part 1

Look - everyone’s always got something to hide. It’s the nature of summer, pushed into keeping everything safe and surreptitious, tucked into corners, finding shadows, reprieves; the sun’ll leak your secrets if it catches you at the right time. It’s just that kind of season. 

“Did you know?” Chaeyoung asks you once, near the end. She’s in your arms, pressed to your chest, her eyes the most stunning thing in sight. “When you first met me - did you think it’d all happen like this?” 

Like this, she says - fucked, fated, doomed. Like all heavy, all-consuming things. Like loss. Like longing. See, the two of you are cut from the exact same cloth; you’ve always been after the same thing. All you know how to do is get the money and run. Love isn’t in your vocabulary and for a good god damn reason.

(There’s always a breaking point. Yours is thinking back to the day you met her - there’s a girl on a beach, and the day’s gorgeous, but all of them are. You stare and you can’t help it. You swear you’ve met her before and you haven’t. She turns to you and smiles, and it cleaves you right in two, and it’s impossible but just like that you know.) 

“Yeah,” you murmur. The writing’s always been on the wall. “I think I did.” 

Chaeyoung glances up at you. In those few moments, she’s reduced to all the details: the long, wavy black hair, winding its way past her shoulders, the colorful tattoos - the dimple, the mole underneath her full bottom lip, the way she blinks and her eyelids shutter starlight. You’ve been pushing your luck just by having her by your side. 

“Me too,” she says, softly. 

There’s the ocean rolling out in front of you, proof that not all destructive things have to come to an end. It’s just the two of you, then. You’re the exception to the rule - you’ve broken enough of them by now to know it. 

(Something about her, you’ll say later. Something about us. Something unquantifiable. Sometimes you meet someone and it’s already over.)

“I guess,” says Chaeyoung, softly, haltingly, like it’s a confession in itself. Oh, like you said: it’s just that kind of season. “I guess I’m just glad that it happened at all.” 

There’s a lot to be grateful for. There’s a lot to feel that you haven’t let yourself until now. It’s summer and you’ve spent enough time hiding from it. You’re with her. There’s never any use. 

Your hand slips under her chin, tips it up; your mouth finds hers like there’d been a map to it, a beacon, a lighthouse. She smiles and it’s like she’s calling you home, the opposite of a siren, or a succubus; leading you to the shore, right to safety. You’ve spent your whole life jumping ship. Now you kiss her like you’re saying I’d follow you everywhere, even if you both know it’s a lie. 

“I know,” you say, fingers threading through her hair, because you always did. “I know.” 

(It hurts, but in the end, you’ll say later, that’s exactly how you know it’s love.)

-

If you’re taking it back to the start, here’s the truth: you’ve broken your fair share of hearts, but that’s never been your goal. It’s not that you’re a bad person, not really. You’ve got your own moral codes. You never went into any of this hoping to lead women on and leave them behind, leave them crushed and cursing your name - that’s never been the point. The point is- 

Well, if you really wanna know the long and short of it, the point is that you need money. 

“It’s this super swanky resort,” your ex-girlfriend is telling you over the phone. “It’s packed with famous people. The pay’s sort of not the best, but their whole thing is, like, super intense discretion. You definitely have to sign NDAs. All of that.”

She’s trying to get you a summer job, just for context - and she’s also selling it horribly. “What?” you ask, thoroughly confused. “Why would anyone want to work there if the pay’s shitty?” 

“Amenities. The resort’s on this remote island, it’s gorgeous, you get to live there the whole summer in these bungalows, you get access to all the facilities-” 

“A remote island?” It’s sounding more and more like a cult by the second. “Are you trying to get me ritualistically sacrificed?” 

“Babe.” Your ex-girlfriend may not be your girlfriend anymore, but she’s never grown out of the pet names. “My point is that there are rich and famous people. Rich and famous people who pay a lot of attention to the hot employees.” 

You’re quiet. 

“They pay more than attention,” she adds.

“So you’re suggesting I prostitute myself.” 

“Like you don’t do that already.” You make an affronted noise, but she’s already talking again, in that rapid-fire mile-a-minute way that’s so characteristic of her. “No, I’m serious! I know you’ve been in a dry spell ever since your last sugar mommy, like, died of old age or whatever-” 

“You’re so fucked in the head,” you say, a smile twitching at your mouth - okay, you are too. There’s a reason a break-up wasn’t enough to tear you and your ex apart. “She didn’t die, you dumbass - and she was only ten years older than me or whatever. She moved away for work.” 

“Same difference,” says your ex, unperturbed, and you feel an uncomfortable pull in your throat. It’s not like she’s that far off. She’d cut off a good chunk of your income, just like that; she might as well have fallen off the face of the earth. “Look, you know I love you to death, and I’d keep paying for whatever you wanted, but-”

“I know.” Your ex has no qualms about supporting you financially, especially considering your current situation; she may be your ex-girlfriend, but she’s also been your best friend since forever, basically. Her family’s obscenely wealthy. To her, it’s no sweat off her back to pay for things for you. “Your dad’s cutting you off from giving me money because he thinks I’m a leech.” 

“Which you’re not.” 

“I kind of am.” 

“You’re my favorite person in the world. Even if you were a leech I’d let you suck me dry.” 

“Ew,” you say, but you’re laughing. “Why would you put it like that? Like, why the fuck would-” 

“The job,” interrupts your ex, so vehement your humor dies right on your mouth. “It’s just for the summer. You’re already a certified lifeguard, so that’s not an issue. I’ve been summering at the resort for like three years straight, so I can get you a gig right away - they trust my judgment and shit. Just say the word and I’ll get you in contact with the boss.” 

You fall silent, thinking. She’s trying - you know that. You’ve got odd jobs at home, but without a college degree, they’re all manual labor, they’re easy to pack up and transfer. There’s always work for you to do. Leaving for the summer won’t ruin you - and when you’ll come back, you’ll have everything you need. You’ve done this before. You’re good at your games. 

“Look at it this way,” says your ex, softening. “You’ll be doing exactly what you do at home, except you’ll get to be in paradise for the entire summer. And I’ll be there. Are you in or not?” 

She’ll be there - that’s part of the selling point in itself. She’s your other half. She knows every single skeleton in your closet; she knows why you need this money. She knows, in essence, that this opportunity is one of the best she can give - that it’s one of the best someone like you can get. 

You know it, too. And that’s the reason why you sigh, stop, say-

“Okay,” you tell her, and that’s where the story begins. “I’m in.” 

-

It’s not about love. It never is. It’s about strategy, really. It’s about being a fantasy, a product to promote and sell. It’s all curated, calculated: your body, your charm, the way you hold yourself, built but approachable, magnetic without being too intimidating. Women flock to you and you let them; you’ve made yourself that way.

(Oh, it’s just one of those things. You’re perfectly aware of what you look like and what that does to people. You also just happen to be smart enough to take advantage of it.)

It’s the first day of summer, and you’re causing a stir with your face alone. 

You’re on the deck of the ferry, headed straight to the island. You’re making a presence of yourself: there are already people staring, whispering, all those prying eyes. You’re laughing into the phone, because there’s no point in being attractive without being accessible - and also because no one makes you laugh more than your ex-girlfriend. 

“What if I get lonely?” you’re asking - you’re close enough to the island to be picking up a signal. You’re being annoying and it’s sort of justified. “I can’t believe you aren’t getting here for two weeks.” 

“I get it,” says your ex, cheerful nonetheless: okay, so you’re, like, mildly codependent. It’s old news. “You can’t live without me - I know.” 

“Am I supposed to make friends or something?” 

“You’re so adorable. Just take your shirt off and I promise everyone will want to be your friend.” 

“Ugh,” you say, like you haven’t relied on that exact trick countless times before. There’s a reason being a lifeguard is one of your most well-received jobs. Hey, you’ve been called plenty of things in your line of work - sugar baby is one, gold digger is another; you can’t exactly fight it when it’s true. “You’re my only friend and you know it. I’m bad at making friends.”

You say it, but then-