The bar looked like something slapped together in a rush. Bamboo poles, cheap fairy lights, stools that rocked when you sat down. Beach bars always looked temporary, like they'd blow away in one storm. Still, it was crowded, sticky with heat, and the music was too loud for the space.
I hadn't planned to come here. I hadn't planned anything, really. Just… found myself walking when Charlotte didn't want to. She'd said she was tired, her voice flat, not playful like before. Something had shifted since that stupid almost-sex in the dark. Maybe I was imagining it. Probably not.
So, I came here instead. Noise to drown out the silence in my room.
The blonde bartender leaned in, bored. "What'll it be?"
"Beer." First thing I thought of. Cheap, safe.
She slid it over. Cold glass, sweating. I gripped it too hard. The first sip went down bitter. Second sip, little easier. The third… well, I didn't care.
People were laughing all around. Girls in sundresses leaning against guys with sunburns. Someone spilled a drink, nobody cared. A guitar in the corner, someone strumming clumsy chords.
I stared at the bottle neck, condensation running. Tried not to think. Tried not to replay the way Charlotte's hand had hovered near mine earlier. The way her eyes had softened for half a second before hardening again. I hated myself for noticing. For wanting.
Another beer. Then another. My head started to loosen, like someone was cutting the ropes one by one.
That's when she slid onto the stool beside me.
"Empty seat?" she asked.
I nodded. Didn't even look at first. Just another person. But then I did look, and she was, well… pretty in a polished way. Dark lipstick, tight dress that didn't match the sand between her toes. A tourist trying too hard.
"You don't talk much, huh?" she said, after a silence.
"I do enough."
She laughed, a low sound, practiced. "Mysterious type. Figures."
I shrugged. She ordered something neon in a glass. I ordered another beer. Then, the conversation drifted—where she was from (Chicago, apparently), how long she was staying (two nights, already bored), what I did (I muttered 'web development,' she nodded like she cared).
The truth: I wasn't listening. Not really. I was staring at her mouth when she leaned close. I was thinking about Charlotte when I wasn't supposed to.
By the third drink, I wasn't thinking much at all. Just heat. Noise. The pulse in my ears.
"You want to get out of here?" she asked.
It should've been a no. I knew it. Knew it the way you know touching fire burns. But my head was fuzzy, and Charlotte's laugh kept replaying in my skull, and I was tired of wanting something I couldn't have.
"Yeah," I said.
The walk back to the resort was a blur. Her hand slipped into mine halfway, nails painted black, grip too eager. I let it happen. My body was moving on autopilot, dragging behind the part of my brain screaming what the hell are you doing.
We stumbled into the elevator. She pressed close, her perfume too sweet, her laugh bouncing off the walls. I smelled alcohol on her breath, maybe on mine too. I didn't care.
By the time we got to the room, I wasn't thinking in words anymore. Just fragments. Mouths. Heat. Her fingers pulling. Clothes tugged.
And then—fade. Just blurred skin and noise and forgetting on purpose.
The walls were thin.
I don't know when Charlotte came back to her room, or if she was already there when it started. But I know she heard. She had to.
The girl—what was her name? Melissa? Marissa? —was loud. Too loud. Moans that hit the wall like fists—everyone could literally hear her moaning my name out loud. The bed creaking against the floor. I pressed a pillow against the headboard at one point, half-drunk attempt at muffling, but it didn't do much.
And somewhere in the back of my head, through the haze, I pictured Charlotte on the other side. Sitting up in bed. Eyes wide, jaw clenched. Maybe hugging her knees, maybe pretending she didn't care.
The thought almost sobered me. Almost.
But then nails dragged across my skin, and I shut the image out.
Morning.
My mouth felt like sandpaper. My head was pounding. Stomach sour. Sunlight stabbing through the curtains.
I rolled over, and the other side of the bed was empty. Sheets messy, smell of perfume still clinging. No note. No goodbye. Just gone.
I sat up, rubbed my face. Didn't even remember half of it. Didn't want to.
It wasn't about her. It wasn't about anything. Just noise in the dark to drown out the other noise.
Shower. Cold water. Didn't help much. My reflection in the mirror looked worse than I felt—red eyes, hair sticking up, jaw tight like I was still grinding my teeth.
I dressed. Laptop bag on the chair. Routine. Pretend like nothing happened.
Sliding the balcony door open, I stepped outside, for some fresh air. Salt sharp in my nose.
And there she was. Charlotte. On her side of the divider, sitting cross-legged in a chair, with a coffee mug in her hand. Her sunglasses were on, even though the sun wasn't that high yet.
Her head turned slightly. Not all the way. Just enough to let me know she knew I was there.
Then, the silence stretched.
I wanted to say something. Joke, maybe, defuse it, but my throat stayed locked, and my body, heavy.
She didn't say anything either. Just sipped her coffee. Slow. Deliberate.
The divider between us felt paper-thin.
And in that silence, the night replayed in my head in broken flashes. The sounds she must've heard. The bed creaks. The laughter.
I gripped the railing, my knuckles got white.
"Morning," I muttered finally.
Her jaw tightened. She didn't answer.
I went back inside.
The day moved on, somehow. Breakfast in the resort café—eggs I didn't taste, coffee I forced down. Work emails I answered out of habit, hands moving while my brain replayed everything else.
Charlotte passed by once, heading out with a beach bag slung over her shoulder. Didn't look at me. Didn't need to. Her silence was louder than anything she could've said.
I told myself it didn't matter. It was just a fling. One night. Nothing to do with her.
But the hollow in my chest said otherwise.
I just had to go back to my room, since I couldn't think straight anymore.
The afternoon was just cruel. Not soft or easy, not even forgiving in that lazy beach way. It came in hot and bright, stabbing through the blinds like it had a personal grudge. My skull throbbed. My tongue felt like it had been dragged across gravel. Everything smelled wrong—cheap perfume, stale booze, sweat, and underneath that, the faint salt from the sea kept pushing in through the cracked window.
I rolled over too fast and for a second, I thought maybe I'd dreamed the whole damn thing. Maybe I'd just blacked out and imagined the girl, her voice, her hands. But then my eyes caught the evidence scattered everywhere. Lipstick on the glass on the nightstand. My shirt half inside out on the floor. Belt hanging off the chair like I'd lost a fight with it. Shoes kicked into opposite corners. No dream. No chance.
I lay there way too long, staring at the ceiling like it was supposed to answer something. My body felt heavy, my head noisy. And the noise wasn't even about her. It was about Charlotte. Always circling back to Charlotte. Like I'd somehow pulled her into the room last night, even though she wasn't here. I kept imagining her on the other side of that thin wall, lying awake, jaw clenched, listening. Maybe she pressed a pillow to her ears, maybe she didn't bother. Maybe she hated me more now. Or worse—maybe she didn't care enough to hate.
Dragging myself upright felt like moving through mud. Shower didn't help. Water ran down and I scrubbed at my skin like I could wash off regret, but it clung tighter than the hangover. Flashes of last night kept cutting in. The girl's too-bright laugh, her nails pressing in too much, the way she said something—I don't even remember what—but I laughed like it was funny just to keep things going. All of it blurred together. No meaning, no weight. Just noise.
When I looked at myself in the mirror, it was almost laughable. Red eyes, skin pale, hair a mess. Like some stranger had hijacked my body for a night and left me to deal with the wreckage.
I thought about skipping lunch, but silence in the room was worse. I needed plates clattering, people talking too loudly, the kind of noise that covers everything up. So, I stumbled into the cafeteria, grabbed toast and coffee I couldn't stomach.
And of course—because the universe has that kind of humor—she walked in. Charlotte. Loose sundress, hair pulled back like she didn't care, but everyone looked anyway. She didn't look at me at first, but then she did. Just one second of eye contact. That was enough. Like a blade.
She didn't sit with me. Obviously. She picked a table far away, smiled at something the waitress said, and the sound of her laugh carried. It was small, but it hit harder than last night's hangover.
I told myself it didn't matter. She didn't matter. Last night was nothing. Just a fling, just a blur. A body to keep the loneliness quiet for a while. But sitting there, chewing dry toast, pretending to sip coffee, I felt the lie choke in my throat. Because if it was nothing, why did it feel like everything?
Back in my room I thought about leaving. Packing my bag, checking out early, running. But I didn't. Something kept me nailed here. Pride maybe. Or maybe it was just her.
The rest of the day was worse than fighting. Silence in the halls. Passing each other without a word. Pretending like last night didn't hang between us like smoke. Every time I caught a glimpse of her, I braced for her to say something, throw something, call me out. But she didn't. Nothing. And nothing hurt more than if she'd screamed.
That night, lying on my back, staring at the ceiling again, I realized it wasn't the fling, it wasn't the hangover, it wasn't even the guilt. It was the thought that Charlotte might've decided I didn't matter anymore. That scared me more than anything else.