Almost Thirty
1084 Words
Ever since the night that changed the entire track of her late twenties, Riley Savatierra believed that turning thirty would feel like a cliff.
Not the dramatic kind, with wind whipping through your hair and some cinematic, emotional plunge into the unknown waiting just beneath uneven wonders— but the quieter kind, calmer, more peaceful. The one you do not notice until you are already standing too close to the edge, centimeters away from succumbing, with toes curling over a drop you had to pretend wasn't there.
Riley woke before her alarm even rang, the city was still dim and holding its breath. The ceiling fan ticked above her like a clock with opinions, as if shaped to remind her of the idea of turning another year older. Twenty-nine years, then three hundred and sixty-four days. One day before yet another milestone— one she thinks she would never appreciate. The number sat on her chest heavier than it deserved to be.
And still, no man had lasted.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
She didn’t need to look to know who it was.
Jace River Torregoza had a talent for impeccable timing— showing up precisely when she was trying not to think about him, texting precisely when she was convincing herself she didn’t care.
Riley let the screen light up the dark anyway.
You alive?
Coffee later?
Two lines. Casual. But familiar. Safe.
She stared at the message until the edges of the words blurred, then rolled onto her side and pressed her face into the pillow like it could smother the thought forming in her head.
Almost thirty.
Almost to marry her jerk of a best friend— well, if they’d actually meant the bet.
Of course, that had been a joke. A sloppy, alcohol-soaked sentence thrown into the air on a night that smelled like cheap whiskey and bad decisions.
The bet? If she and Jace were both single at thirty, they’d marry each other. Simple. Practical. Harmless.
Except nothing about Jace had ever been harmless.
Riley swung her legs out of bed and padded to the window. The city outside looked indifferent to her quiet spiral— Jeepneys already honking, a neighbor arguing into a phone, the world stubbornly moving forward. She pressed her forehead to the glass and breathed.
She didn’t believe in love— that was the story she told herself, anyway. Love is messy, and loud, and full of expectations people keep pretending not to have. Love makes promises and then breaks them. Love asks for things Riley didn’t know how to give without losing pieces of herself.
But pleasure? Pleasure is honest.
Pleasure asks for nothing but presence. Pleasure doesn't wake you up at three in the morning wondering if you are enough.
Jace understood that. Jace had always understood that.
They’d been friends first— real friends, the kind who knew each other’s bad habits and favorite excuses. The kind who shared secrets and silences, ideas and beliefs. The kind who, one night, stopped pretending there was a line between comfort and desire.
They never crossed it sober. That had been the rule. One of the many rules they had made and broken and redefined over the years. Accidents only. No feelings. No expectations. No strings. No names for what they did when the world got too heavy.
It worked— until it didn’t. Until they could not pretend that the countless reasons they keep claiming are enough anymore.
Riley dressed carefully, choosing clothes that made her feel like herself— sharp lines, confident fit, nothing that hinted at the unease humming beneath her skin. She checked her reflection and practiced the smile she wore like armor. The one that said I’m fine. The one that could fool everyone but Jace.
Her phone buzzed again as she stepped outside.
I’m downstairs, Jace wrote.
Don’t make me wait.
She laughed despite herself. Of course he was. Of course he hadn’t waited for permission, for her to say yes to his out of the blue rendezvous.
Stepping out, she found Jace leaning against his car like he belonged there, the rising sunlight catching in his hair, sleeves rolled up just enough to be unfair. He looked up when he saw her, grin slow and familiar, eyes doing that thing where they lingered half a second too long.
“Morning, almost-thirty,” he said.
“Say that again and I’m going back upstairs,” Riley replied, rolling her eyes as she slid into the passenger seat without a thought.
Jace glanced at her, something unreadable flickering across his face before it vanished behind ease, “Relax, Ry. You look like you wear impending adulthood well.”
They drove with the windows down, music low, conversation drifting between nothing and everything. It was easy— It had always been easy and that was the problem.
At the café, Jace ordered her drink without asking, like he had it memorized for the longest time. She let him. Another small surrender in the dynamics their relationship had built over the years.
“You okay?” Jace asked casually, like he hadn’t noticed the way she’d gone quiet.
“I’m great,” Riley said automatically. Then, because lying to Jace had never been her strength, she added, “I just need a break.”
“From?”
She met his gaze. Held it. Let the truth hover between them without saying it out loud.
“Everything,” she murmured back.
Jace nodded slowly, fingers tightening around his cup. “Anywhere in mind?”
Riley thought of the invitation burning a hole in her email. Received months ago. Sent especially by the Island's owner. The one she hadn’t opened twice, but hadn’t deleted either. It was a name whispered in underground forums and half-joking conversations. An island that promised anonymity and indulgence. No past. No future. No love.
Isla Ardiente.
“A place where no one knows me,” she said, shrugging, “Where I can disappear, even just for a while.”
Jace smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You don’t strike me as the disappearing type, Ry.”
“Watch me.”
That night, alone in her apartment, Riley finally opened the email.
Welcome to Isla Ardiente. Where desire is currency and attachment is forbidden.
She hesitated only once before clicking accept.
If thirty was a cliff, then Isla Ardiente was fire at the bottom.
And Riley had always been curious about how it felt to burn.
- Writer
