CHAPTER ONE—THE CASE OF THE SAND INDENTS
The sand is my track. The tree, my finish line.
The alluring rhythm of the pop beats in my earbuds deserves a different type of movement beyond the pounding of my feet, but I can’t stop for a dance break. The Moss Monster Meet approaches and with it the dream I’ve held since I toddled on unsteady baby legs. I’m not unsteady anymore.
Nevertheless, dancing is out of the question. Later at the club or in my kitchen, I can work it until my soul’s content. There’s a time for everything and now is not—
At the chorus, I slow and spin into salsa steps, swaying hips stretching muscles that were focused on one task alone. Before the verse kicks back in, I launch myself on track. Faster now in this last haul to make up those lost seconds. I’ve got this so hard. Warrior woman party-of-one coming in hot.
The crowd of ocean waves lined up to my right roars encouragement at my approach while palm leaves flap in the breeze on my left like banners and posters and big silly foam fingers. Each of these final steps works toward the win I will have in a month and five days. My lungs ache, and my muscles threaten to turn to goo, but it’s only a threat and I’m not listening.
“Three triathlons,” I wheeze into the air. “Two Mossies.” I lick my lips. “One more.” I am so close to murdering my record. “Just. One. More. Time.” I pound past the tree decorated with my old jeans—the ones my thighs outgrew while training for my first triathlon—slap the stop button on my watch and ease up on my sprint. “Six seconds longer?” I huff, then jump out the ache of overtaxed muscles while I shake out my hands. Stupid impossible-to-deny dance break. It’s fine. Doesn’t matter. I’ll win the Mossy anyway. No one else trains like I do.
I stare at the indents on the typically barren sand of Simona Island’s western shore. Maybe someone decided to use this as their training ground too. I run beside them for another mile. Slow and steady is my pace, and since I can’t seem to deny the music entrancing my soul, I put more jump and sway into my steps. When I return to my starting point, I’m well and truly tired.
I walk the mystery divots, thigh muscles stretching as my breathing slows to normal. It’s hard to investigate dry sand prints, but if I’m right, this person’s stride is longer than mine.
Maybe I’ll have some competition this year. A month isn’t a ton of time, but enough for someone to increase their speed and stamina if they’re dedicated. So far, none of the residents can beat my times on any of the events. I’d know because I’d hear about it if there was a real challenge.
Visitors will say Simona Island is known for its dedication to preventing overtourism or being one of the best locations to fall deeper in love. Residents praise its ability to be both a small town and a well-stocked paradise. It may be all of those, but it’s also the gossip epicenter of the Caribbean. I stay out of it at every opportunity, unless they’re talking about my competitors, the race path that remains secret until meet day, or people who have left the island—a person who has left the island.
I swore I saw him at the end of a hallway while I was speeding to the spa to meet a client for their appointment. But when I backtracked, the space was empty. Not even a tall, dark, and handsome shadow. No honey eyes. No easy smile that lifts the right side of his lips a split second before the left catches up. My heart and lungs did all kinds of flippy-floppy things they shouldn’t have been doing. A few coworkers were with me and raised eyebrows over how I stared at the spot where I swore he’d been, tilting my head like I couldn’t understand why he hadn’t teleported from New York to that hallway.
In my daze, I confessed the exact thing I shouldn’t have. “I thought I saw Apollo Fischer.”
For the rest of the afternoon my coworkers went into whisper mode, which spread like a spritz of patchouli into an unbreathable fog that’s never going away. I wished they would have just yelled, “Hear ye, hear ye! Xiamara still constantly thinks about Apollo and continues to get frazzled at the slightest hint of him!” It would have been better than the tension itching up the back of my neck, knowing everyone was talking about me. It made my shoulders raise so high, even Chillax couldn’t return them to Earth. And that is my most de-stressing aromatherapy mix.
This island is paradise, and the people are the best this planet offers, but I wish they’d watch reality shows instead of pretending they’re in one.
Gossip is the worst. I was the center of conversation for too long when I was little, but I have to admit that when I overhear Apollo’s name, I leap onto what’s being said as if it’s the finish line. Rumors are minimal when it comes to him though; not enough to find out any personal details of his life now. A couple words here and there about how they miss him or that his Ma’s been trying to lure him back to work at the Cliffs, but then it’s muted whispers and walking away, and I end up falling out of a chair in the dining hall because I’d been leaning so far. Pretty sure half the island heard about that by the time I peeled my red face off the floor.
“Bleh.” I stop, turn toward the ocean, and stretch my burning muscles. The waves are choppy today, and the overcast haze whispers about an afternoon shower. A deep, three-second inhale brings my thoughts back to business and away from the man I have no reason to think about anymore. I exhale and shake my head. Moss Monster Meet. Training. Work. This is my life.
My goal for this Mossy is to secure the Moss Boss title. I think Mama is ready to give it up. She’s held the pearl trophy for two decades, watching from the sidelines, waiting for someone to win three years in a row.
Waiting for me.
My face is sweat-soaked and chilly. I’m tempted to dive into the ocean, but it’s temperamental on this side of the island. Instead, I head over to my shiny blue golf cart and put my foot on the white back-facing seat, leaning in, hands on my warm thigh.
After a speedy back and hip stretch, I drive over the crunchy path of shell and stones toward Simona Island’s only main road. It’s shaped like a crescent moon on the eastern side of the island, curving against the twin mountains and leaving most of the west to small paths through the jungle.
Vic’s blue Tacoma roars around the bend and halts with enough force to skid on the gravel, palm fronds slapping at the windshield. Focusing on navigating the narrow path, I keep moving, veering to the side and into ferns and tiny bushes that wallop the underside of the cart with thunks and scratches. As we squeeze by each other, I wave, until I realize who’s driving.
It’s not Vic.
There’s no returned smile, only a courteous lift of his haven’t-shaved-yet chin like it’s required.
My lungs have malfunctioned, burning to expel the breath I’m holding. It pops out with a squeak and thank God the truck’s windows are up. However, the truck slows to a stop, and the driver’s eyes lift to mine, his lips tight. That “let’s get this over with” face hasn’t changed a bit since we were kids.
I smash the pedal and reel out of there as if being chased, but it’s the past I’m afraid will catch up to me. It’s not adult-like in the least.
There’s no way. Well, there has to be a way because that was not Vic, her daughter, nor anyone else who lives on Simona Island. There’s no mistaking it. That face is etched so deeply into my memory that I just know it will be my last vision on my deathbed, and then I’ll die awkwardly, and it will be all his fault.
Apollo. I shake my head and snort. “I knew it.”
The bumps in the road send my ass off the seat and tell me to slow the hell down or end up there. The truck’s taillights disappear past a thick line of bushes.
The part of me that misses him and what we used to be rejoices. Then the rational side remembers how I act around him and says, “Oh, Xia. This is the worst timing.”
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