Part 9 (1/2)
”No! That's impossible impossible!” Svetlana snicker-gasped, coming up behind her.
Dylan looked at J.T. He looked down at his navy Nikes.
”But how?”
”You didn't believe cute boy-crush would choose Size Six Pimple Loserfan over me, did you?” Svetlana pivot-turned to retrieve her own bag and sauntered off the court.
”You set me up.” Dylan choked back her betrayal-barf once she and J.T. were alone.
”You lied lied to me,” he countered, tossing back his caramel locks. to me,” he countered, tossing back his caramel locks.
”You used me.”
”You duped me.”
Dylan searched her reeling mind for something clever to say. But all that came out was the truth.
”You hurt hurt me,” she whimpered as she tugged on the hem of her indigo skirt. me,” she whimpered as she tugged on the hem of her indigo skirt.
Without another word, J.T. turned to go.
”Wait . . .” Dylan begged.
J.T. whipped back around. ”What? You blackmailed a tennis star.” His piercing blue eyes seared her tear-streaked cheeks. ”The sport has suffered enough bad press already, don'tcha think?”
”In case you don't remember, Svetlana's Svetlana's the one who knocked someone's teeth out.” Dylan mimed Svetlana's highly doc.u.mented de-toothing swing. the one who knocked someone's teeth out.” Dylan mimed Svetlana's highly doc.u.mented de-toothing swing.
”She lost her temper out of love for the game.”
”Well, I lost my mind out of love for you!” Dylan considered shouting. But that was too cheesy. Even for a summer romance.
Just then Svetlana returned to the court, swinging her bag and holding two bottles of Voss. She tossed one to J.T. ”I know this is probably hard for Pimple to understand, but bagel bagel is tennis term describing game where loser stays at love.” is tennis term describing game where loser stays at love.”
”But-”
”You said you wanted love.” Svetlana smiled proudly. ”Now you got it.” She linked her arm through J.T.'s and gave Dylan a big goodbye wave.
Left on the sidelines, Dylan hated herself. She hated boys, athletes, and bright Hawaiian suns.h.i.+ne. Why did everyone get to be happy but her? Even Tennis the Menace-a violent psychopath-found a crush who crushed back.
She whipped her LG onto the court and felt nothing as she watched it shatter.
Had she been insane to think J.T. would believe she was a tennis buff? Or had she been insane for wanting wanting him to believe it? After all, those imperfection-loving Dove soap commercials told her to be proud of the girl she was. To own and luhv her flaws and quirks and wear them on her size-six sleeves with pride. If those ads had lasted more than thirty seconds, they'd have told her she was she was much better off alone. Because pretending to be someone you weren't could never make you happy. And now she knew the truth about J.T.'s feelings, right? She should be relieved, right? Almost grateful she hadn't wasted another second trying to be someone she wasn't, right? him to believe it? After all, those imperfection-loving Dove soap commercials told her to be proud of the girl she was. To own and luhv her flaws and quirks and wear them on her size-six sleeves with pride. If those ads had lasted more than thirty seconds, they'd have told her she was she was much better off alone. Because pretending to be someone you weren't could never make you happy. And now she knew the truth about J.T.'s feelings, right? She should be relieved, right? Almost grateful she hadn't wasted another second trying to be someone she wasn't, right?
WRONG!.
She was tired of being strong. Tired of smiling though the pain. Maybe one day Maxim Maxim would want a burping, size-six redhead on its cover. But until then Dylan decided to slouch back to her bungalow, order room service, and mend her broken heart with sticky b.u.t.terscotch syrup and two scoops of French vanilla. would want a burping, size-six redhead on its cover. But until then Dylan decided to slouch back to her bungalow, order room service, and mend her broken heart with sticky b.u.t.terscotch syrup and two scoops of French vanilla.
KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB.
DYLAN'S BUNGALOW Tuesday, July 7 2 P.M.
Still sad, Dylan pulled the white duvet over her head and squeezed her eyes tight, but the tears wouldn't come: they were like the last bag of potato chips stuck in the vending machine-no amount of shaking could make them fall.
This trip was supposed to offer respite from insecurity, and here she was, shades drawn in the South Pacific, wondering if she should ask for lipo or a personality transplant for her next birthday.
Outside, the palm fronds waved gaily in the soft breeze. Young lovers crunched along the snaking seash.e.l.l path, marveling at the cloudless sky and the singsongy calls of the island's tropical birds. They argued playfully over who was cuter, who had the better spa treatment, who was more deeply tanned, who had a better lunch. These achingly cheerful snippets of conversation seeped though the walls of Dylan's bungalow and stabbed her heart like invisible daggers. All she could do was hate-punch her pillow and pray for a hurricane.
More than anything, Dylan wished her jasmine-scented mom were around to make up a story about how she'd once been dumped by a hot tennis fanatic too. But right now Merri-Lee was in talk showhost mode, getting coverage of today's matches. And maybe even breaking Svetlana and J.T. as the hot It couple of the Open. Dylan could see it now; their toned and tanned arms around each other, smiling for the paparazzi and inspiring made-for-TV movies.
Now what? Fly home? Or do what a Dove soap user would do and drag herself out of bed, hold her head high, and strut across the resort like she hadn't just gotten double-crossed and humiliated? The problem just seemed too big to remedy-like global warming.
Dylan considered calling Ma.s.sie for advice. But that would mean admitting J.T. had chosen Svetlana over her, and who wanted to say that that out loud? out loud?
Instead, she burrowed under the covers to wait for a revelation . . . or room service. Whichever came first.
KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB.
DYLAN'S BUNGALOW Wednesday, July 8 9 A.M.
Dylan stretched her arms toward the bungalow's thatched ceiling, her limbs finally able to move without aching. Apparently the Motrin plus nineteen-hour nap had done the trick. Now the only muscle still feeling the effects of the Svetlana Way was her heart. And wallowing was no longer acceptable. Feeling depressed in paradise was like wearing suede boots in the rain. It was just plain wrong. Besides, she was stahr-ving.
She padded over to the stainless steel mini-fridge in the kitchen. A half-full Styrofoam cup of spirulina green detox and a hunk of moldy Havarti stared back at her.
She pulled open the white Formica cabinets.
”Thank Gawd.” She reached for an orange box of Wheaties. An action shot of Svetlana midserve graced the front, and Dylan instinctively whipped the box into the sink. She was starving-not stranded.
Feeling empty in a way that had nothing to do with her rumbling belly, Dylan realized she could either sit in her suite or she could move on-preferably to somewhere that had a hearty brunch menu.
She spun around on her tennis-callused heels and marched across the cool black-and-white marble to her walk-in closet. Unzipping one of her many unpacked, colorful-clothes-containing Louis Vuittons, she grabbed a pair of electric blue drawstring linen pants and a matching Calypso tunic. Kicking her Nikes to the back of her closet, she pulled out her silver platform Havaianas, shocked to realize that her pedicure had barely touched sand since she arrived. Suddenly, a tingle shot up her spine. Now that she was back to being Dylan Marvil, tennis hater, she could do all the things she had missed out on. Tanning, swimming, eating, spaing, and getting fas.h.i.+on inspiration from something other than a hard-boiled egg.
Donning round black sungla.s.ses large enough to make Nicole Richie jealous and a black floppy Chanel hat covered in gold C C's, Dylan presented herself to the mirror.
”Eight point five.”
She spritzed some Clinique Happy perfume, hoping the uplifting citrus-y scent would give her that final boost she needed to face her public. It did.
Once at Bearnaise, the spa's five-star restaurant, Dylan force-smiled at the relaxed guests and strolled along the buffet, alternating between revenge plots and breakfast options. Her mouth watered at the sight of golden brown pancakes, fresh whipped cream, and silver-domed trays loaded with glistening breakfast meats. Pastries, bagels, m.u.f.fins, and seafood omelets stared back at her, begging to be chosen like scrawny guys during a schoolyard kickball draft.
A long communal table on the sun-soaked patio was the only way Dylan could avoid the depressing table-for-one exchange with the hostess. So she grabbed the last open seat. Moms in various patterned sarongs occupied the other seven. They were already on their second round of coffees and well into their morning gossip session.
”Of course I saw it, Jayna,” said Red and Orange Paisley Sarong as she dumped a spoonful of muesli into her collagen-enhanced mouth. ”It was so embarra.s.sing.”
Her heart racing at full speed, Dylan turned away and gazed out at the cliffs. She scrolled through the mental image of her humiliating tennis match, wondering if anyone had been hiding out with a video camera.
”I'm telling you, if the Academy gave Oscars for 'acting during an interview,' she'd win a truckload,” noted Jayna, lifting her gla.s.s of fresh-squeezed papaya juice. ”All that fake sweetness. It makes my blood sugar rise just thinking about it.”