Vacation Wars

by Meghan Quinn

She’s the wild free spirit who throws caution to the wind. And I’m the one on the sidelines, calculating the probability of her actions ending in pregnancy, jail, or death.

That voice. I know that voice. Roxane’s eyes go wide like saucers, buffoonery twitching on her lips as she glances over my head at the man behind me. It’s obvious whose shadow is cast over me—from her reaction alone, I know it’s *gulp* the Bulge—I mean . . . no, I’m not calling him that, he’s Mr. Red Shorts. Mr. Luxurious Lips. Do you feel the secondhand embarrassment for me?

“Well, let me help you up, at least.” No one asked for a gentleman in these parts. Move along, man.

And those lips . . . *gulp* they’re mere inches from my view, a grandiose display of luxury. What kind of ChapStick is this man using?

When my gaze shoots straight up to the sky, it’s eclipsed by a pair of red shorts. Oh, dear heavens . . . the bulge. Right there, in broad daylight—well, technically in broad night . . . light? Is that a thing? Either way, there it is, all bulgy and round and . . . wow, I want to touch it. Don’t, Tessa! Do not reach out to touch it.

Returning the whisper, but through a clenched smile, Roxane says, “Would you rather him think you were knocked over by your inability to be a mature adult around handsome men?”

“That was the smallest piece of real estate I had ever seen. The bunk beds were clever, though,” Roxane says. I take a sip of my drink and add, “Too bad they offered a view of the single toilet in the space.” “That’s when I demonstrated how my vagina expanded during birth,” Lois says with a lopsided grin. “Please . . . please tell me we won’t be reminiscing on that again,” Roxane asks. “Depends on how drunk I get.” Lois winks and takes a sip. “Just not too drunk, like the night before Bethany’s wedding, where we had to roll you down the hallway after the rehearsal dinner. That was unpleasant,” I say. “Your boob kept falling out of your dress.” “That’s what happens when you give birth, the knockers no longer belong to you.” Lois gestures to the expansive night sky. “They belong to the world.” “Do they belong to the world tonight?” Clea asks and then nods at Lois’s low-cut shirt. “Perhaps. Only time will tell.”

“Give me five minutes,” I call over my shoulder. “Please brush your teeth, I don’t want you curdling the milk with that breath.” “Derogatory comments not needed.”

“It got to the point where every time I was near Philip, I came up with some sort of creative way my breast could brush up against him. You’ve seen our boobs—you know we don’t have a lot to work with.” Very true. They are okay but nothing to bounce around town with.

“Oh shit,” I hear before a very familiar face comes into view. A face so handsome, it was booped on the nose by a line of Greek gods. Chiseled. Tan. Graced with just enough scruff to make every inner thigh within a twenty-mile radius weep with joy. The Bulge. Isn’t that just freaking poetic? “I’m so sorry,” the Bulge says. “I should have been paying attention to where I was going. Are you okay?” Yes. No. Does a bruised ego count as not doing okay? What about a dent in one’s lustful urges?

“Did you . . . did you hit your head?” If only.

It was . . . poetic. She fell right for it. So of course, to inform my cohort, I sent him a screenshot of Roxane’s texts this morning. And in response, he sent a GIF of Mr. Burns from The Simpsons twiddling his hands together while “Excellent” read out on the bottom. And I couldn’t agree more. It was excellent.

“Little shits,” Lois mumbles as she tosses her phone on the table. “God, I love them, and I hate them. It’s a toxic relationship.” “You paint such a beautiful picture of motherhood,” Clea says as she holds her cup of coffee close to her chest, acting like it’s a lifeline. “It’s not for the faint at heart, that’s for sure. Did you know Moon convinced my mom that she didn’t have to go to bed at eight because it gave her wrinkles? She’s freaking five, and my mom is sitting there thinking, ‘Oh, dear heavens, a five-year-old can’t have wrinkles, let her stay up until nine.’ Does becoming a grandparent make you lose all sense of reality?”

“Nooo,” Roxane says, sounding more alive now. “You called his hands and lips luxurious? What’s wrong with you?” “Can’t be sure,”

“You like chest hair.” Lois shrugs and picks up a piece of croissant off my plate. “No, I don’t. Well, I mean, I don’t mind it. I can go either way, but not when the man has a bird’s nest under his chin. Did you see the spinach that was caught up in it? There was actual spinach in his chest hair, green spinach.” “Nothing wrong with saving a snack for later,” Clea says. Roxane claps her hand over her mouth and shakes her head. “Please, let’s move past the spinach snack in the chest hair.”

“So, whatever you decide to do from here on out, I will go along with.” The table falls silent. Roxane slowly drags her napkin over her face so one of her eyes is glaring out at me. Clea sets down her coffee, wearing an expression of disbelief, and Lois scratches the side of her head, almost as if she’s trying to solve a math problem. Hold it together, Tessa. Do not let them know that you’re continuing last night’s trickery. You see, if they believe I’ll be going along with their insane plan, when I do something like, let’s say, create a smelly fish bra, they’ll just think I’m an incompetent dater. They won’t realize I’m secretly taking their mission down, one day at a time.

“Uh-huh. You know, you babble when you’re embarrassed.” “I’m well aware of my defense mechanisms. Let’s move on.”

Why do I do that? Whenever someone says they like what I’m wearing, I can’t just say thank you and leave it at that—nope, I have to shout to the rooftops that I got it on sale. No one cares!

My oh my, would you look at that. So strong. So masculine. Who knew pool was so hot?

Toby raises his gaze and looks me in the eyes. “But she looked great last night as well.” “You should ask her out on a date,” Roxane says, nudging the conversation along. Good God, Roxane, keep it in your pants. Let me warm up before we start handing over the milk . . . is that how that saying goes? Either way, warm the man up before you start asking for dates.

“Hey, don’t tug on me so quickly. I don’t want my boob popping out. This dress is not very secure.” “I once crowd-surfed in that dress at a Billie Eilish concert and didn’t have one flash of the boobs. Trust me, your chest is concealed.” They don’t feel concealed; they feel like disobedient teens, itching to escape curfew.

“And if you get the chance, make sure he catches you staring at his crotch. Men love a good crotch stare,” Lois says while using two fingers to motion to her eyes and then down south to my private parts. “Stare hard.” Clea jumps on board. “Oh yes, crotch stare for sure.” “Whenever I crotch stare at Philip, we have the best sex. He becomes a total animal. So, when in doubt, crotch stare,” Roxane says. “Stare so hard that you almost see through his pants,” Clea says with a flip of her hair. How does that even make sense? Does she believe I have the secret powers of Clark Kent and possess x-ray vision?

No rambling about how I believe the Brentwood Boys book series should be made into a made-for-TV drama, preferably streamed on HBO or Netflix for max nudity purposes.

I shoot my sister a glare. “You’re not helping.” Sensing the tension, Toby says, “For what it’s worth, I would be very gentle with your cherry.” Dear. God.

I look over at my friends, and they all animatedly give me the thumbs-up while Roxane holds up a napkin that says TOUCH HIM in red lipstick. Lois holds up another napkin. NO BOOP. And then Clea. I’M HUNGRY. Could they be any more exhausting?

“Licking your lips, huh? Can I get an example of that?” “Oh, of course. But please note, I only did this to troll my sister. It’s not an everyday occurrence.” “Noted.” I nod for her to proceed. She sticks her tongue out and swipes it all the way around her mouth, causing me to laugh out loud. “Jesus, what was his reaction?” She leans in. “I think his ass clenched with fear.”

It’s Toby, at a club, with a woman in a red sparkly dress plastered up against his chest. His arm is wrapped around her waist, and with her back to his front, her ass is pinned right into his crotch. If you say the phrase “bump and grind,” this would be the epitome. There seems to be a lot of bumping and a lot of grinding. Good for him. And she’s pretty too. Short auburn hair, curled in that cute way that short hair curls, all messy and adorable. And look at those boobs. Wow. I hope he had fun with her last night. “She’s hot,” I say, and then realize that is not what I was supposed to say. I was just so relieved they didn’t have evidence of me and Myles together that I forgot the lies I’d spun this morning. “I mean, oh my God !” I exclaim. “I can’t believe he’d do that to me. After our intimate outing on the beach? The absolute audacity.” I shake my head. “And to think I let him double-dip in the chocolate sauce. Absolutely grotesque. Well, he’s off the list.” I clasp my hands together. “Anywho, are we ready for breakfast?”

I don’t know, it’s time that we think about the perfume as coincidental rather than magical,” I say. And oh boy, was that the wrong thing to say because like zombies rising from the grave, Lois and Clea lift from their loungers and stare me down, along with Roxane. “Excuse me?” Clea asks, her fingers pinched together. “What did you just say?” “I believe she stated that the perfume we all have worn when meeting the loves of our lives is just nonsense,” Lois says. “Did I get that right?” “You did,” Roxane adds. Once again, they all fold their arms, and I’m struck with the feeling that no matter what I do or say, they’re always, and I mean always, going to be convinced that the perfume creates soulmates. If I’m going to save myself another two hours of lectures, I need to backtrack.

Jeremiah lies there like a dead fish—though breathing—arms spread, toes pointed up, and an open-mouthed-carp look on his face. Good God, what a scene. Yes, Roxane, this is the type of man I want to go out with. He seems like a real winner. Not only can he apparently not follow directions when it comes to basic human survival, but he has the density of a stick being tossed around in the wind. Even though I have zero interest in the man, I still politely bend over with Roxane. “You okay there, champ?” I mutter. He just blinks, sucking in sharp breaths of air. Checks out. He’ll be just fine.

Ladies, gird your loins, take a seat, and have your oxygen masks on hand, because you are bound to hyperventilate. If this man’s body was described on a marquee on Broadway, all it would say, in bold, was PECS. PECS! Mound-like pecs. The kind of pecs that most definitely have been named by many women in the past. Names like Arnold and Schwarzenegger. Mount My Rushmore. Pectual Attraction. And let’s not fail to mention the very juvenile but most accurate, Tonka Tits. Water dribbles down his carved chest, past his perfectly proportioned nipples—which of course are hardened to a point, because a floppy nipple isn’t as sexy as a pointed one—and down his stomach, which defies all normalized standards for the male form. You guessed it: six-pack . . . wait, no, eight-pack! An eight-pack, an actual modern-day marvel of the gym. Stacked, one right on top of the other, like a brick road leading you to the promised land. The finale. The encore no one was expecting—no one but me. Because he wasn’t named the Bulge for nothing.

“Your eyes are too far apart,” Jeremiah says before taking a sip of his water. “Oh . . . why, thank you for the disparaging observation.”

I shift uncomfortably in my white outdoor chair. “Hey, stop that.” “Stop what?” she asks. “Stop having a sexual experience with a cake. You’re making me jealous of a baked good.”

Roxane says as she closes the rest of the space and pulls on Myles’s shoulder so he’s lying flat on the bed. She clutches her chest and gasps loud enough for the entire resort to hear. “The Bulge.” God . . . why? Why is this happening?

“I was looking for you,” I admit quietly, which causes her to pull away and meet my gaze. Every fucking day, I’d keep my eyes open for her, hoping that I’d run into her.

“How do I look at you?” I ask as my mouth travels to her jaw, my hands now moving up to her ribs. “Like I belong to you. Like there’s no one else on this island that could garner your attention the way I can. Like you’ve been waiting for me for so long, and I’ve finally shown up.”

“Well, you’ve said some pretty dumb things too.” “Me?” He points to his chest. “Name one.” “We were eighteen. You were working the pool. I walked up to you and asked for a towel. You grabbed one, and when you handed it to me, you said, ‘To dry yourself, my lady.’” “I did not fucking say that.” He cringes. “Oh, you did. I remember thinking how weird it was.” “I’ve never said that in my entire life.” “Yeah, well, I’ve never called someone’s lips luxurious before, so we all say stupid things when we’re nervous.” “You never called anyone else’s lips luxurious, because no one has lips as soft and plump as mine.” Enter hard eye roll. “They’re not that great.” His brows shoot up in question. “Oh, is that right? ‘Not that great.’ Okay, well, then maybe I’ll just take my lips with me and head on back to my apartment.”

“Yup. I ran for fun. Well, the first run was more of a desperate attempt to run away from my feelings. The second time was because I wanted to torture myself. The third and fourth, well, those were because I started to get a runner’s high.” “You did not. Don’t say things like that,” Clea says, shaking her head. “It’s true. Then, I joined a running club.” Lois slams her hand on the table. “Goddamn you.”

“Knock, knock,” Roxane says from the doorway. I should have shut it. “What’s up?” I ask. Clea and Lois appear as well. “We just wanted to tell you something,” Roxane says, a mischievous grin lighting up her face. “What?” Tessa asks, brow furrowed. “The perfume, it worked.” What are they talking about? “Huh?” Tessa asks. Right there with you, babe. “You know the night we sprayed it on you to entice Toby?” Lois says. “Yes,” Tessa draws out. “Well, do you remember who you saw when you turned around? Who made eye contact with you?” Clea asks. “Uh . . . no,” Tessa answers. “It wasn’t Toby,” Roxane says. “It was Myles. He was carrying glasses, and you two both exchanged a look. The perfume never even touched Toby. It was always Myles. Just like Philip was always mine.” “And Ed was mine,” Lois adds. “And Sylvia is mine,” Clea says. “See?” Roxane shrugs. “It worked all along.”