Esteban hands me a bottle. He, José, Broodje, Cassandra, and I are crammed into a taxi, crawling through holiday traffic as we head north to that party in Puerto Morelos, the one Kayla told me about. José and Esteban know about it, too, so apparently it really is the place to be.
“Yeah, come on. It’s New Year’s,” Cassandra says.
“And you won’t go home empty-handed if you don’t want to,” Broodje says. “Unlike some of us,” he adds, full of exaggerated self-pity.
“Poor Broodje,” Cassandra says. “Am I saying it right?”
“Bro-djuh,” Broodje corrects, adding, “it means sandwich.”
Cassandra smiles. “Don’t worry, Sandwich Boy. We’ll make sure somebody takes a bite out of you tonight.”
“I think she wants a bite of my sandwich,” Broodje says in Dutch, grinning at the prospect. I attempt a smile back. But really, I’m done. I’ve been done since Maya del Sol, though I have dutifully checked out a few other resorts, thanks to José and Esteban, who told me how to get into Palacio Maya and got me wristbands for Maya Vieja. But it’s felt like going through the motions. I don’t even know who I’m looking for, so how am I going to find her?
The taxi skids onto a strip of undeveloped beach. We pay the driver and emerge onto a scene. Music throbs from huge speakers, and hundreds of people are scattered up and down the beach. Everyone seems to be barefoot, judging by the enormous piles of shoes right at the entrance to the party.
“Maybe you can find by her shoe,” Cassandra says. “Like Cinderella. What would a glass slipper for the modern girl look like? How about this?” She holds up a pair of shiny orange flip-flops. She tries them on. “Too big,” she says, flinging them back onto the piles.
“Would beautiful lady like to dance?” José asks Cassandra.
“Sure,” she says, grinning. They walk away, José already with a hand on her hip.
Broodje’s face falls. “I guess his taco was more appetizing than my sandwich.”
“As you keep reminding me, there are lots of girls. I’m sure one of them will want a bite of your sandwich.”
And there are so many girls. Hundreds of them, in all shapes and colors, perfumed and primed for partying. On any other New Year’s, it would be a promising start.
The line for the bar snakes all the way around the palm trees and hammocks. We’re inching our way forward when a girl wearing a sarong, a smile, and not much else stumbles into me.
“Steady there,” I say, righting her by the elbow. She holds up a half-empty bottle of tequila, curtseys, and takes a long slug.
“You might want to pace yourself,” I say.
“Why don’t you pace me?”
“Okay.” I take the bottle from her and swig. I hand it to Broodje who does the same. He gives the bottle back to her.
She holds it up, swishes it around so the larva inside somersaults. “You can have the worm, if you want to,” she says in a slurry voice. “Worm, worm, can the hottie eat you?” She holds the bottle up to her ear. “The worm says yes.” She leans in closer, and in a hot whisper adds, “So do I.”
“It’s not really a worm,” Broodje says. “It’s an agave larva.” Jose is a bartender and he explained this all to us.
Her eyes roll unfocussed in her head. “What’s the diff? Worm, larva. You know what they say? The early bird gets the worm.” She hands Broodje the bottle, then puts both arms on my shoulder and kisses me, fast, wet, and boozy, on the mouth. She reels back, grabbing her tequila bottle. “Gets the kiss, too,” she says, laughing. “Happy New Year.”
Broodje and I watch her stumble through the sand. Then he turns to me. “I forgot what it’s like, being out with you. What you’re like.”
Six months ago, I’d have kissed the girl back, and the night would be set. Broodje may know what I’m like, but I don’t.
When we get our drinks, Broodje makes his way toward the dance area. I tell him I’ll meet up with him later. Up the beach, away from the stage and dance area, I spot a small bonfire with a group of people sitting around it, strumming on guitars. I start off in that direction, but then I see someone walking toward me. Kayla of the car rental agency, waving tentatively, as if she’s not sure it’s really me.
I pretend to not be me, and pivot toward the shoreline. As crowded and chaotic as the party is, the water is surprisingly quiet. There are a few people splashing about. Farther out, it’s empty, just moonlight reflecting on the water. Even at night, the water is bluer than I imagined it; it’s the only part of this trip that is coming close to meeting expectations.
I strip down to my boxers and dive in, swimming far out, until I reach a floating raft. I grip the splintering wood. The sounds of the guitars strumming “Stairway to Heaven” and the heavy bass of a reggae band reverberate through the water. It’s a good party, on a beautiful beach, on a soft, warm night. All the things that used to be enough.
I swim out a little farther and duck back under. Tiny silvery fish zip by. I reach out to touch them, but they whip out of reach so fast it’s like they’re leaving contrails behind. When I can’t hold my breath any longer, I come up for air to hear the reggae singer announce: “Half hour until the New Year. Until it all starts again. Año nuevo. It’s a tabula rasa.”
I take a breath and go back under. I scoop up a handful of sand and let it go, watching the grains disperse in the water. I come back up.
“Come the stroke of midnight, before you kiss your amor, save un beso para tí.”