Jannah
Call me a hopeless idiot because I still don't know what I expected when Ethan dropped me off at the reception and handed my luggage to a bellhop, flashed me a small smile, and walked away…
If I'm being honest, I wanted him to ask for my number. I wanted him to wave and call out, "See you around," or something along those lines. But he didn't, and somehow, it feels odd. Wrong. Annoying.
I turn for the fiftieth time on my bed, now lying on my stomach as I stare at the tiny bubbles hovering beside Kaitlyn's name. Her text pops up a few seconds later.
Still haven't seen lover boy? she asks, a laughing emoji at the end of her sentence.
Very funny, I type back and hit send. Most people—at least the ones I know—are blessed with best friends who comfort them in situations like this. But not Kaitlyn. In her world, everything is a joke, even when it's at my expense.
I wait for a few minutes, and when her response doesn't come, I sigh and roll over to lie on my back. I haven't seen Mr. Mission Impossible since I arrived, and it's been exactly three days. I try not to let it bother me that a totally hot guy doesn't give a damn if he ever sees me again, but hey, I'm just a girl. And these thoughts are as persistent as hormonal acne.
Over the past three days, I've been busy having my own kind of fun. I'm not really an outdoorsy person, so apart from binge-watching series on Netflix, I've gone swimming, jet-skiing, and even made a vase in a pottery class. It's been awesome so far, but I'm low-key mad at Kaitlyn for not coming. In fact, I've blamed her for my obsessive drive to find Ethan Hunt. She jokingly tells me I'm embarking on "Mission Impossible."
As for Ethan, I'm glad I saw him, at least he helped with my luggage—and how could I forget my Jimmy Choos? So, he's not that bad. See?
Tired of scrolling through TikTok, I decide to sort through my clothes—most of which are newly acquired, you know, with me being in the summer spirit and all. Since I haven't unpacked, I find myself on my knees, a wide-open suitcase in front of me, clothes strewn around the room as I search furiously.
After what seems like forever, I decide to follow my instincts and settle on a beige halterneck bikini. I slip on a cream polka-dot sundress that stops just above my knees, pairing it with dark brown Birkenstocks, a small brown purse, and tinted shades.
My destination? The culinary class the hotel is hosting. Cooking isn't exactly my forte, but I figure I'd better make more memories instead of lying in bed. According to the flyer in my hand, the class starts at twelve and ends at two-thirty in the afternoon at the cooking studio.
"Here goes nothing," I sigh, sliding on my shades.
****
Mexican air always hits differently—the fresh scent of seawater mixed with the subtle fragrance of coconuts from nearby stands, the powdery white sand running through my fingers like water, and the lively melody of requintos. The heavy bass beats of cajóns echo alongside the strong, expressive voices of mariachi singers...
The air isn't as stiff as it usually feels, and I'm grateful, even though I have to spit strands of hair out of my mouth a few times. Following the arrows placed at strategic corners, I manage to find the class. I'm fifteen minutes late, making me one of the last people to arrive and automatically relegated to the back area.
The class, a large hall with four rows, is nearly filled by the time I arrive. The chef, a Mexican woman in her mid-fifties, stands in front. My hand freezes as I grip the screen door handle. A part of me wants to take a U-turn and go back to Netflix, but the other part—the persistent little voice in my head—reminds me of all the experiences I have yet to check off my list.
Letting out a sigh, I open the door. Careful to avoid the curious and, perhaps, annoyed stares, I keep my chin high. I'm about to slip stealthily into an empty space when the chef halts me.
"Welcome, ma'am. I'm guessing this is your first time," she calls out. "The class would love it if you introduced yourself. I'm Maria."
Maria steps closer to the second row, a small professional smile plastered on her square face.
"Oh, I'm sorry about that," I apologize, not quite sure what else to say. The expectant expression on her face reminds me I haven't yet honored the ritual.
"Right." I let out a nervous chuckle, biting my lower lip. "Hi, everyone. I'm Ja—" I barely get my name out before she signals for me to move forward.
Seriously? Did she have to make it feel like a freshman introduction in high school?
"I'm sorry for this, but this is how we do it here," she says, her smile more genuine this time. I don't return it. This is just absurd.
With careful steps, I reach the front of the class. Hands clasped together, a polite smile pasted on my lips, I scan the room.
The first row is filled with couples. Ugh. Why does everyone have to be so lovey-dovey?
The second row… Time seems to pause.
It's him. Ethan.
There he is, in all his ridiculously sexy glory—a gray sleeveless vest, his thick black hair in a tousled mess that somehow still looks hot, his arms folded casually over his stomach. His gaze is locked on me.
My cheeks flush, and I immediately regret coming to this class. I blink once. Twice. That's when I notice the girl beside him. Her pale hands are wrapped around his arm, a stark contrast to his tanned skin.
She has thick black hair tied into a ponytail, dainty features that remind me of childhood china dolls, and an undeniable beauty that seems almost alien. Unconsciously, I fold my arms. But what strikes me most are her eyes—a strange pair, almost red with specks of black. Maybe they're contacts.
Anyway, this explains a lot. No wonder he didn't bother to reach out. He has a woman.
One word: Great.