SAFE TOUCH DOWN - A novel

Chapter 35 - A Revalation, cont…

I had two more nights on the island before I would fly to Dallas for an indefinite amount of time. Antoine took his Lancha to Corozal to pick up a delivery. Though our relationship had waned, I had the night to myself and wanted to breathe it in. I didn’t typically go to bars. I tried to veer away from the expat and tourist landings, but I felt a pull to sit by the sea, to write, to conjure memories of my time in San Pedro.

My plan was to lay low and blend into the background, so when I pulled into the sandy parking lot and saw only a few golf carts, I felt relief. I walked up the dock, assessing the ambience. A handful of people at the bar. A few small groups scattered across the deck. Dancehall played from the speakers, in tune with my mood.

I settled onto a barstool dressed in a long black strapless cotton dress—simple, comfortable—with a light sweater draped over my shoulders. The air was soft, salty, warm—the kind of night that makes you feel both restless and anchored at the same time. I didn’t have to ask; the bartender had already poured me a glass of Sauvignon Blanc while I unrolled my little Logi keypad and set my phone beside it.

As I fumbled with my Bluetooth connection, I scanned the deck. That’s when I saw him—Dr. Mercado. Khaki shorts, a soft blue Columbia shirt—long sleeves rolled to his forearms. Reef sandals. Costa shades hanging from a lanyard. The look of a man who’d been on a boat, but not working on one. Relaxed. Sharp. Effortlessly put together.

He sat with two guys at a table in a corner. I didn’t want to be obvious, so I pretended not to notice him. He walked toward the bar to order a round for his table. That’s when our eyes locked. Heat rose under my skin. I acted surprised—just enough—and told him I’d be leaving for Dallas in two nights. I explained that I wouldn’t typically be at a random beach bar, but that I wanted to soak up an island night one more time before landing in the city.

He took the hint as me wanting space, gave me a soft side-kiss on the cheek, and went back to his friends. I let his energy linger—unapologetically—then fell into my writing, my words, the art of storytelling.

I almost didn’t notice when a thunderhead formed over the white full moon. Then the rain came. It started as a drizzle tapping against the zinc roof, then opened into a full deluge—thick, tropical. I stayed put, ordered another glass of wine, and kept writing. There’s something about heavy rain that pulls passion out of you without trying—an electricity that makes you feel more alive than you were five minutes before.

By the time the downpour shifted into a soft mist, the bar had thinned out. I packed up, ready to head to my casita—

My golf cart seat was covered in droplets. I wiped it off, slid in, and turned the key. A click. Another click. Nothing. I knew it was the starter, and I knew it wouldn’t go anywhere for a while.

I sat there in the dark parking lot, frustrated and tired.

That’s when I heard his footsteps.

“Everything alright?” Dr. Mercado asked.

“It’s not going to start for a while,” I told him. “The starter is wet.” I shook my head, shrugged my shoulders, and rested my forehead on the steering wheel in a quiet sign of defeat.

He looked back toward his friends, then at me. I could see the decision forming in real time.

“I’m staying at the Oasis while I’m here,” he said, nodding toward the condo building a block away. “If you want to wait there instead of sitting in the rain…”

He left the rest open.

I didn’t know what his intentions were. Truthfully, I didn’t know what mine were either. But I was cold and frustrated, so I followed him.

His condo had a comfort I recognized from another life—high ceilings, mahogany trim, warm lighting. local art that was predictable. The place felt stately in a quiet way. My body softened the moment the door closed.

He offered me a towel, and I let him drape it over my shoulders. My hair dripped, my sweater damp, but the room was warm. I asked if I could sit on the sofa. He gestured for me to make myself at home.

He poured a glass of wine for me, one for himself, and settled into the armchair across from me.

We talked. Not about my body, not about medicine, not anything clinical. Just… people. Barranquilla. San Pedro. The food. The dialect. The particular way women carry themselves here, so different from city life.

He felt human. Not the doctor. Not the man who’d seen me in pain. Just a man I happened to be spending an unexpected evening with.

I mentioned Antoine—not in detail, just enough to acknowledge the exhaustion, the weight. He listened without trying to diagnose or fix anything.

At some point, the conversation dipped into silence. The air shifted. We looked at each other longer than you’re supposed to. Something opened—quiet, undeniable.

I stepped toward him and lifted my dress just enough to place my knees on either side of his legs. I let my body slide into his lap, placed my hands along his face, arched my back, pressed closer.

The kiss wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t hungry. It was deep, slow, full-body—like he wanted to memorize the shape of my mouth. My hands moved up his neck, down his chest, over the front of his shirt. He pulled me closer by the waist, his touch firm but unbelievably gentle.

When he kissed, he kissed with intention—with presence. It felt like he was meeting every part of me I didn’t realize was still waiting to be seen.

I let my body follow the rhythm of his breath. He let me guide everything. No rush, no pressure—just the slow burn of two people learning each other through touch alone.

And then—right as the moment crested—something shifted inside me. A wave. Longing. Uncertainty. A knowing that if I crossed a certain line, I wouldn’t know how I felt afterward.

It wasn’t fear. It was clarity.

So I pulled back. Gently. Quietly. I brought my knees together, curled into his lap, and laid my head against his chest. He didn’t ask why. He didn’t press. He just held me—slow, steady, grounding.

As our breaths synced, my eyelids grew heavy. He ran his fingers through my hair with a delicate patience I hadn’t felt in years. I let myself melt into him—tired, softened, safe.

Eventually… I fell asleep in his arms. Completely, fully, deeply.

And he stayed there. Holding me. As long as I needed.

I woke to the pale wash of sunrise slipping through the balcony curtains. For a moment, I didn’t know where I was—only that my body felt rested in a way I hadn’t felt since returning to the island. My cheek rose and fell with the steady rhythm of his breath.

Dr. Mercado was still there, sitting exactly as he had been hours before, his arm wrapped around me with a kind of respectful stillness. Not possessive. Not expectant. Just present.

I lifted my head slightly. He looked down at me with a softness that didn’t demand anything in return.

And in that quiet, in that small pocket of dawn light, something settled inside me—something I hadn’t let myself acknowledge in too long:

Soft still exists. Gentle still exists. And I’m allowed to have it.

I’m allowed to want it.