–. This story was originally published in The Peel Literary Magazine at Appalachian State University and won second place in the Marion-Coe Scholarship writing contest.

It was hot and the thin linen sheets stuck to the curve of Brent’s ass. The ceiling fan weakly stirred the air with. Any faster, and it would wobble and creak with every turn. That wouldn’t let Brent sleep. So he turned it low, low as it could go, before he tried to fall asleep. Laura asked him to turn it on full blast. He told her to listen to all that squeaking. She rolled on to her side away from him. Brent didn’t feel like trying to say anything. To what end? He got what he wanted. But he felt she was hiding something from him.

But it was quiet so he listened the calming rustle of the palm leaves outside in the moonlight. The hotel room window was thrown open. He listened for a while. He turned on to his back and let the breeze brush the sweat off his chest. He didn’t want anything to bother him. This was Bacalar. A vacation from the vacation. A small town just a few kilometers inland from Cancún. A town with dusty streets. A town with the lingering smell of perpetually cooking fish and wet sand.

After a while, his mind slowly came back to her. Brent didn’t know if she was asleep or was icing him out. He thought that she was simply insecure about getting into bed with him. Most girls were, he thought. But she knew what she was doing. She was conscious of what her beauty caused. The half-assed attempts from guys in cargo shorts. The free drinks. Tired lines. She knew them all. But Brent knew she was accustomed that. He knew he was beyond that. Brent smiled when he thought of it. He imagined young men in the bars down near Playa del Carmen and up near hotspots like Cancún with their hands in their pockets walk up to her. He pictured her at the bar. By herself. He saw the rejection. Sweet, but sinister. A concrete blow in her glance. The defiance in her lips. The silence of a turned shoulder. The same shoulder that now turned so coldly away from him.

He saw the rejection. Sweet, but sinister. A concrete blow in her glance. The defiance in her lips. The silence of a turned shoulder. The same shoulder that now turned so coldly away from him.

I.

He remembered the night he met Laura. Not even a week ago. He left his room at the Hotel Laguna Bacalar and crossed the cobblestone street to have dinner at a place he had known for years. It was a simple place. Folding Coca-Cola tables, plastic chairs, thatched roof, concrete floor and a solid mahogany bar. It’s why Brent liked it. No one knew about it. It was far enough removed from the fast-paced nightlife of the coast that tourists rarely ventured to it. There were no night clubs in Bacalar. No hotel chains. No real paved roads. None of the distractions. But as Brent walked up to the restaurant he saw a girl sitting off to the side looking out over the lagoon. Her legs were crossed and she was sitting back with a beer hanging from her fingers. He noticed the dress she was wearing first. Light, white linen. The neck of  the dress dipped low on her chest. The neck of the dress was dotted with stitched flowers. Traditional Mexican decorations. Brent found it odd though, as she looked, in her face, in her cheekbones, irrevocably American. He walked up to her.

“It’s even prettier at night, don’t you think?” he said.

She turned to him quickly, but didn’t say anything for moment which made him feel odd standing there.

“What is?”

“Well, the lagoon. All the lights from docks dotting the edge, don’t you think?”

“Beautiful. It’s why I keep coming back.”

“Same here. I’ve been coming back here for years. Its quiet. Secretive. No one really knows it’s out here. Where are you from? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“From? That’s a loaded question. I’m from a lot of places. You mean where was I born, where is it I call home, my hometown? Because each of those is different.”

She paused for a moment and looked into Brent’s eyes. She took a sip of beer, uncrossed her legs and leaned on to the table. “Why don’t you sit?”

Brent sat. He watched her take a few more sips of beer and liked that her hair was down despite the heat of the night.

“But you first,” she said. “You don’t seem like the kind of guy to be here alone in such an out of the way place.”

Brent laughed. “That’s just it, though. Who the hell out here is going to bother me? Not the drunk kids up in Cancún, not lost tourists.”

“Ah, you’re like me, then.”

“But you look like the kind of girl that would get along in a place like that.”

“I do. Too much, actually. That’s where I work. In Cancún. You see, I’m a concierge at the Four Seasons up there. So I get all the pale tourists. Asking the same questions. Going the same places. Tulúm, Chichen Itzá, Cozumel. It gets old too, with all the rich kids coming down on daddy’s money.”

She seemed to trail off. As if listing her frustrations was going to offend Brent. But he enjoyed it.

“Been doing that a long time, then?”

“About six years. Came down after graduating at Miami. I had a degree in Tourism and Management. I had to do something with it. I didn’t think I could make it past the first couple of years, away from home and all, then I heard from some of the cleaning guys at the hotel that Bacalar was off the map, so I drove out here one weekend to see it.”

“By yourself?”

“No boyfriend or fiancé, if that’s what you mean. I’m not the real adventurous type of girl, but damn, after those first years, I needed some place to go. How about you, mister?”

“Not that interesting, really.”

“Oh, come on. You’re in Bacalar. How the hell did you end up here?”

“Well then, if you must know, I grew up near Cancún. My parents had a little bed and breakfast near Playa del Carmen.”

“But, you’re American, right?”

“Oh sure. Just that we came down here when I was young. Went back for college. Came back here after working four years in a cubicle. Been working in Chetumal for the last two, working with real estate developers. Golf courses, resorts, hotels.” He paused. “You must be a strong woman to come down here by yourself.”

She smiled and nodded. Then she hung her head slightly as if to take the compliment to heart.

“What do you say we have something to eat?”

“Please, Laura,” she said as she held out her hand.

Brent shook it and introduced himself. Brent ordered grilled huachinango with squeezed lime, rice, beans and a tequila. Laura asked him what was good and he suggested the ceviche. They ate dinner well into the hot night. Brent ordered more tequila and Laura ordered beers. They made small talk the whole night. Never venturing into any conversation too formal. After talking and laughing a great deal, Brent suggested they walk over to the central plaza for the carnival. It was, after all, a Sunday night, he insisted. He offered to take her to get some flan and dance with the locals while the marimba band played. Brent was excited to go, but Laura rejected the offer. She told him she loved to dance, but not with so few people and certainly not to marimbas. Instead, he offered to walk her back to her room at the hotel.

They meandered along the dusty cobblestone street talking, but only enough to keep the silence at bay. He tried to keep things light, funny, keep her smiling. When they reached her room, he bade her good night, but stood there for just a moment, waiting. Laura caught him and laughed.

“Oh no, mister. I don’t think so. I don’t even know you. I’m not that kind of girl.”

“I didn’t say a damn thing.” It was formulaic for Brent. He leaned in to kiss her and he saw her resist for a moment, but she relented and kissed him. She drew back slowly after kissing him.

“That’s it,” she said firmly.

Brent knew it too. He told her good night and walked back down the stairs to his room. Before he went in, he sat out on the railing looking out over the lagoon. He breathed in heavily and smelled the brackish salt in the air. Then, a few doors down, he saw a young lady trying to wrestle her bags into her room. Odd time to check in, he thought. She looked his way as if to say sorry for the noise. She waved to him apologetically and he waved back. Then he turned into his room and shut the door.

II.

Brent woke up the next morning around ten. Early for a Mexican breakfast. He went down to the hotel restaurant which was more like a collection of tables on a wide concrete veranda that looked over the lagoon, like every other place in the hotel. The breeze was strong and made it pleasant to sit outside. An old waiter walked up to him and asked him what he’d like for breakfast.

“Buenos días, señor, le puedo ofrecer algo para desayunar?” he said.

“Un orden de chilaquiles de pollo con huevos revueltos, si es posible, y un vaso de jugo de naranja, por favor.”

“Por supuesto. Y tortillas?”

“Tortillas de maíz, gracias.”

“Para servile, señor,” he said and shuffled off to the kitchen. He was waiter and cook.

“Breakfast of champions,” came a voice from behind him.

Brent turned around and saw Laura in a white bikini and ankle-length white skirt. Her skin shone dark brown in the sunlight. Her top may have been a size too small or she liked to show off her cleavage, like last night.

“I hope you’re hungry. I don’t know if I can finish it all,” Brent said.

“Already ate. I’m headed to the cabanas down the street to lay out in the grass. They have a dock that’s covered at the end. It’s got a hammock.”

“Is that an invitation?”

“Maybe, but you’ve got your breakfast to eat. You’re too late.”

“How about we go snorkeling later, down at the south end, if you’re up to it?”

“Maybe. Deep water scares me and some of the fish in here are huge. I can just meet you for dinner at El Recife. You know it?”

“Of course I know it.”

Laura gave him a smirk of satisfaction. She put on her sunglasses and walked past him to the stairs that led out to the cabanas. The old man came out from the kitchen and put his steaming plate on the table. Brent thanked him and turned to eat his breakfast. He took a big bite of the fresh eggs mixed with green salsa.

Brent spent the rest of the day around town. He popped into the cantina for a tequila and a beer when it was too hot to keep walking. He talked to the man behind the bar for a while. The man had owned the place for twenty years, he told Brent. He was there before the hotel, before there were the docks. Most of the people that had been there at the time were simple fishermen, he said. The town had changed too much for him. But the tourists brought in more money. He had a wife who was down the street with other wives weaving dresses. Brent asked about the tourists. Brent never saw many gringos, if any. Not all tourists are gringos, the bartender reminded him. To Brent, Bacalar still had that small town feel, but to the bartender, it was already been lost. He thanked the bartender for the drinks and walked down to the market. He bought a few hand stitched shirts, a churro, a Coca-Cola in a glass bottle and a bag full of limes to take back to the hotel for the tequila.

Back at the hotel Brent decided to take a quick swim. The sun was melting the sky with burning hues and it was still hotter than hell out. The lagoon was cool, refreshing. It stung like the ocean, but cooled like a lake. Over the years Brent could not get over the way the lagoon made him feel. Not in a cooling, physical sense, but a fluid state of mind where he forgot about everything. One of those nostalgic, distant, far-off feelings. He loved the blue hue of the lagoon. The lagoon of seven colors, the locals called it. Impossible to describe to those who hadn’t seen it, he liked to think. But the sun finally set and Brent went to change for dinner.

El Recife was a pretty upscale restaurant for Bacalar. Tablecloths, candles, real silverware, waiters who didn’t cook. A real fancy place. The restaurant sat on a limestone bluff over the lagoon. The place was dimly lit. The candles on the tables cast flickers of flame over their faces. Their table was against a varnished bamboo railing that looked out over the dark lagoon. Brent wore a guayabera he bought on a trip to La Habana. His linen pants waved softly in the breeze that came over the balcony. Laura wore a simple, red, cotton dress whose neck almost plunged to her navel. They ordered conch fritter appetizers. Had smoked marlin for dinner. Drank white wine. But for the most part they were quiet. Brent recounted in detail his excursion through the city. What he bought. Described how no one else could possibly have the same hand-stitched shirts he bought and were therefore a symbol of his knowledge of travel. He explained to her what the bartender told him and how he never thought of tourists other than gringos. It fascinated him. Laura quietly nodded as he spoke. She ate small portions from her plate, trying to make it last all dinner. She sipped slowly from her wine. She interjected a small, “oh,” or “that’s interesting,” when it was due. When Brent finished, Laura talked about her challenging day trying to stay in the sun as the palm trees created shade over her as the sun moved. Not long after she started talking Brent suggested they walk back to the hotel and watch the moon over the lagoon.

They sat quietly on the wide veranda in front of her room. There was a long wicker seat that faced the lagoon and they sat side by side. Brent casually draped his arm over her shoulders. They were warm. Laura occasionally noted a passing fruit bat or fishing boat. Then, almost without thinking, with a subtle twist of his arm, he leaned her face toward him and kissed her. She didn’t expect it but immediately pulled his head toward her. They kissed for a few minutes. Then Brent stood up and pulled her up by her shoulders. Laura pushed him toward the wall just outside her room and Brent playfully let her. She pushed him hard against the wall. She opened the door to her room and pulled him in by the arm.

III.

Nothing stood out to him. Nothing that he hadn’t experienced before. But maybe it was the wine at dinner. But at the same time it wasn’t. Somehow, he kept coming back to it. She knew what she was doing. She was great at it. Really great at it. It was sensual and slow. Something set her off when he mentioned the squeaking fan, though. Maybe his voice brought her back out to reality. Back to the hot room. Back to what they had just done. Brent lay there. Afraid to say anything. He got what he wanted. So he got out of bed naked, pulled on his pants, walked over to Laura’s side, kissed her and wished her good night. She never moved a muscle. He walked out the door and up the stairs to his room.

The girl with the bags the night before was out on the veranda. She wore a tight, short dress that showed off her curves. She looked at him. Brent felt embarrassed with the pile of clothes in his hands.

“Long night out,” he tried to explain.

“Looks like it. Didn’t know there were any clubs around here,” she joked.

Brent put on his shirt. He saw the young lady turn away from him to give him his privacy. He pulled out his key, unlocked his door and walked in. He didn’t turn on any lights. A light breeze was coming in through his window so he lay down on his bed. He rested there for a while staring out the window. He could hear the young lady humming softly outside. Brent listened for another few moments. “Why not,” he said to himself.  He got out of bed and walked out onto the balcony.

“This might sound strange, but would you like to have a glass of wine or something. I don’t mean to impose on your evening or anything,” he said to the girl.

“It’s no imposition. I’ve got a bottle of Concha y Toro here and it’s still an early night.”

Brent was surprised. He made his invitation on impulse. Out of courtesy. He never expected her to accept. Much less to offer a bottle of her own wine.

“Good choice. I’ll be right out. I have a bottle of Casillero del Diablo.”

He went into his room, changed his pants, changed his shirt and grabbed the bottle of wine and a bottle opener. When he went back out the young lady was sitting in an old equipal sofa on the wide terrace overlooking a few palms and the silent lagoon. There were no other chairs so he sat down on the far side of the sofa and placed his bottle of wine on the matching table.

“Hope you like this wine,” Brent said. “It’s from a special cellar in their vineyard. That’s about all I know.”

“That is the name, you know? Casillero del Diablo. The Devil’s cellar.” She laughed.

“I was trying to sound intelligent. Damn, you got me. I’m Brent.”

“Daniela,” she said. Her accent came out when she said her name.

“Oh, brasileira. You’re Brazilian.”

“You can tell?”

“Of  course. It’s almost like an Italian accent, but smoother, prettier and faster.”

Brent poured her a glass of wine. She thanked him, held up the glass and took a sip. Then another longer one.

“I thought I lost my accent. I guess after so many years it slips away. Except when I drink. It comes out.”

“Drink a little more then. It’s a beautiful accent. One of the prettiest, I think.”

“That’s what my fiancé always says.”

Brent coughed. “Fiancé? I haven’t seen him. I thought it was just you that checked in.”

“Well, he’s off doing his thing. We flew in to Cancún from Miami for a week for a vacation we planned months ago. Months ago. The day after we landed he told me he wanted to take a three day deep sea fishing trip. He left yesterday morning. I don’t know why I let him. I guess I thought that letting him go would show him how he was just leaving me there.”

Brent poured her another glass of wine. He filled it this time.

“That’s just ridiculous.”

“Isn’t it? I couldn’t believe it. So, I thought I would take a trip of my own. I asked around our hotel for a good place to visit, a place that was quiet, and they all said to visit Bacalar.”

“I didn’t know that many people knew about it.”

“Most don’t. But it seems like the word is leaking out.”

She took a long sip of her wine and twirled the glass by the stem. Brent picked up the bottle to offer a refill, but she waved him off.

“It’s getting late. I should get to bed. But if you have no plans for tomorrow, I was thinking of swimming in the Cenote Azul. Want to come?”

“Never been before.”

“Neither have I. It’ll be fun. It’ll be an adventure.”

Daniela stood up and brushed out her dress with her hands. Brent stood up after her. He wished her goodnight and said he would meet her around noon. They exchanged kisses on each other’s cheeks.

The next day Brent went down for breakfast a little past noon. Daniela was not there yet.  He ordered only eggs with salsa and a glass of fresh orange juice. He ate slowly. Drank the juice in small sips. Daniela was still not down from her room. Brent went down to the dock of the hotel to wait. At a quarter to two, Daniela came down to the dock. She carried a towel in one arm and a bag over her other shoulder. She wore a thin, almost sheer sarong tied around her neck and she let down her dark hair. They traded kisses. Brent asked her why she was late and she said she was always late, every day of her life.

They walked south through town. There were no sidewalks so they walked in the streets. Fruit vendors passed them, bells clanging, offering oranges, limes, bananas. The local kids pressed them to buy gum. A few old men in weathered chairs in front of a rose-colored house watched them pass then muttered among themselves. Daniela and Brent talked about travel, life, food. She told him how she made her own flan. Her fiancé didn’t like it much. So she only made enough for herself on weekends. They talked quickly and often interrupted each other to get in a better story.

After what seemed to Brent like a long time they reached the cenote. It was a deep, forbidding blue, surrounded on all sides by thick mangroves. Herons speckled the trees on the far bank. Someone, maybe a local, had made a makeshift dock over the mangroves. Daniela untied her sarong and let it fall to her feet. Her green bikini was two sizes too small. Only natural. She was a brasileira, after all. She didn’t bother to put up her hair. Brent walked to the end of the shaky dock and dove in. It was colder than he expected and not brackish. Brent wondered how he never knew about this place. Some secrets were kept better than others. Daniela dove in after him. They swam for a while. They explored the far bank. Dove as deep as they could. Joked about having their own private lagoon. Soon they were tired and climbed out and rested on the grass just past the mangroves. Palm trees shaded them. Daniela spread out her towel.

“You’ve been here for a little more than a week and you haven’t met anybody?” she said.

“Oh no. I have. I met a nice couple from Monterey—”

“That’s not what I meant. I saw you leave for dinner with that girl from the hotel.”

“Her? She was here by herself. I just thought I’d show her around town. Just to be nice, you know? Nothing more than friends.”

“I’m not judging. You two just looked very peaceful together.”

“I think you mean quiet.”

“You don’t like her?”

“It’s not that I don’t like her. Just quiet is all, she’s quiet. What about you? Have you softened up on your fiancé?”

“No. Why should I? He left me to go play with fish. Let him play with his stupid fish.”

“I don’t see how he could leave such a beautiful girl.”

Daniela smiled at him. She suggested they head back to the hotel since the sun was going down. She wrapped the sarong around her waist and they walked back. The streets were quiet. A few stray dogs lay against the wall of the hardware store. It wasn’t quite dark yet but a lone street light flickered on and was immediately swarmed by eager mosquitoes. A taco vendor was out on the street a little earlier than usual for dinner, so Brent offered Daniela some. He ordered four tacos and two Cokes. It was still hot out and the streets smelled like standing water and salt. They sat on the dusty curb and kept talking and laughing. Brent wished they could sit there all night and tell stories. He liked the way she laughed. He liked that she wasn’t afraid to walk around town in a bikini top. When they were done, they finally headed back to the hotel, but Daniela stopped short of the entrance.

“I have an idea,” she said. “Let’s take one of those old, dugout canoes onto the lagoon. It’s almost dark. It’ll be fun. Our own little adventure.”

Brent agreed. They walked around the hotel and down to the grassy shore of the lagoon. He found a large, heavy canoe tied up to a dock. He helped her in and he rowed it out into the middle of the lagoon. The sky was a dark blue and he only saw the blackened outline of Daniela’s face against it. Brent lay on his back in the bow of the canoe. His arms draped over the side. Daniela was at the stern. He felt she was looking at him. Daniela then moved slowly toward him. She rubbed his shoulders, lay down on top of him and kissed him. Brent kissed her back. He kissed the side of her neck. Then her ear. She drew back and lifted off her top. She went in and kissed him again. Brent opened his eyes in the early darkness for a moment and thought he saw her smile when their lips met. The sky went dark and the canoe drifted into the night.

Brent woke up the next morning in Daniela’s bed. Only the sheets covered them. Daniela’s back was to him so he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. She smiled. He looked at his watch. It was half past noon. He told her he was going to grab them some breakfast from downstairs. He pulled on his swim trunks and got up to leave, but Daniela called after him.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s just breakfast. My treat.”

“No, I mean, really. I need to head back today.”

“Back?”

“My fiancé comes back from his trip today and I need to pick him up at the docks in Playa del Carmen. So don’t worry about it.”

“Oh. Sure.”

Daniela said nothing but sat up in bed looking at Brent, the sheets dropped down to her hips.

“So I probably won’t see you around here again?” he said.

Daniela smiled. “No.”

Brent nodded. Daniela got out of bed and held up the sheet over her chest. She walked to Brent and looked into his eyes. She dropped the sheet and kissed him. Then she pulled back.

“I need to get dressed,” she said.

“I know.”

Brent turned and walked out the door. The sun was coming over the lagoon and was warming the red tiles on the balcony. Still wearing his swim trunks, he walked down to the restaurant for some breakfast. He sat down at a large limestone table out on the wide veranda. It wasn’t hot yet and the morning breeze was beginning to blow. The old waiter came out and took his order. He started with a large glass of grapefruit juice. He thought about Daniela. The girl was leaving. Brent thought he was making an impression on her. Maybe she’d really stay. Leave that guy standing at the docks. But he knew she wouldn’t. He just let the sun warm up the tops of his shoulders. He sat there for a while watching the sun rise over the lagoon. A few times the old waiter came out and sat with him to watch the lagoon. Then he left Brent to finish his breakfast.

“You just disappeared,” came a voice from behind him.

Brent turned around quickly and saw Laura standing there. Her eyes were swollen and red.

“Where have you been?”

“You just disappeared,” she said again. “You just left.”

“I thought you were sleeping—”

“You don’t just leave a girl alone afterwards. I thought a man of your character would know that.”

Brent shifted in his seat. “Sorry.”

“Don’t lie. You don’t care. Not one bit. And I couldn’t see past the bullshit until you left.” She paused for a moment. “God, and I was so scared. It sounds so stupid…”

“Scared? Of what?”

Laura held her breath. “Scared that I might actually like you. That I might have some sort of feeling for you. I don’t even know you. I’ve known you for a week. It sounds so stupid of me to even say anything to you now.”

“If you thought you liked me so much why were you so quiet at dinner?”

“What do two strangers talk about?”

Brent opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it. He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know.”

“God, Brent. Don’t you feel anything?”

Brent said nothing. He sat back in his chair with his hands in his lap. He didn’t look up. Laura walked around to the other side of the table and sat down.

“You play that other girl like you did me?”

Brent looked up at Laura.

“It’s all right,” she said. “I don’t know why I got my hopes up. You seemed so genuine.” Laura laughed. “I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you.”

“I don’t know what you were thinking, Laura. We’re both out here, on vacation, alone. I mean, what did you expect?”

“Then just come out and say it, damn it! Say you don’t care. Say you just wanted to sleep with me.”

“You said you weren’t that kind of girl.”

“Are you really that thick, Brent? Think you’re the only one that can charm someone into bed?”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“It does. You just played your part well. You were convincing.” She took a breath. “But I just had this gut feeling about you.”

Brent looked away.

“Then I saw you with her and it made sense.”

“Then why are you here? You could be miles away right now. From all this. But you’re here, talking to me.”

“Still don’t get it, do you?”

“Guess not.”

Laura looked hurt. She started to get up.

“Tell me,” he said. He tried to reach her hand.

She took a deep breath and looked out over the lagoon. “That maybe, just maybe, you did want something more.” She turned to look at Brent. Her lips were pursed.

Brent looked down at his lap and didn’t say anything. He looked up at Laura and saw her searching his eyes. Looking for a sign. A giveaway hint of feeling. But she found nothing. She turned to walk toward the hotel and paused for a moment, waiting for Brent to say something. He tried to think of something to say. Something comforting. But he couldn’t and he watched Laura walk away. He watched the way her dress blew in the salty wind. Brent turned to his breakfast but didn’t find it appetizing. He sat back in his chair and saw a fisherman standing in a canoe with a net on the lagoon. The water looked cool. It looked inviting. Maybe later he’d go for a swim. The lagoon beckoned.

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