But we’re all wrong. How much pain can one event inflict on individuals so far away they’ll never even know the beauty of the islands or the smell of the tropical rain or the beat of the music at the late night disco? Much.

5.
I have no idea how to star in a commercial. Get up at 3:30 a.m. to start hair and makeup before the sun rises. Director shoots film in the cooler morning light. The set is outside, in the sun, on the beach. And it turns hot. I am a fool to the work involved.

He comes along. He takes some pictures for posterity, or for my father. Whoever asks first.

And our bungalow on the beach. With the airconditioner whirring. Sending cool air over steamy bodies. Was perfect. A honeymoon for the unwed virgin. Me. And we laugh to think we used to clamor around the school instruments in the cabinet-sized room, air-conditioned to keep the brass from rusting. A perfect make-out place, our secret. Now this? A slice of heaven and we don’t waste a taste. We gorge ourselves on the tropical flavor of paradise.

6. Day three and the shoot is nearly done. I’m tired of wearing a ridiculous faux-leather biker outfit on the beach, in 90-degree weather, with 100-percent humidity. So we cruise to a different beach on a rented motorcycle, for a night of peace.

The road is dark, not a lamppost to be seen. But we don’t care. There’s no one on the road anyway. Just us, the warm air rushing over us. Our bare legs, tanned and exposed to the wind. I can still smell the asphalt as the raindrops started falling over us. We simply drive faster. Water does nothing to dampen our spirits. Until the chain breaks.

We are miles away in nowhere. Rain falling in buckets by now. Two stranded strangers in this tropical paradise. I am worried. I am a white girl in a foreign country, standing on the edge of a black street full of potholes, with a broken bike and a boy who is not mine. But he is calm. He is always so calm. Within minutes a small pickup drives up. The first car we’ve seen in forever. They stop and we load up the bike in the back. We sit holding it steady as we head back to town, soaking up more warm water as we go.

7.
We play and play. Trips up the mountain to sparkling waterfalls and winding mountain roads. Dirt bikes and near misses on the curving trails and sudden drop-off cliffs. My skirt flowing and my sneakers dirt-tracked. It is magic. It is freedom. Dancing through the night at clubs named after bubble gum and eating at restaurants on the river’s edge. A night bizarre for buying silver jewelry

He borrows my oversized t-shirt and he buys me the most fragrant flower lei I’ve ever worn. We take a picture. We are frozen in time. He in my shirt. Me in his lei.

8.
Today my father drives us to the airport. It’s time for his flight home. We have postponed this goodbye for as long as we could. Now it’s time. And I try not to cry. My father is there and this boy is not mine. We all know. But I do cry, in the car, on the way back home. My softhearted father pretends not to see.

We spoke once of love. He said to me “I could love you again.” And I can never forget those words. Even in the promise of no promises.

He is gone.

9.
I have pictures to send him. Advice to give. He’s coming to my college, as his original plan dictates. So I gather class schedules, circle the easy professors. Put stars next to those I know he’d enjoy. I ship it to his parents’ house in the mid west. And I hear nothing.

But it really doesn’t matter now because I have told him No promises, no promises. We both agreed. And yet, I was so glad he was coming. Afraid to be with him, afraid to be without him.

10.
Weeks pass.

“Is he there?” I simply call his parent’s house. Easy enough. They know me well. His father slowly clears his throat. And the carelessness of my phone call hits me.

“No, he’s not.” His father says to me. Oh God, I think, he’s dead. And my world crashes.

“He’s on his honeymoon.”

Far beneath the rubble, I find I cannot breathe. I suffocate in his death and then, in my rejection. Already the guilt sets in. I knew he was not mine. I have taken something that I can never ever give back.

“What?” I croak. But I think, stop telling me. Stop saying words I cannot comprehend.

His father continues, “I’m so sorry. He came back and she was pregnant. More than a month along. She never even told us.” So many words float through the air. Crowding my thoughts while breaking my heart. “I want you to know, when his mother and I found out he was spending time with you again, we were glad. We always liked you.”

I smile and grasp at the nice, nice, nice words. Thank you. And then, my God. He has a new daughter-in-law and this he tells me. And now my heart breaks for her.

How do you apologize for something like this? How do you give a new bride the weeks I just spent with her husband? I stole time that was not mine.

And this - feeling is my albatross. Maybe one day I will have a Phoenix Rising. Maybe. But now I know that regret is not just a feeling; it can be a living.

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© Melt Magazine 2001