May 1st, 1991
St. Croix, US Virgin Islands
The expression, “Lovers’ tiff,” sounds almost endearing but the reality is harsh, as I discovered yesterday.
William (eventually) came back to the room, looking and acting as though nothing had happened. I tried being indifferent but within a few minutes, I was in tears.
“What’s up?” His tone wasn’t exactly sympathetic, which made me even angrier.
“Absolutely nothing,” I said, sounding like a stroppy teenager.
He settled himself on the bed and motioned for me to join him.
“No way,” I hissed, his reaction to which was a look of confusion that I found baffling. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Watching the boats.” He had the audacity to smile which made me even more furious.
“You cannot be serious,” I yelled, grabbing my bag with the intention of packing.
“What are you doing?” That quizzical look again.
“You can’t leave,” he laughed. “We’re on an island!”
I glared at him. “Do you understand why I’m upset with you?”
He shook his head and I thought, either he’s playing me, or he’s wired in a very, and I mean very, different way to me.
“Well whether you get it or not,” I huffed, “you should know that you pissed me off. Royally!”
“Ok,” he uttered, patting the bed. “Now will you come over here?”
“Because I want to talk to you.”
He’s about to dump me, I thought. Here. On an island. Where the only person I know is him.
“What do you want to talk about?”
“Something I’ve been thinking about.”
“Go on,” I urged, my mind swirling with ideas on how I’d get back to London, while William grinned and said, “I think we should get married.”