Jamaica Sunsets

The kettle clicked off, but the apartment still felt too loud - Talia’s last voicemail looping in Simone’s head like a song she didn’t want to hear again. She stood at her kitchen counter with her phone faceup beside a half-packed travel tote, thumb hovering over the refresh button on the airline app as if the right tap could undo what her best friend had said: I can’t do it. Something came up. I’m so sorry.

Simone pressed her palm to the counter, feeling the cool laminate under her skin, and stared at the rectangle of light from the window. Outside, New York kept moving - tires hissing on wet asphalt, someone’s laughter drifting up from the sidewalk like it belonged to a different life. Inside, she could still smell the citrus cleaner she’d used earlier, sharp and hopeful, and beneath it the faint sweetness of the lotion she’d planned to bring for her legs. Vacation lotion. That’s what this suitcase had been, ten hours ago. Now it was just fabric and zipper teeth and the weight of a decision she hadn’t made.

Her first instinct was to cancel everything. Not because Jamaica wasn’t beautiful - Simone had dreamed it into existence already - but because going alone felt like walking into a party where you knew exactly one person, and that person had stood you up. She’d already done the hard part: letting herself want it. She didn’t want to pay for wanting.

But her other instinct - stubborn, exhausted, kind of angry - kept showing up too. She’d waited too long for time off. She’d spent too many months pretending her own joy was optional. And somewhere between the voicemail and the silence that followed, Talia had texted again, a softer, more careful message that made Simone’s throat tighten.

Please don’t hate me. I know it’s last minute. I talked to the concierge. They’ll handle your transfer. Just - go. I’ll make it up to you when you come back. I promise.

Simone’s phone screen lit again. Another notification, another reminder that her flight was real even if her best friend wasn’t. She swallowed and moved to the living room, where her suitcase sat half-open like a confession. A sundress lay on top, the color a warm sunset orange that made her feel like she could be glowing even without trying. She’d picked it because Talia always said Simone looked like sunshine when she wore color.

Simone touched the fabric, then pulled her hand away like it burned.

“Okay,” she said aloud, to the empty room, to the kettle, to the version of herself that still believed she could be brave. Her voice sounded too flat in the air-conditioning hum. “Okay. Think.”

Her laptop was still open on the counter, airline site ready, and Simone clicked to her itinerary. The numbers were unforgiving. Refund: partial. Change fee: ridiculous. Canceling would cost her money she didn’t want to part with, and it would also cost her something worse - momentum. The kind you don’t get back once you let it go.

She sat on the edge of her couch, knees tucked in, and pulled up her email chain with the resort. She’d booked a great place - one Talia had sent her links for, one that promised shade and calm and a pool she could sink into without negotiating with her own mind. The resort’s confirmation email was warm and polished, full of phrases meant to soothe. Simone scrolled until she found the part about transfers and check-in times, the little practical details that made her feel like the trip had a spine.

She could do this. She could follow instructions like they were a life raft.

Her phone buzzed again. A call this time. Talia’s name filled the screen like a dare.

Simone stared until the screen dimmed, then she answered on the second ring, because she wasn’t trying to be cruel - even when cruelty would be easier.

“Talia,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” Talia blurted immediately, like she couldn’t afford to ease in. The sound of her voice came through slightly tinny, but it still carried that familiar rhythm - quick, apologetic, and determined to make Simone feel better even when it was impossible.

Simone leaned her head back against the couch cushion. The fabric smelled faintly like detergent and old books. “You already said that.”

“I know.” Talia exhaled, and Simone could hear the kind of movement that meant she was pacing. “Listen. I didn’t cancel because I don’t want you to go. I canceled because I can’t be there for you the way you deserve right now.”

Simone’s fingers tightened around her tote handle. “So you want me to go alone.”

“I want you to go,” Talia corrected, softer. “And I want you to stop talking to yourself like you don’t deserve fun.”

Simone blinked hard. The words landed too close to the bone. “I didn’t cancel. You did.”

“I know.” Talia’s voice cracked on the edge of another sentence, and Simone could picture her - hair twisted up, makeup smudged from crying or stress, biting her lip like she could keep the truth behind it. “But if you cancel too, I’m not just losing a trip....