May 1st, 1991

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.

“I’m leaving!”

“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?”

“Why?”

“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.”

 

 

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