you know how much work I put into that wedding? How many hours of planning went into it? It was going to be perfect!”

“Work?” The word came out loudly. “Shouldn't you care more about the marriage than the work that went into the wedding?”

That sentence stung me. It stung me so hard I took a step backward and almost fell over another table.

“What are you trying to say? That I don't love…I don't love…” I was stammering. “Michael?”

“Do you?” His tone was strange and almost challenging.

“Of course I love him.” I didn't even need to think about that. I did love him after all,
didn't I
? “Who do you think you are judging me anyway? What right do you have?”

The rain started pelting down again, and we had to raise our voices to be heard.

“How old are you, Lilly?” Damian stood up now; he looked fired up.

“What's that got to do with the price of eggs?”

“Twenty-three?”

“Twenty-four,” I shouted at him over the rain.

“Don't you think you're a bit too young to be getting married?”

Oh wow!
Now that was the last straw. I pointed my finger at him; it was inches away from his face, and I screamed.

“Who the hell do you think you are, Damian? Because you don't know me! You don't know the first thing about me! So if I were you I would just”—the rain softened, but I was still screaming—“shut the hell up!”

The volume of those last words shocked us both, and I think we could sense that there was absolutely no salvaging this situation. Whatever Damian and I had had, it was dead and buried. I turned and walked to the bedroom, climbed into bed with my towel still on, and pulled the duvet over my head. I was seething.

I don't know how much time elapsed, but at some stage, I started to feel better. Calmer. I closed my eyes and could feel that sleep would soon claim me.

I started to replay the fight in my head. Why had I gotten so angry with him? I thought about what he'd said. He'd tried to put a positive spin on my situation, tried to make me feel better, but I'd just kicked him in the teeth. He shouldn't have said that stuff about my not loving Michael and not getting married, but prior to that, he'd actually been nice.

Suddenly it occurred to me that
I'd
started the fight. I'd started it for my own reasons; I'd been feeling awkward, vulnerable, and extremely guilty for feeling something for him. I'd pushed him away. Punished him for something that wasn't his fault. I was also angry with Michael and Damian had just been a convenient punching bag. When it was Michael I really wanted to punch.

Sleep was creeping faster now and I knew I was about to succumb. I had one last thought…

I need to apologize to Damian in the morning.

I had a strange dream that night. I dreamed that I was at Esmeralda's having my cards read. At first glance everything seemed normal, but then Esmeralda walked in wearing my wedding dress, which looked terrible on her. (I was secretly very happy about this.) Annie was also there. She was shaking her head in horror and trying to cut the dress off with a giant pair of scissors while singing “Here Comes the Bride.”

I was wearing my pajamas. I looked down and noticed that the floor was covered in soft, white beach sand. Her monitor lizard was sitting on the floor next to my foot eating a hamburger, which was very disturbing, because he was doing it with a knife and fork. Esmeralda began turning the cards over, but every one was the same. The jack of hearts.

I asked her if she still saw the blond male and she said no. She saw a man with dark hair. I told her she was most definitely wrong, because he was supposed to be blond. Then she got angry and told me her cards never lied. He was dark-haired and had dark eyes and was holding the moon in his hand. I don't really know why, but this made me very angry, and so I grabbed a glass of water and threw it at her. Then all her candles went out and I woke up.

I sat up in bed as if it had shocked me; the towel was still wrapped around me, and as soon as my eyes had adjusted to the bright light, I looked around the room. My first thought was yesterday's last thought: I must apologize to Damian.

I glanced in the direction of the sitting area, but he wasn't there. I called out his name, no answer. I assumed he was outside; the sun was streaming through the huge windows and the day looked glorious, with no sign of last night's storm. I started climbing out of bed but stopped dead when I felt something crunch under my hand.

I didn't need to look down; I knew exactly what it was.

A note on my pillow.

My recent experience with notes had not been a very positive one, and I had a sneaking suspicion this was just going to reinforce that sentiment. I called out for Damian one more time, hoping…
still no answer
. I had a feeling I knew what the note was going to say. In fact, I was positive I knew.

He was gone. And I would never see him again.

There was absolutely no need to read the note, so I got out of bed and tossed it on the floor. Why did I even care if he was gone?

I didn't. Damian was just some stranger that I'd met and felt sorry for. I stomped over to the coffee machine and turned it on aggressively, as if that would somehow make me feel better. The kettle started to bubble and I began making myself a strong cup of coffee, but all the while I could feel the note staring at me. Staring at me with its beady little paper eyes. I ignored it and walked over to the couch for my morning caffeine hit. But the note began to peck at the back of my head with its sharp folded paper corners.

Oh, who was I kidding? Of course I wanted to read it…

Irony had clearly come back for seconds…just four little words once more. But there was something very different about this note. Something so seemingly insignificant, but to me, it was huge. A tiny letter, that when I looked at it, made my heart race.

X.

A kiss.

I stared at the
X
on the paper for ages.

Why would he have put one there? Did he want to kiss me? Was he just being polite? What does it all mean, or am I reading too much into it and this is just the way he signs off all his letters? Why is this even bothering me? Why am I analyzing a single letter on a note from a stranger?

And…why won't this incessant narration in my head turn itself off and give me a chance to breathe and wake up?

I turned the note over hoping he'd left me his number, or an email address or something. He hadn't. I suddenly realized that I didn't even know his surname, so I couldn't find him on Facebook. Or could I?

I went straight for my phone. The second it was in my hand I logged on to Facebook and typed in D-A-M-I-A-N. The reception was slower than a dead sloth and the anticipation was killing me as I watched that irritating thingy going round and round and round. Finally, it connected and about fifty pages came up.
Too many!
I tried to narrow the search and put South Africa in as a search perimeter, and now there were only thirty pages. And so began my hunt.

There were a few promising-looking profile pics; a skull and a plain red block jumped out immediately. But neither one was him. I kept going until my eyes began to sting, but he was nowhere to be found. My heart dropped into my toes, and I was gripped by this terrible realization—I would never see him again. It also dawned on me that this was the first time I'd logged on to Facebook and
not
gone straight to Michael's page. So I quickly did, not that I was expecting to find anything new.

But I did. He'd updated his status…

Was I hallucinating? I read it again just to be sure.

Life works in mysterious ways.

What the hell did that mean? I'd never known Michael to say anything deep and vaguely meaningful in all the years we'd been together, and now he was speaking like the Dalai Lama. Like some guru-swami-sage person, spouting out pseudo wisdom like a bleeding fountain.
Bastard.
He'd probably downloaded some app that delivered meaningful quotes to his phone every morning. I desperately felt like commenting, but what would I say?

Let me take some of the mystery out of it for you; next time I see you, I'm going to kick you in the nuts.

What “mysterious ways” was he referring to? I skulked over to the window angrily; it really was a beautiful day, and I had absolutely no idea what to do with it. I reached for the hotel guide and read through the list of available activities. I wasn't outdoorsy, so no to all the tennis, water activities, and anything involving being lifted into the air—I was scared of heights.

There was a spa, which sounded more doable.

So I slipped into my bathing suit, grabbed a towel and a sarong, and went out into the sunny world even though I was feeling anything but sunny.

Four hours and thirty-five torturously painful minutes later, I decided that this was officially the most pointless day of my entire pitiful life and everything that I'd done so far just made me feel depressed, lonely, miserable, and pathetic. It was sunny, but I was walking around with a big, thick black cloud above my head.

1.
Breakfast
—initially I was excited, the large buffet had practically called my name, especially the waffles, the pancakes, and the bacon. But three cappuccinos and three thousand calories later, I looked around the room and saw that I was the only party of one.

2.
The beach
—every minute and a half some cute, giggling, cooing couple walked past me holding hands and drooling on each other. They wallowed in the water, latching onto each other like codependent koala bears. They cuddled in the sun and whispered sweet nothings. They made me sick.

3.
The spa
—same thing. Couples, couples, couples all clinging on to each other like they would die if several of their body parts weren't attached at all times.

4.
The pool
—same as the beach, but without the waves and sand.

Eventually I prowled up to the reception desk and demanded to know what else there was to do in this Godforsaken bloody excuse for a hotel—okay, I didn't say that last part out loud, but I was thinking it, so that counts for something, doesn't it?

After a few curious stares, the kind of stares that seemed to say,
Shame, I wonder where her husband has gone
, I was handed a large pile of flyers.

Botanical gardens
—too many flowers. Flowers reminded me of weddings.

Elephant rides
—too large and smelly.

Sightseeing bus tour
—too much looking.

Tour of jungle ruins
—too jungle-y.

Shopping at the market
—
mmm
, now that was more like it.

In fact, that was exactly what I needed: some retail therapy. And everyone knows that the shopping in Thailand is supposed to be awesome. Let's face it, there's nothing like the smell of new clothes to make you feel better about your sad life.

With this in mind, I jumped into one of those tricycle boxes and headed for the market—the holy grail of all my future happiness. And when I arrived, it didn't disappoint.

I'm not sure there's an adequate way of describing the market that fully encapsulates its atmosphere. Certainly, I had never seen anything like it before.

Hundreds of stalls were packed together tightly, full of bright colors, exotic smells of cooking hanging in the warm air, and sounds—music blaring and people shouting over it, trying to sell their wares. Scooters buzzed past, and in the distance, someone was ringing a bell. My senses were assaulted around every corner, either by the never ending sea of multicolored sarongs, or the smell from a stand selling pineapples and perfume. The atmosphere was electric and alive, and it hummed with the possibility of bargains and purchases aplenty. I almost didn't know where to begin…almost.

I immediately gravitated toward a large collection of colorful beach bags. Like someone under the influence of a hypnotic spell, I drifted toward them in a trancelike state, eyes wide, mouth open and salivating. My eye was immediately drawn to a large beach bag made from bright-pink, purple, and gold traditional Thai fabric. It was exquisite. But as I was about to reach up and claim the precious thing, a tiny little woman appeared out of nowhere. Without asking she grabbed me by the hand and started pulling me toward the back of the stall.

“Come, come, I take you to back room.”

“I beg your pardon.” What the hell did she mean?

“Nice bags, nice bags there.”

With those magic words, my fears were forgotten. The little old lady pulled back a curtain, glanced around quickly, and dragged me inside. I had officially found the buried treasure. I was standing in a tiny room I could barely move my arms in, but it was covered from floor to the ceiling with some of my best—and usually very unaffordable—friends: Prada, Gucci, Louis, Salvatore, Fendi, Chanel, Chloé, and Dior. I didn't know where to look, where to turn, what to touch. It was all so dazzling and beautiful. Now, I'm not usually an advocate of fake anything, but after scrutinizing them all, there was simply no visible difference, and they were all so pretty and colorful and more importantly
cheap
.

Ten minutes later, and after much deliberation, I walked out with two handbags of happiness and a new understanding of how it all worked here. From then onward, every stall I went to, I asked for the back room (and they all had them).

Hours later and a Christian Dior watch, a pair of Gucci glasses, another three bags, a Fendi purse, a Louis Vuitton bracelet, a few shirts, skirts, bikinis, and sarongs, and two pairs of Manolos later, I was finally done. I was buzzing. High from adrenaline, endorphins, and handbags, Damian, Michael, and that wedding “thing” were distant memories. The only thing on my mind right now was my growling stomach. I needed to replenish my depleted reserves, and fast.

But I'm naturally suspicious of things like salmonella, food poisoning, and necrotizing fasciitis. (That's the flesh-eating bacteria. I once watched a show on the reality channel where a guy's leg was literally eaten by his own body, and since then I've been paranoid every time I get a scratch.) I chose my restaurant very carefully.

I decided on criteria: no plastic chairs, no plastic tablecloths, no sweaty-looking waiters in shorts, and definitely no pet meat, and it had to have air-conditioning. Sadly, nothing was meeting the criteria. So I jumped into another tuk-tuk and in my best Thai (Google Translate was officially my new best friend), I asked to go to the best restaurant around.

And what he took me to was beyond my wildest expectations. The restaurant was located on a small cliff overlooking a deserted beach. The building looked more like a traditional home than a restaurant, and it was surrounded by lush greenery. Walking into it, you got the feeling of being lost in paradise. I was led to a table on the balcony overlooking the pale white rocks that fell into the calm turquoise sea below. It was perfect.

Stormy-Rain is always telling me that there are no such things as coincidences, only fate pushing you toward a predetermined destination. Orchestrating your life in such a way that everything works out just the way it should.

Out of all the restaurants. Out of all the hours in the day. Out of all the people in the world. With all of those variables and many more that needed to combine in perfect synchronicity and unison to create this very moment, despite all of that…

Damian walked past me.