The woman who opened the door looked exhausted.
Mascara smeared. Hair wet from the pool downstairs. She honestly seemed more confused than I was.
I said, “I think my husband is in there.”
She stared at me for two seconds and went, “Oh thank God.”
Not exactly the reaction I expected.
Turns out she wasn’t some mistress.
She was a travel agent from Phoenix my husband met during a layover after he missed our original flight. Her husband had gotten drunk at the resort bar, started screaming at staff, smashed a hallway mirror, and got arrested. She’d been stuck alone with two little kids in a country she’d never visited before.
My husband gave her my ticket so she could fly home with her children because there were no seats left for three days.
The “sweet tea” the night before?
NyQuil.
Because I’d been coughing for a week and he knew I wouldn’t sleep before an early flight.
The idiot panicked after his phone died during travel delays and sent the worst message in human history from an airport kiosk.
I found him six hours later asleep in a plastic chair outside baggage claim wearing a resort T-shirt that said I ❤️ Aruba and holding the birthday cake voucher he forgot to use.