The Value of Paradise

September 17th, 2022.

I dug my abandoned toes into the wet sand, wondering if this was what the Red Hot Chili Peppers were feeling when they wrote my favorite song on Stadium Arcadium. Regardless of the tropical weather, “my sunny side had up and died.”

Staring blankly at this sparkling Caribbean Sea, I listened to silence and considered the influence of synchronicity. And of timing. And of assholes. How did I end up here? What greater power decided to stain the bodice of my iconic Vera Wang with mascara and blood?

For three years, I endured so much with Michael. His impossibly overloaded work schedule. His stress-induced anger. The way his sexuality stopped whenever the stock market dropped undesirably. The way it blossomed for his twenty-four-year-old assistant six months into our relationship.

In retrospect, I’m not sure I ever healed from Michael’s affair. Can we truly heal from infidelity? Some people believe that it is better to experience unfaithfulness in the beginning, if at all. Is it a mark of toxicity to stray just before you become deeply invested? Is the behavior indicative of a boiling problem underneath the assailant’s skin? Are these our only options?

Every “red flag” and arguably abusive moment that I had ever casted away as insignificant seemed to pile in front of me, like these towering Piton mountains. God, St. Lucia is beautiful. The landscape looks like South America converged with the Caribbean Islands. Sugar Beach is the union of luxury and nature. One hundred idyllic acres of seaside rainforest that make you question why you would ever choose to waste away in the concrete jungle of New York City. This place was a sanctuary. Lush gardens. Swaying palm trees. Panoramic views of both Pitons. We had reserved the resort’s ten beachfront bungalows for our intimate wedding party. On our wedding night, we would move to the Grand Luxury Villa, complete with a private plunge pool. Michael and I were excited to marry each other in paradise. The Viceroy website promised “incredible memories” and “peaceful moments.” Exactly the energy that I wanted for me and my future husband.

Though I name myself untraditional when it comes to bridal decisions (cue this nearly elopement-small destination wedding in St. Lucia), I cherish some of the traditional elements. Taking Michael’s last name, for example. I could not wait to become “Gemma Steele.” As a surprise, I had already filed the paperwork. I excitedly changed my Instagram handle to “@gemmasteele.”

For the past eleven months, the preparation for this paradisal wedding celebration had consumed me. Thankfully, I had Savi—Michael’s cousin, and one of New York City’s most exclusive wedding planners.

Savi and Angela (her partner in business and in life) created Tryst, an event planning company that was rapidly joining the ranks of industry giants Colin Cowie and David Tutera. Wisely, Savi identified a valuable niche in an otherwise saturated market, making Tryst the go-to destination designer for weddings in the Caribbean, Central America, and Mexico.

Prior to partnering with Angela in Tryst, Savi worked with Cohen Wood, one of Manhattan’s premier event agencies. She conceptualized and produced culinary-driven experiences for high-end clientele.

Cohen Wood is the reason why I met Savi. (And Michael.)

At the time, I was the Director of Brand Partnerships for Copper Atlantic, a luxury beverage distributor headquartered in New York. We hired Cohen Wood because we wanted to create a destination experience for key beverage directors in Jalisco, Mexico.

Immediately, Savi seemed like a godsend. An experiential marketing angel. She had this rare warmth that could melt away stress like butter. In four short weeks, we planned the ultimate tour of tequila in the region of Tequila. Copper Atlantic was thrilled. I could tell from how well we worked together that we would remain friends.

When we returned to New York, Savi asked to take me to dinner.

“I want to thank you for this opportunity.”

“You’re so welcome. But thank you! Everything was fantastic. You’re a delight.”

“I want to introduce you to my cousin, Michael.”

“Oh?”

“Is that okay? You mentioned you’re single. I think that you could be a great pair. And he also may have stalked your Instagram a bit when I posted that picture of us at the bar in Guadalajara. He begged me for an introduction.”

I laughed. “Uh, yes! Sure. Why not?”

“Fantastic. So, tomorrow night? Pastis at eight o’clock?”

“I’ll be there.”

I love Pastis. I craved its steaming escargot as much as I subconsciously craved the feeling of a lover’s fingertips on my hungry skin. I had not dated anyone in almost one year. My last boyfriend did a number on my capacity for emotional intimacy. I buried myself in the vibrant distraction of work and happily avoided men. Twelve months, I decided, was long enough. I wanted to experience intimacy again.

My heart raced as I walked into Pastis. I saw Savi at the far corner of the bar, laughing with a handsome man wearing a business suit, drinking a dirty martini with a lemon twist. He looked familiar. I made the connection when I shook his hand. Holy crap. Savi’s Michael is Michael Steele. Michael Steele runs Harper Steele—one of the top hospitality companies in the country. In the past two years, he had acquired enough property chains to join the global leader list of Marriott International and Hilton Hotels.

For more reasons than his highly attractive professional title, we hit it off right away. Savi even left the dinner early.

After that night at Pastis, my relationship with Michael developed like the favorable part of a romance novel.

Until, of course, he slept with Anna, his twenty-four-year-old assistant. We were co-hosting a cocktail party for Harper Steele’s Board of Directors when she approached me with apologetic doe eyes and an unbelievable confession.

I stormed out of Michael’s TriBeCa loft with a vengeance and hailed a taxi to Savi’s West Village home. In the past six months, she had become my closest female friend. Her wife, Angela, poured three large glasses of Casa Noble tequila as I spilled the horrible news. They frowned, unanimously hopeful that Michael would be able to make amends.

Unfaithfulness seemed excruciatingly painful in the beginning. Is it okay for the Casanova tendencies to dwindle gradually as the relationship strengthens? Is it worse to know that your shiny newness isn’t enough to cage a polyamorous beast? Can we time-release monogamy?

“I am weak,” Michael pleaded to me. “And stupid. You are mine. I am yours. I will never disrespect you like this again.”

An experienced glutton for punishment and a hopeless romantic for a life with this powerful man, I decided to stay. Power is a funny thing, isn’t it? It lays the foundation of a life together where the one wielding power is in control. The relationship, like any business deal, can become an exchange. For better and for worse.

Five months later, Savi and Angela launched Tryst with their own fabulous destination wedding, in Antigua. This wife-and-wife duo could seemingly take over the world. I wished to enjoy this same kind of commitment and partnership value with Michael.

He was forty-one years old and had two ex-wives. A stark comparison to my zero ex-husbands. Though I never judged Michael, I did wonder if he was stuck in a midlife crisis. He seemed to chronically chase this blurry ideal of “more.” Businesses, houses, status. He also seemed stuck in a different decade. He would say, “When we get engaged, being my wife will be your only job. I want to take care of you.” Some may consider this the pinnacle of commitment and partnership. I was raised differently.

Alas, you like because and you love despite. This saying would define the emotional rollercoaster that was my admiration for him. I held onto that ride with a severed seatbelt, desperate to remain at the top. Beyond any of those glaring flags, I elegantly held my composure. I survived this challenge of patience like a celibate nun.

Near the one-year anniversary of Savi and Angela’s consummated marriage and business, Michael proposed to me. This ravishing four-carat ring was blinding enough to make me believe in the feminine mystique and resign from my position at Copper Atlantic.

Though this wasn’t the deepest or most aligned intimacy I had ever experienced, I was in love with Michael. I wanted to build a life with him. Additionally, who would ever turn down a good relationship and a four-carat diamond?

During eleven months of a vanilla, but objectively blissful engagement, our Tryst wedding became my obsession. It seemed like I spent more time with Savi and Angela than I spent with my own fiancé.

Soon, it was September 15th. In two days, I would be Mrs. Gemma Steele.

However, two days later, I was not Mrs. Gemma Steele. I was lying on the sand in a ten-thousand-dollar dress, and Savi was using the sleeve of her robe to wipe the rolling tears from my cheeks.

Twelve hours earlier, this dormant volcanic island had completely erupted.

At nine o’clock, Savi and I were dressed in bathrobes, choosing a movie in my bungalow. Michael had sent us a bottle of vintage Cristal for our celebratory slumber party. (Another bridal tradition that I value is the unluckiness of sleeping together the night before the wedding.) I smiled at my soon-husband’s thoughtfulness and popped the cork into the air, feeling grateful for the life of luxury that I was marrying into the next day.

It is funny how blinding all of it can be.

“Where’s Angela?”

“She’s finishing some last-minute touches on floral arrangements. Nothing you have to worry about, Gem! She’ll pop in sometime tonight.”

“Okay. Tell her she’s missed! Sav, look at this…”

I carefully unwrapped an ivory-ribboned flat lay photobook.

“It’s the boudoir photos. I was going to have someone deliver this to Michael tomorrow, but I kind of want to give him something to dream about tonight.”

“Gemma, these are amazing. My cousin may have a pre-wedding heart attack!”

I felt whimsical and romantic after three glasses of Cristal.

“I’m going to his room! We have each other’s keys. I’ll sneak it onto his bed.”

Savi looked at the time.

“I love that. He’s probably still with the boys by the pool. Three whiskeys deep. What a nice surprise for him to find!”

When I arrived at his bungalow, I could hear faint noises. Had the boys moved the party inside? I giggled at the idea of him having a similar slumber party. Michael and his best man in fluffy white robes.

Then, I opened the door. Champagne-buzzed and standing there like an idiot in slippers, I had my own pre-wedding heart attack. Feeling radiated through me like hot lava. The sounds that I heard were not Michael’s friends. This was not the entertaining visual of him and his best man in fluffy white robes. No. This was the sound of something infinitely worse than anything I had previously endured with him.

Michael was already in his bed. Naked and pinned beneath Angela.

Fucking Angela.

My fiancé was screwing his cousin’s wife. One of my confidants through the hills of our relationship. Our wedding planner. I could barely form words. My tongue was paralyzed in an indescribable moment.

“Wh-what is this? Michael? Angela? Really?”

Angela jumped off Michael’s body like a lesbian out of hell.

“Gemma! Gemma. I’m so sorry. Please…it’s not…oh, Gemma.”

I torpedoed the book at Michael’s guilty, disgusting face.

“Fuck! Gemma! Wait!”

Blood started dripping from his nose onto the white comforter. I rushed to open the door and sprinted back to my bungalow, eager to exit my decidedly worst nightmare. I was dry heaving, mid-panic attack, when I slammed on the door. Savi ran to me.

“Gemma, what’s wrong? What happened?”

“Th-they…they were…Michael…Ang-Angela…”

Savi looked like she had seen a ghost.

“What? Michael and Angela what? Are they okay? Did something happen? Gemma, are they okay?”

Then, Michael pushed open the door.

“Gem! Gem, sweetie. Please talk to me. Please.”

“Stay away from me! Screw you! Asshole!”

“Michael, what’s going on? Why are you bleeding?”

“Uh, Savi…I, uh, I was in bed in with someone when Gemma came to my villa.”

“Who?”

“Ugh…”

“Who, Michael?”

Now, it was Savi’s pre-wedding heart attack.

“Angela.”

She scoffed. “Is this a joke?”

Michael reached for me, and I pulled away.

“It’s true, Savi. Y-your wife…and m-my fiancé…the night before our wedding!”

I was screaming. Crying. Convulsing.

Michael looked at Savi with widened eyes. “Sav—”

Savi decked Michael in the face, launching him toward the wall where my wedding dress was hanging. Now, his nose was pouring blood. Bright red spewed across my Vera Wang like a Jackson Pollock.

“Michael, get the hell out of here. Leave. Leave this island now. You are dead to me.” She pulled me into her chest. “You’re dead to her.”

In that debilitating moment, I felt safer with Savi than I had ever felt with Michael.

“Sweetie, God. I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sorry too. Angela? Seriously? Does…does she even sleep with guys?”

“Not that I knew, Gem. Hey, I’m going to go deal with her. And deal with all of this. The wedding wasn’t supposed to start until four o’clock, so we have some time to run damage control. I’m going to make sure everyone leaves you alone.”

I was thankful to be caught in a love square with a Type A planner.

“I can’t believe this is happening…”

I curled into the corner of the bed and closed my swollen eyes. The combination of champagne and sobbing was a verified sleeping pill.

Eight hours later, I woke up on my wedding day.

Sunlight streamed through the wall of windows, reminding me that this was supposed to be the best day of my life. I turned to the Vera Wang. It amazed me how something so magical could look so murderous. I did not care that my dress was ruined. I would sooner burn this glamorous A-line gown and button Michael and Angela together into the flame.

Then, like an emotional cutter, I pulled the dress from the hanger and stepped inside of it. I clutched the sweetheart neckline to my chest because I could not reach the buttons in the back. Savi rustled awake.

“Gemma?” She slowly walked over to me. “Oh, Gem…”

Without another word, she buttoned my dress.

“Thank you…”

I regarded myself with longing in the mirror. This was a horror movie. The glaring and spattered red flag that I could not avoid. My eyes welled with tears again, and I solemnly departed my beachfront bungalow. Four feet from the water, I collapsed in the sand. I cried into my knees, adding smudged eyeliner and mascara to the already blood-stained fabric.

There I was, on a dormant volcanic island. Feeling decimated. Suffocating from droves of regrettable romantic ash.

I watched the turquoise water, wondering what it would feel like to drown in it. I was certain that filling my lungs with ocean was a greater paradise than accepting another failed relationship. It was a fate less painful than this realization that I had lost myself completely in the last eleven months. I decided that, without a husband or a career, I did not have anything. Whatever a soul is made of, I watched mine withdraw from my physical body and crawl into the Caribbean Sea.

Then, there was Savi. She was crying, too.

She wiped my tears away and wrapped her arms around my shoulders, trying to rock me into a state that could be better defined by love than by pain. Twenty minutes later, I watched my soul crawl back out of the sea. I recognized the power of synchronicity, and the ability to shed your skin.

Savi really was a godsend.

A warm angel.

We laid together on Sugar Beach, with our backs in the sand and our eyes to the sky. Then, I felt something unnamable between us. A strike of lightning, it seemed.

Who was I becoming?

Was I craving a feminine touch?

Savi slowly undid the buttons of my dress.

“Let’s get you out of this wreckage, honey.”

I ripped off that Vera Wang like it was toxic, hoping that the sunlight could burn the suicidal thoughts I had while wearing it. I knew that I would need to leave all of this behind. Everything reminiscent of Michael.

Except for her.

Savi ran the back of her hand up and down my cheek, delivering the kind of comfort that takes years to develop.

An eruption.

I met someone new at Sugar Beach. And when she touched me, I felt like no one had ever touched me before her. It may have been the time-release heartbreak. The force-feeding of a heinous betrayal. This mountain scape that looked like a volcanic heaven.

Savi and I spent my wedding night in the Grand Luxury Villa. I had never wondered how a woman’s sensuality would taste. Her ethereal touch. The voltage that ran through her body. The transmission of it into my own. Against any expectation I had ever had, we made more noise in that villa than we braved in my bungalow the previous evening. We stayed at Sugar Beach for the entire length of my honeymoon on Michael’s credit card.

During that unprecedented week in St. Lucia, I discovered the value of paradise. It is only available in moments and humans. And to really find it, we sometimes must welcome this shedding of skin. We must marvel at the way that a soul can bleed onto the sand. And how only someone completely unexpected could possibly pick it up again.