The Landings
By Emma Patz
April 15, 2026
April 15, 2026
“If a guest asks if there are sharks in the water, you say no,” Joseph’s supervisor told him on his first day of training.
He’d lived in St. Lucia his entire twenty-two years and had only pleasant interactions with the aquatic life. Fish, mostly. Sometimes an eel or a squid. Shark sightings were rare, and when they happened, they were usually of the reef or nurse variety. Statistically, stray dogs posed more of a risk—but he nodded.
“However,” his supervisor continued, “if a guest asks you to do something, the answer is always yes.”
“What if it’s something I’m unable to do?” Joseph asked.
“Then you find someone who can.”
~~~
The Johnsons didn’t do tropical vacations; they just weren’t “beach people.” When neighbors returned from spending Christmas in places like Aruba or Turks and Caicos, Mrs. Johnson would click her tongue, noting their tanned, or more often burnt, noses. “Did you forget to pack sunscreen?” she’d call out from her salted driveway. Her neighbors would chuckle and she’d chuckle too, although she really wasn’t joking.
Mrs. Johnson was dotted with a constellation of moles. She studied them daily for signs of jagged edges and multi-colored swirls—for growth. Each year she presented the white sheath of her body to her dermatologist, Dr. Rourke. Mr. Johnson would do the same. They’d place bets on who would require a biopsy—which one would be sent home bandaged and cauterized.
When their son Mike was born, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson made it to their life’s mission to protect his unblemished skin. They slathered it in SPF 70 before he went anywhere: soccer games, swim lessons, school picnics. The lotion they bought was thick, the type you can’t rub in, so in all of Mike’s childhood photos he looked stark-white, like a little ghost.
The Johnsons’ aversion to the sun didn’t preclude them from all travel. They just preferred shaded streets and ceilings. Museums and art galleries. They liked to share a scoop of gelato at the hottest hour of the day and then another in the evening. They liked being in bed by ten.
Thus, their friends were surprised when they announced they’d be heading to St. Lucia for Christmas that year. “We wanted to go somewhere warm this Christmas. Really, really warm,” Mrs. Johnson explained. The previous February, both Mr. and Mrs. Johnson had slipped on a sheet of black ice. She’d walked away unscathed but he’d shattered his radius and at least two of his carpal bones. “For one week, we don’t want to even see ice unless it’s blended in a cocktail.”
~~~
The Landings was a two-hour drive from the airport. The roads were narrow and winding, and by the time the Johnsons’ taxi pulled up to the resort’s open-air lobby, the pallor of their faces was tinged a milky green. They stumbled outside, sucking in gulps of warm, humid air.
“I need to lie down,” Mrs. Johnson moaned.
Mr. Johnson nodded. “I’ll go check us in.”
He turned to make his way to the front desk when a beaming man blocked his path. “The Johnsons!” he announced, brightly. “I’m Joseph. Your butler. Welcome to The Landings!” He held out a tray of sweating glasses filled with a pale, yellow liquid. “Ginger and lemongrass,” he explained.
The Johnsons each grabbed one, grateful.
“I still need to check us in,” Mr. Johnson began, but Joseph waved them toward an overstuffed sofa in the corner.
“Take a seat. I’ll bring the paperwork to you.”
They sat, grateful. Behind them, a vent blew chilled air onto their necks. By the time their passport numbers were recorded and their credit card was placed on file, they’d cooled down enough to appreciate the beauty of their surroundings: the sprays of pink and yellow plumeria, the lush foliage, the Caribbean Sea, blue and still.
~~~
On their first day at The Landings, the Johnsons woke up just after dawn to head to the beach. Joseph, already having been made aware of their sun sensitivities (and their early-morning proclivities), had reserved them two chairs under a shaded palm the previous night, before he left work.
While Mr. Johnson read, Mrs. Johnson hunted for a pina colada. It didn’t take her long to find one—and then another, and another. It was only when she had her fourth in hand that she realized how desperately she needed to relieve herself. There was a bathroom by The Beach Club but she didn’t feel like putting on a shirt and shoes, so she headed towards the water. There, she floated on her back and stared at the sun until tiny dots blackened her vision. The sea was so still it reminded her of the YMCA she used to take Mike to for their “Mommy & Me” swim lessons. I could fall asleep here, she realized.
Before the thought started to scare her, she swam back to shore.
Later, at dinner, Joseph approached the Johnsons’ table. “I just wanted to swing by and check in on my favorite family. How was your first day in paradise?”
“Good,” Mrs. Johnson replied, wistful. “Although I can’t stop thinking about how much our son would’ve liked to be here.”
Joseph frowned. “Where is he?”
“He decided to stay in Ann Arbor this Christmas. He goes to college there and his girlfriend’s family lives there…” She shook her head. “You know how it is with kids.”
“Sure, sure,” Joseph nodded, although he didn’t think he could be much older than the youngest Johnson himself.
Joseph’s mother had wanted him to apply to university. His marks had been good enough, too. But he didn’t see the point. He knew he’d end up working in hospitality—everyone on the island did, eventually—and you didn’t need a degree to do that. Plus, at eighteen, he was ready to have his own money. He wanted to buy a car, to take girls on dates. His eldest sister managed a restaurant on the resort and pushed through his resume after he graduated from high school.
“Will I see you both tonight at the show?” he asked.
Each week, The Landings hosted a fire-dancing troupe. They branded it as a “cultural event,” even though fire-dancing was not, and never had been, a part of St. Lucian culture.
“We weren’t sure,” Mrs. Johnson began. “It doesn’t start until so late—”
“But is it something you recommend?” Mr. Johnson cut in.
“I would say so. But I’m dating one of the dancers, so I’m just a little biased.”
Mrs. Johnson’s eyes grew wide. “If your girlfriend is performing then we have to come.”
“We’ll be there,” Mr. Johnson agreed.
~~~
They arrived at the show early to claim their seats—but they needn’t have bothered. Joseph had already reserved them two chairs by the bar. When they sat, he set a pina colada in front of Mrs. Johnson and winked.
“You know what,” Mr. Johnson began. “I’d love a beer. A local one, if you have it.”
They laughed as they clinked their glasses. For the first time in quite possibly their entire lives, they were starting to understand what it meant to feel truly relaxed. They were so relaxed, in fact, that they didn’t even realize the show was running a full thirty minutes behind schedule. They were nearly through their third round of drinks when music began to pour from the speakers lining the stage.
Joseph watched their faces as they took it in. They were transfixed, barely blinking as the dancers leapt, twirled, and stomped. Then, as they soaked their batons in accelerant and lit them on fire—as they sucked in the flames, held the heat in their chests, and blew them back out towards the sky.
After the show ended, Mr. Johnson laid a hand on Joseph’s shoulder. “Which one’s your girlfriend?” he asked.
Joseph looked to the crowd of dancers who were now guzzling down thirsty gulps from plastic water bottles supplied by the resort. He pointed to a tall woman standing off to the side. “That’s Aileen.”
“Aileen,” Mrs. Johnson echoed.
“Aileen,” Mr. Johnson nodded.
~~~
The next morning the Johnsons didn’t get down to the beach until late morning. They found the chairs Joseph had reserved for them under the shaded palm and didn’t resist when he offered to bring them breakfast.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” he asked once he’d dropped off their yogurts and coffee.
Mr. and Mrs. Johnson looked at each other through the corners of their eyes in that shy, guarded way of theirs. “We actually did have something we wanted to ask,” Mr. Johnson began, tepid, as if testing a stone before trusting it with his full weight. “We wanted to know if the resort offered any dance classes.”
“Dance classes?” Joseph repeated.
“A fire-dancing class,” Mrs. Johnson clarified.
“We’re used to real travel. And it’s not that we don’t love staying here—we do—but there’s something about a resort that just feels so… inauthentic—”
“Your culture is just so beautiful,” Mr. Johnson cut in. “We want to really experience it, you know?”
Joseph stared at their hopeful expressions. A beat passed until, finally, muscle memory kicked in. “Of course,” he said.
On his next break, Joseph called Aileen. Before he was even done explaining the Johnsons’ request, she was laughing so hard that she had to mute herself while she caught her breath. “Do you know how long it took me to learn how to dance with fire?” she asked, wheezing. “Do you know how many times I was burned?”
He did know. The first time they’d slept together, he traced each of her knotted keloids, first with his thumb—and then with his lips—and then with his tongue.
“What does this feel like?” he’d asked.
“Warm,” she’d replied.
Now, he swallowed. “Please. Baby.”
There was silence on the other end. Joseph wondered if Aileen had re-muted herself. But then she cleared her throat. “I can give them a short lesson tonight.”
Joseph sighed with relief. “Thank you, baby. Seriously.”
“I have one condition, though. They can practice with the batons but I won’t actually be lighting them. Got it?”
Joseph pictured Mrs. Johnson shimmying, gyrating, twirling the flaming batons on beat to the music. He imagined Mr. Johnson sucking in flames through puckered lips. The images were so absurd he had to shake them away.
“Got it.”
It was enough for him. He hoped that it would be enough for them.
~~~
The Johnsons were already stretching in the sand by the time Aileen and Joseph arrived to the beach, where they’d agreed to meet for the lesson. Mr. Johnson clasped Aileen’s hand. “It’s great to meet you. Joseph talks about you all the time.”
Aileen blushed. A duffel hung from her shoulder. When she slung it off, the strap left a hollow indentation on her skin. From the bag she produced three batons: one for her, and one for each Johnson.
“For this first intro lesson,” she began as she handed them the props, “we’ll practice with these unlit.”
Joseph looked to the Johnsons to see how they’d take this, but they just nodded. If they were disappointed, they didn’t show it.
Aileen set up a speaker and instructed the Johnsons to imitate her moves. The steps she showed them were simple. But even so, they tripped over each other’s feet. “Now imagine if our batons were on fire,” Mrs. Johnson laughed, and for the first time all day, Joseph let himself laugh, too.
At the end of the hour, Mr. Johnson pulled out his phone and handed it to Joseph. “Aileen, is it okay if we get a picture with you? So that we can remember this fantastic experience you gave us?”
She shrugged. The Johnsons each threw an arm around her shoulder.
“Wait—” Mrs. Johnson said, just as Joseph was about to take the photo. “Can we maybe get just one with the batons on fire?”
Joseph looked to Aileen. “It should be fine for just a second,” she said, still smiling, the expression frozen on her face.
“Just a second,” they agreed.
Aileen reached for her lighter. “Be careful,” she warned, as she ignited both of their batons. They stared, in wonder, at the fire in their palms.
“Okay, smile,” Joseph instructed.
As the three of them raised their batons in the air, the wind shifted. It was a change so subtle it would be indiscernible to any layperson. The Johnsons, for instance, were oblivious. But Aileen was not just any layperson. She flinched immediately, a micro-movement that only Joseph registered. She was way too close to the heat, he realized. How did the Johnsons not notice the light licking at her braids?
Joseph’s hands shook.
And still, somehow, the pictures came out clear.
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Emma Patz is a queer, Massachusetts-born writer with a Bachelor of Science from New York University. Now based in Los Angeles, her work explores repression, complicity, power, and the tensions that shape sapphic relationships. Her short fiction most recently appeared in Spellbinder Magazine.
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