2. Arlo

CHAPTER 2

Arlo

Oh, bother. I haven't even gotten on the plane yet, and I almost spoiled everything. My tummy is in knots. But after I've triple-checked everything is in my backpack like it ought to be, I take several deep breaths and join the line to board the plane.

Thank heavens for that dashingly handsome and kind stranger. I get butterflies just thinking about his warm smile. He really chased after me from the lounge. Wow. I bet he'd make a good Daddy.

Ah, no. None of that. I absolutely have to stop pining after random strangers who make me feel good about myself. They can't all be Daddies and Mummies. That would be silly.

I can't help wondering where the nice American man went, though. I was so busy with my belongings I didn't see. It's probably for the best. He's most likely off on holiday with his wife…or maybe husband. Who knows? He seemed too gorgeous and responsible to be single.

But what would I know? It's not like I've ever dated. Sex, yes. But a boyfriend? A Daddy?

Only in my dreams, sadly.

I shake myself and pay attention to my surroundings. Daydreaming is how I almost lost my bloody passport and boarding pass in the first place. It's how I get into trouble ninety-nine percent of the time, if I'm being honest. But…blimey. What a truly rotten start to the trip that would have been. It could have ruined everything altogether. I need to be more aware.

This is not new information. I'm painfully aware of how useless I am. Just ask Mummy and Pa.

But they don't know where I'm going. They don't even realize I'm leaving the country. This is my chance at some real, genuine independence. Freedom.

If I can even make it to Bali.

No, I need to stop thinking like that. I'm here, aren't I? And thanks to a very kind (and handsome, did I mention handsome?) stranger, I'm about to get on the plane with everything I need. My suitcase is checked. My transport is booked for the other end. I have everything I could possibly need for a wonderful getaway.

Except a Daddy.

Well, that's why I'm going to this retreat, isn't it? To hopefully find one to practice with for a week or so. I mean, it's difficult to imagine who would be interested in a lost cause like me, but I've always been tragically optimistic, so what can I say?

"Have a nice trip, Mr. …" The nice girl at the desk darts her eyes back to my documents, but I take pity on her.

"Thank you!" I cry cheerfully, plucking my passport back and flashing her a smile. My name is as ridiculous as the family who owns it. I find it best to just ignore it when I can. "You, too!"

You too…what? Have a nice trip?

Oh no.

I bustle down the gangway and remind myself that I'm never going to see the poor lady again as long as I live.

Much like Mr. Handsome-and-Definitely-not-a-Daddy.

I need to get a hold of myself. Just because I've got Daddies on the brain doesn't mean every kind, gorgeous man I meet is eligible. Far from it.

It sounds bad, but well…I'm simply not used to being allowed out of the house. Mingling with common folk is highly unusual for me. I'm just a little excitable.

Like a child on Christmas morning.

As I wait in the queue, hanging in midair inside the rickety-feeling tunnel that connects the building to the plane, I try not to bounce as I think of all the enticing items I have squirreled away in my big suitcase that's tucked somewhere in the belly of this plane. Secret items no one else has ever seen before. Things I've never used before.

Things my father would sneer at me for if he knew about them.

For a second, my smile falters. But then I shake it off, just like my favorite lady, Taylor Swift. My father has no power over me here. None of them do.

I'm free. For ten whole days.

And if I spend that time alone, it will still be an absolute blessing.

I'm pulled from my thoughts by a cheery "Hello!" from the flight attendant waiting inside the threshold of the plane. She checks my ticket and only pauses for a second. "Enjoy your flight," she says, avoiding having to utter my name.

It's not that it's impossible to pronounce. It's just absurd. I'm constantly fighting the urge to reassure people that I hate it too.

"Thank you so much," I say, beaming at her and hoping it'll ease her embarrassment. "You, too!"

Not again.

I mean…how can anyone be embarrassed around me when I do such a fine job of mortifying myself?

At least she actually is taking this flight. It's not like when it's my birthday and I happily declare ‘You, too' at anyone who sends me wishes on the day. Still, I scurry to my seat and don't look at another soul.

When I booked myself on this excursion, I was feeling all adventurous. Sick of being pandered to, I decided I wanted a taste of ‘real life,' so I booked my seat in economy.

We haven't even left the tarmac, and I'm already regretting my decision profusely. The seats are so much smaller, and everyone is just so close. I refuse to be a brat about it, however. The fact is that I can't spend all this time loathing my lot in life then turn around and reap all the benefits. It's horribly inevitable that I am the heir to the Hythe-Wandsworth name, fortune, estate, and business.

But if I'm going to be this grumpy about the whole affair, it would be hypocritical to use family money to sneak off on holiday. That's why I've saved every penny for this jaunt by working independently online, editing for several different media outlets. It took a long time, and I've lived in fear of getting found out ever since I started this harebrained scheme. But it was worth it.

I'm here.

Or rather, I'm on my way. And I will just have to put up with the slightly claustrophobic seating arrangements.

My parents think I'm at a conference for young professionals that I've been to before. It's basically an excuse for young men who went to stuffy boarding schools like mine to network, which in reality means half paying attention to generic motivational speeches then drinking excessive amounts of alcohol.

With any luck in the world, my parents will never know the truth. I know Mummy peeks in on my financials, so all I've got is the extra, secret money I've earned in my new bank account.

It all feels rather daring like I'm a spy or something exciting.

Truthfully, I could be anybody I wanted to be on this trip. I could finally be…Arlo.

It feels sacrilegious to even think the name. But how I've longed to be called that my whole life. Mummy and Pa don't approve of nicknames. They say it's a vulgar, common thing to do to one's birthright. But all throughout school and the rest of my life, I've despised being Arlington. I know it's a highly respectable traditional English name.

But it's also the most famous veterans' cemetery in America, for pity's sake.

Arlo can be whomever he likes. He can be free.

Just not from this seat for the next thirteen hours.

There's something freeing about resigning oneself to one's fate. There was nothing to be done about the small seat, the lack of legroom, the passengers around me, or the sheer length of time I was to be confined inside that plane, breathing the same recycled air over and over. I like it when people make decisions for me. It's one of the main reasons I want a Daddy, after all. So I sort of just relax and go with it.

Besides, traveling alone means there's no one around to stop me from watching children's movies. Therefore, I occupy a great deal of my time watching a trilogy about singing unicorns on daring adventures. The cabin crew feeds me several times and are just so friendly and polite. I sleep a little, grateful that I took my cousin's advice and brought a travel pillow.

Ginny is the only one who knows where I'm really going and why. She's the actual black sheep of the family because she's very out and bisexual and visibly queer with her short black hair, piercings and tattoos. I'm not brave like her. I survive by trying to make myself invisible, but that's quite a lonely way to live.

She's the one who ultimately gave me the courage to do this. I think of how she said she was so proud of me as I doze through the last couple of hours of the flight.

Once we finally land in Singapore, I'm groggy but relieved to fill my lungs with relatively fresh air and stretch out my aching limbs. I've heard that this airport is one of the most incredible ones in the world, with an indoor jungle, butterfly garden, and some kind of artificial waterfall in the middle. Sadly, we're only here for an hour or so while they refuel the plane, so we're basically kept at the gate, and I don't get to see any of that.

It's okay, though. I'm still just as excited that we're so close to Bali now. I've been obsessively looking at photos for months, so it doesn't seem real that I'm almost there. Until we re-plane, I spend my time filling up my water bottle, downing it, using the men's room, and then I just hide away in a corner and stretch some more.

Before I know it, we're being shuffled through passport control and I'm back in my dreaded seat. However, it's only about three hours until we arrive in Bali, so that's not so bad. I've lost all concept of what time it's supposed to be, but I figure getting some extra shut-eye won't hurt me.

I probably only get an hour before the crew wakes us in order to give us some breakfast. I'm not even sure if I'm hungry, but I eat it anyway, especially grateful for the juice and tea after such a long time traveling. I don't want to start off my trip with a dehydration headache.

Even though I'm not next to the window, I eagerly stare outside as the plane makes its final descent onto the tarmac, resisting the urge to cheer as we touch down. I did it! We're here!

It's difficult to keep my childish excitement at bay, but that part of me is bubbling just below the surface, desperate to come out and play. Soon, I tell myself happily as we taxi around. I can feel how anxious everyone around me is to unfasten their seat belts so they can stand up and rescue their carry-on luggage from the overhead lockers. My knees jiggle up and down, and I hug my travel pillow to keep my hands occupied.

Other than almost dropping my bag on my head, I eventually make it off the plane without incident, and finally, I'm on Indonesian soil. It's early in the morning, so the sky looks beautifully hazy as the sun peeks through the clouds. There's air conditioning, but I can still taste how different the air is.

My heart pounds as I struggle to concentrate. This is where I have to do some proper adulting, so I get my notebook out of my backpack and double check all the things I need to tick off my list. I just need to go through passport control and get my bag from luggage claim, then find my car service. After what happened at Heathrow, I added ‘PASSPORT AND BOARDING PASS' to remind me to know where they are at all times, both now and on the way back.

It makes my head swim ensuring that I don't do something catastrophic again. But once I get my bottom in a taxi, I'll be done.

I can be Arlo and just let go.

By some miracle, I make it through passport control and pick up my suitcase from the luggage belt in one piece. I don't let myself get distracted by looking at anyone else. Right now, I have to be my own Daddy. I clumsily navigate using the bathroom with all my stuff, but then finally, I'm through to arrivals, and I catch sight of a man with a sign that reads ‘Arlo Little.'

My heart skips a beat at my own daring, expecting someone to appear out of nowhere and scream at me that I can't do that. That I'm using a fake name. But of course no one does.

"Hello, yes, that's me," I say breathlessly as I approach the guy and give him a small wave. "Good morning."

My driver's face splits into a big smile. "Good morning, Mr. Little! This way, please."

Before I can protest, he takes the handle of my case and starts wheeling it through the airport. I rush to keep up with him, thinking about how much I need a cup of tea and praying the resort is equipped to deal with displaced Brits needing their hot leaf water. It is five star, after all. I'm sure they accommodate all kinds of people from around the world. I know a lot of the tourists here are Australian, and thanks to their ties with the UK, they have a sensible appreciation of tea as well, or so I'm told.

Gosh, this is the farthest I've ever been from home by far. Mummy and Pa always want to go skiing in Europe. Occasionally, they'd allow me some sun in the south of France, but I think beaches fall into the ‘uncouth' category along with so many other things they deem frivolous and I think are just joyful. Who cares if sand is messy? It looks fun!

As we step outside the building I am briefly enveloped by warm and humid air. I know it will probably make me sweaty quickly enough, but it feels like a hug to me. I love the way it tastes as I breathe in deeply. We are so far from England now. I'm on a completely different continent, and here's my tangible proof.

As we drive from the airport toward the resort, I stare in awe at the lush vegetation. Tall palm trees wave merrily high above us, and the sunshine streams down. I'm grateful for more air conditioning in the car. There isn't much of that back home, unfortunately.

We largely follow the south coast as we head west, getting closer and closer to where I'm going to call home for the next ten days. It's difficult not to bounce in my seat as I see the sign for Kuta Paradise Resort and Spa and the car makes the turn into the grounds, climbing up the hillside as we go.

"Are you excited, Mr. Little?" my driver asks, looking at me in the rearview mirror. He's grinning like he's in on my secret. I don't hold back for once, finding freedom in confiding in a stranger.

"So excited, sir."

His chest puffs out at the honorific. We've barely stopped outside the entrance when he dashes from his seat to open my door for me. Then he produces my case like a magic trick before grabbing my hand to shake it. "Have a wonderful stay, Mr. Little," he says genuinely.

I know tipping isn't expected here or the rest of Asia in general, but that is something my father drilled into me that I appreciate. I used my time during the drive to watch the meter and work out what would be approximately twenty percent by the time we arrived. The currency is a bit confusing because the numbers are enormous compared to what we have back home, but I'm confident I've got it roughly right as I pull the notes from my jeans pocket, where I folded them, and press them into his palm.

"Thank you for getting my holiday off to a lovely start," I tell him with a smile.

"Thank you, Mr. Little," he says breathlessly, glancing down at what I've given him on top of the fare.

Before one of my mortifying quips of ‘You, too!' can slip out, I grab my suitcase handle and wheel it confidently through the sliding double doors and into the resort's reception.

The space is huge and airy, with a peaked wooden ceiling and marble floor. Fans spin lazily overhead to keep the cool air moving, and vibrant green plants with an assortment of colorful flowers tumble from pots all over the place. It feels so alive and fresh. I can't stop myself grinning.

And then there are the people. It's a small, high-end resort that a kinky dating app has partnered with to book exclusively for this event. Everyone here for the next ten days will be interested in similar adult pursuits. I see men, women, and people who probably identify in between of all ages milling around. My heartbeat quickens. How many of these men might be Daddies looking to play with a boy?

I'm getting ahead of myself. Besides, loads of people will have already checked in or aren't here yet, so there's no point in trying to set my hopes on anyone right now. But simply knowing that these people are open-minded and that a lot of them will be queer gives me a sense of belonging I've never experienced before in my life. Considering I've never even been brave enough to go to a gay bar for fear of what Mummy and Pa might say or do, it's all a bit overwhelming.

The lady at the desk is an absolute sweetheart, but in my tired and hyper state, I know I'm not giving her my full attention. Especially when someone appears out of nowhere and offers me some sort of delicious fruit smoothie in a coconut shell decorated with a mini umbrella and pretty flowers. I think I might have died and gone to heaven.

I probably say ‘thank you' too much and almost certainly slip in a ‘you, too!' but really, who cares? I'm here, and it's brilliant, and I simply can't wait to get my swim shorts on so I can go play in the pool. Or pools, I should say. From what I can remember, there are three, all with infinity views over the jungle and onto the sea. They fall like waterfalls into the one below. From the photos, it looks like something out of a dream, so I can't imagine what it's going to be like with my own eyes.

And my shorts have adorable turtles and fish on them that make me giddy just thinking about. I can be cute and sweet, and no one's around to admonish me for not being the perfect young man I'm supposed to be. I don't have to be serious and boring anymore. As soon as I get to my room, I'm rescuing Chippy and Snap from the depths of my suitcase. I know soft toys don't need to breathe, but it's been awfully dark for them in there this whole time.

Oh! Oh! Oh! And my room—or should I say my villa —has its own hot tub! They all do here! There are dozens of little houses built down the hillside, and each of them is like its own VIP suite.

As it says in the resort name. Paradise.

There are golf cart-type buggies for guests to travel between the main resort and the villas, but I'm too full of energy. I just want to walk after being on the plane for so long. Besides, my case is on wheels so I can drag it most of the way and manage any steps down I come across.

I'm looking for number fifty-six, so I follow the small wooden signposts nestled in the leaves by the side of the path, finding my way. I'm so close! Once I reach the right turn-off, I practically run down the side path. All the villas are on stilts—I assume to encourage the wildlife not to wander in—so that means one must lug one's suitcase up some steps to the porch. But I do it easily with all my pumping adrenaline. Quickly getting my keycard out, I tap the door handle, and…

And nothing.

The little light stays red. But the nice lady at the desk said it would go green. I frown, checking the number. Yes, this is fifty-six. What's going on? I tap it several more times, getting increasingly upset. Now my adrenaline is fading, and I just feel exhausted. There's no way I want to trudge all the way back up to the lobby, so I start pushing on the handle even though I know that's probably not going to do any good.

"Oh, fiddlesticks!" I shout, willing myself not to cry even though my eyes are stinging. "Come on! Please!"

I just need to do this one last bit of adulting. I don't want to trip at the last hurdle! This door is all that's standing between me and the space I need to finally become my true little self, and I'm not going to let it win! I push and bang and curse and?—

And suddenly, it opens.

When I see what's on the other side, I wonder if I really have died and gone to heaven.