There are certain obstacles every new couple must face eventually—the first time she touches his car stereo, the moment he realizes she actually watches vampire TV shows (what? It’s HBO!). Then there’s meeting the parents, amalgamating the pets and, of course, battling sharks. “I know what to do,” says Jason, my Gentleman Caller of seven months authoritatively. “I’d punch it in the nose.”
So when the opportunity to take a trip — nay, a vacation — to the posh Jade Mountain in St. Lucia (“the Caribbean’s most romantic resort”) comes up, I pounce. There’s nothing like your first overseas jaunt—minus wi-fi, TV, phones and work ⁄ friend distractions— to test a relationship, to see how you’ll really feel when you find yourself staring into the piercing hazel eyes of the beast for days on end. Besides, it’s our Love and Sex issue. I have the perfect excuse—it’s for work.
“Wow,” says my quickly-receding-into- the-background male best friend. “A resort? You guys really are a couple now.” And it’s true. Having met Jason at 2 a.m., when we bonded over our shared hatred of bad turntable skills, and having been introduced shortly thereafter to his collection of 4,234 rare disco records, 1970s art collection and at-least- 12-year-old Scotch (with my contributions being knowledge of obscure restaurants and a Sunday New York Times subscription), we’re not what you would call warm-weather sorts. Berlin, New York, Tokyo? Done. A beach? Weird. To add some pressurized fuel to the fire, we’ve just made the perhaps rash decision to move in together.
“What if we go on a romantic vacation to test our love and our love fails?!” I wail to my real-estate agent as she guides my hand into a reasonable facsimile of my signature on the sale papers for my loft. “I’ll have to live under my desk!”



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