Things Girls Do: Vacation, Part I
Trip friends and strong ceviche.
This edition of ‘Things Girls Do’ was originally featured on Washed Weekly in March 2024, and will now continue on Sunday Scaries exclusively for paid subscribers.
The ceviche smelled particularly strong for a resort that should’ve had world-class ceviche, given their proximity to the ocean. While it didn’t smell rank by any means, the scent became so off-putting that she simply covered it with a napkin before putting her sunglasses back on and settling into her lounger.
“That’s what you get for ordering raw fish at 11:07 a.m. by the pool,” she thought. “Probably leftovers from last night’s dinner.”
She didn’t remember drinking that much wine the night before, but she also didn’t remember her glass ever being all that empty, either. The nausea that was beginning to set in only intensified thanks to the lingering ceviche stench that wasn’t being carried away by the breeze.
She looked down at her phone. It was too early to text Todd to see what hole he was on. His tee time was 9:31, and since he was playing alone, he’d probably be done around lunchtime.
The lead-up to this trip couldn’t have been more torturous for either of them. He’d been working late at the office, stressed about his company not receiving the start-up funding he initially thought would be a formality. She, on the other hand, just needed to make good on her promise to get some downtime, as prescribed by her therapist.
Because of said circumstances, they hadn’t taken a trip like this since their honeymoon. The purse strings only get tighter when the breadwinner decides to leave his stable career to pursue a venture he can only describe as “something more than what I was doing.”
She scanned the pool. A couple with two kids, trying to wear them out before naps. A group of women that looked like a bachelorette party but, based on appearances, was probably a 40th birthday getaway. One half of the couple they’d befriended the night before at after-dinner drinks—but now had hesitations about approaching, mostly because of, well, the wine.
She glanced at her phone — 11:57 a.m.
It’s a weird urgency when you’re on vacation with just the two of you. On one hand, you want to take advantage of the relaxation time you’ve afforded yourselves. On the other, you want to maximize time with your partner. And when one of you is licking wounds from the night before, attacking the day as a tandem almost feels essential.
Despite the growing headache, she picked up her Kindle and began flipping through the free books she’d downloaded before the trip. While she wanted to Instagram Story a photo of her physical copy of Emily Henry’s Beach Read next to a picturesque cocktail, it felt a little too on the nose. Besides, Caroline had basically done the same thing two weeks ago with The Guest List by Lucy Foley in Cabo.
Interrupting the literature-driven sparring match in her head, the pool waiter appeared out of nowhere: “Everything going alright over here?”
“Actually,” she responded, sliding her sunglasses down her nose, “you can take the ceviche.”
“But you barely touched it!” he joked, removing the napkin.
“I think my eyes were bigger than my stomach,” she said. “And I don’t think last night helped much either.”
He gave a forced laugh. She echoed it. The conversation ended with a quick “gracias” and her sunglasses returning to their natural position. Still, she made a mental note to tip him well—he’d been the most reliable part of their days at the resort.
12:16 p.m.
12:21 p.m.
12:48 p.m.
“Okay,” she finally admitted. “I have to text him.” After all, what if he was eating on the course and she didn’t actually have to wait to eat? Lunch felt more like a “need” than a “want” at this point.
“Yep, we’re on 16 right now,” he replied, surprisingly promptly. “But we’re stuck behind an older foursome, so it may be a slow couple holes—it’s too late to play through.”
Looking up from her phone, she realized a woman was standing in front of her. A familiar face—one she recognized after getting past the oversized sunglasses and sun hat.
“Well last night got a little away from us!” the woman said.
“Oh hey!” she snapped back. “Uh, yeah, I’ve felt... better?”
“Can I sit down, or are you waiting on your Todd?”
She was caught off guard that names were remembered—mainly because the feeling wasn’t mutual.
“Oh, he’s golfing. That’s all you, hun.”
“Ugh, Graham has been golfing alllllllll morning. I feel like he’s been gone forever.”
Okay, there’s one name.
“Have you texted him yet?”
“Oh, girl, I texted him at 10:45 and told his ass to hurry up. I’m not spending all this money on a vacation so he can hang out by himself.”
They laughed.
“Well, what they charge here for a bottle of sparkling rosé is highway robbery—want to split a bottle to ease the pain?”
“I’ll be honest,” she replied coyly, “it may still be too early for me.”
“Oh, come on!” she encouraged. “I think this is exactly what the doctor would order.”
It was in that moment she remembered her new friend was a doctor—an oncologist, no less—per last night’s introductions, probably the last thing she remembered with any confidence.
“…alright, alright, where’s our man Angel? Let’s get this train rolling.”
They laughed again—this time, more genuinely.
“Remind me your name again?” she asked hesitantly. “I’m sorry, I’m so bad with names, especially when I’ve been drinking.”
“Oh, it’s alright—Rosemary,” she smiled. “But you can just call me Rose. Hey, before he comes by, do you want to get something to nibble on too? I’m craving some ceviche.”
She gulped. Her gag reflex stirred. “Ehh, I’d explore the menu a bit more—the ceviche I got earlier was a little… funky.”
“Ugh,” Rose groaned, disappointed. “Their ceviche has been the best! Between how hungover you’re acting and you not being able to handle a little fresh-caught ceviche, I’d have half a mind to say you’re pregnant.”
She gulped even harder.