On a solo trip to Tenerife, Ava sits down to enjoy dessert at her resort — until an entitled couple demands she stop eating it in front of their kids. When her tiramisu mysteriously vanishes and the waiter refuses to bring another, Ava realizes this dinner’s about to turn dramatic.
It only took one perfect spoonful of mango gelato, eaten barefoot on volcanic sand, to remind me that I belonged to myself.
That was this trip in a nutshell.
The first few months of the year had felt like someone had thrown gas onto a dumpster fire.
When things finally settled down, I’d booked a solo vacation in Tenerife.
I’d spent my first day wandering coastal trails, ducking into sleepy seaside cafés, and buying bracelets from a woman who kissed my hand when I tipped her too much.
I’d forgotten what it felt like to not rush, to take up space without checking in with anyone.
Now, I was on my balcony with the Atlantic breeze in my hair, watching the sky melt into streaks of soft amber and rose gold.
It was the kind of view that makes deadlines and group chats vanish.
I lifted my glass of sparkling water (tomorrow’s an early hike) and smiled.
My stomach let out a little grumble then, and I checked the time.
If I took a slow walk downstairs, I’d arrive just as they started serving dinner.
I’d chosen this all-inclusive resort specifically because of the club-style dining: all the tables sat eight people, and everyone got seated together.
Apparently, it encouraged conversation and a sense of community. The real perk for me was that I didn’t have to hunt around for eateries or try to decipher menus in European Spanish using the broken classroom version that had never helped me much in the real world.
As predicted, the dining room was mostly empty when I arrived.
The hostess led me to a table, and the waiter, a friendly guy named Miguel, arrived soon afterward to take my order: grilled fish and roasted vegetables, nothing too fancy. But when he asked about dessert, my eyes lit up.
“The tiramisu,” I said without hesitation.
The grilled fish was divine, and the roasted vegetables had just the right amount of paprika and garlic.
But I was mainly looking forward to my dessert. There’s nothing better after finishing a delicious dinner than having someone bring you something sweet and indulgent.
It’s pure bliss.
But just as Miguel set down that gorgeous portion of tiramisu, complete with mint leaf garnish and a fine dusting of cocoa powder, the hostess appeared with new tablemates.
A family of five squeezed into the remaining chairs. Mom, Dad, and three kids, all wearing matching navy polo shirts like they’d stepped out of a catalog.
The parents looked to be in their late 30s, both incredibly fit with those perpetual smiles that seemed a little too bright.
The kids were cute, probably between six and 12, chattering excitedly about the pool and tomorrow’s activities.
“Hello there,” the woman said, her smile faltering the second she noticed my dessert.
“I’m Sarah, and this is my husband, Mark.”
I nodded politely. “I’m Ava. Nice to meet you.”
But Sarah’s expression had completely changed.
She was staring at my dessert like it had personally offended her.
“We do not wish to expose our children to women indulging in sweets like that,” she announced, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. “It promotes bad habits and poor values.” She pointed at my dessert like it might bite her. “You’ll need to get rid of that.”
I blinked, my fork suspended mid-air.
Did she just…? No. No way.
“You should ask the host to seat you at a different table, then,” I replied, keeping my voice measured but firm.
“Because I’m going to enjoy my dessert.”
Sarah and Mark exchanged one of those looks that married couples perfect over the years. The kind that says, “Can you believe this person?”
That’s when the commentary started.
It was just loud enough for me to hear but quiet enough that they could pretend they weren’t talking about me.
“Bet that’s not her first slice today,” Mark muttered.
“No wonder she’s alone,” Sarah replied with a smirk.
Mark nodded sagely.
“I can’t believe people willingly poison themselves with that junk,” Sarah continued, “and all because they have no self-control when it comes to sweets.”
My cheeks burned, but I wasn’t about to let them win.
I took another bite of my tiramisu, savoring every single morsel while they continued their passive-aggressive performance.
After a few more minutes of her barbed comments and his quiet nods, I excused myself to get a glass of water from the self-serve bar.
Maybe some distance would help me ignore their judgment.
But when I returned to the table, my dessert was gone.
I stared at the space where my delicious dessert had been.
The tiramisu had simply vanished.
I turned and spotted Miguel nearby. I waved him over.
“Excuse me,” I said, stepping forward to meet him as he approached. “My tiramisu is gone.
I was still eating it. Do you know what happened?”
Miguel’s face brightened with that helpful expression servers get when they think they’ve done something right.
“I cleared it, ma’am, at your friends’ request.” He nodded toward Sarah and Mark.
“They informed me of your health issue.”
I felt like I’d been slapped.
“Health issue? I don’t have a health issue.
Now, please bring me a new portion of tiramisu to replace the one you cleared.”
Miguel’s smile faltered. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but since it’s a health issue—”
“I don’t have a health issue,” I repeated, cutting him off. “And I don’t even know those people.
They aren’t my friends, just a pair of annoying strangers who have officially gone too far.”
The color drained from Miguel’s face. “I… I’m so sorry.
The couple said you’re their friend… and that you have a health condition. They told me you sometimes forget and order sweets, but it could harm you.
They asked me to quietly take it away, for your own good. I thought I was helping.”
I stared at him, then at Sarah and Mark, who were suddenly very interested in their meals.
The audacity was breathtaking.
They’d actually convinced the waiter to steal my dessert by lying about my health.
You know what? Game on.
I took a deep breath and looked Miguel square in the eye.
“In that case,” I said, my voice honey-sweet, “I’ll have the big chocolate celebration cake, please.
The one meant for birthdays. And bring it here, to the table. Oh, and let’s add whipped cream.”
Miguel’s eyes widened.
“The… the whole cake?”
I smiled. “The whole cake.”
Sarah and Mark watched with tight, smug expressions as I returned to my seat.
But when Miguel wheeled out that magnificent cake, complete with a sparkler candle, their smugness evaporated.
It was glorious. Three layers of chocolate decadence, covered in rich frosting and decorated with chocolate shavings and mounds of whipped cream.
The sparkler cast dancing shadows across the table as the kids squealed with delight.
“Oh wow!” the youngest shouted, clapping his hands. “Is it someone’s birthday?”
“What do you think you’re doing?” Sarah snapped, her face flushed red.
I smiled as I picked up the cake server.
“What’s wrong? I thought we were all friends.”
The irony was intentional. They’d used friendship as a weapon, and now I was turning it back on them.
I cut myself a generous slice, making sure to get plenty of frosting.
“Mmm,” I hummed dramatically, taking my first bite. “Definitely worth the sugar coma.”
The kids giggled as I continued my performance, licking the spoon with exaggerated satisfaction.
Sarah and Mark looked like they were about to combust.
“Would you each like a slice?” I asked innocently.
“What about your kids? They seem interested.”
The middle child, a girl about eight, bounced in her seat. “Can we, Mom?
Please?”
“Absolutely not,” Sarah snarled, standing so abruptly that her chair scraped against the floor. “Come on, kids. We’re leaving.”
Mark grabbed the youngest by the arm while Sarah muttered something about “bad influences” and “glorified gluttony” as they hustled away from the table.
The kids kept looking back at the cake until they disappeared around the corner.
And me? I ate two more slices right there at the table, savoring every bite. The chocolate was rich and velvety, the frosting perfectly sweet.
Each spoonful was a small victory.
When I finally couldn’t eat another bite, I flagged down Miguel. “Could I get a box for the rest of this?”
He grinned as he packaged up the remaining cake. “Celebrating something special?”
I thought about Sarah and Mark, probably somewhere complaining to the management about the terrible woman who’d corrupted their children with sugar.
I thought about their matching polos, their perfect smiles, and their absolute certainty that they knew what was best for everyone.
“You could say that,” I told Miguel. “Sweet revenge tastes even better the next day.”
Back in my room, I set the cake box on the little table by the window.
Tomorrow I’d enjoy another slice while watching the sunrise.