Palm Beach Gardens

After college, I lived in West Palm for a couple years. I loved everything about South Florida. I'm a beach girl, a stereotypical summer baby who seizes every opportunity to throw on a bikini and feel the sand between my toes. My apartment was located two blocks from the beach; occasionally I'd open the screen door and fall asleep to the sound of the ocean.

My years in WPB were full of carefree days and sparkly, fast-paced nights. I made friends in every industry imaginable. We stayed up way too late, enjoying our youth and our short-lived (and completely manageable) hangovers. It was the perfect location for a starry-eyed daydreamer like me.

Callie is not quite as addicted to South Florida. However, she's made up her mind to move there. She imagined herself learning to love West Palm eventually...but there was a different kind of love she never, ever saw coming. 

Xoxo,
Lisa


***

“Welcome back, Callie,” Andrew says.

“Thanks,” I respond. Then I kiss him, because it feels like the right thing to do. After all, he has rearranged his whole schedule for me.

“I’m so glad you’re back,” he murmurs after our kiss. Then he hoists my bags into the trunk and opens the passenger side door for me. “How was your flight?”

“It was great,” I say, buckling my seatbelt. “Standby flights stress me out, but this one was wide open. I got a whole row to myself.”

“Did you take a nap?”

I shake my head. “Nope, I did some writing.”

“What are you working on?” Andrew asks as we merge onto Belvedere Rd and then I-95.

“Damn. I thought I told you already...I have a blog.”

“A travel blog?” he guesses.

I inhale sharply. “No, it’s actually pretty weird. And awkward. I’ve been writing open letters that help me sort through all my emotions, curiosities, and fears.”

I hold my breath while waiting for Andrew to respond. Until now, it hadn’t occurred to me how strange it would feel to tell Andrew about dozens of letters which indirectly, and sometimes directly, involve him.

Keeping his eyes on the road, he reaches across the console and grabs my hand. “I’d love to read your blog, Cal. If you want me to.”

“Of course I do,” I say. “And feel free to tell me if my letters are cheesy or boring or too personal. Honest feedback helps a lot, even if it’s negative.”

“You got it. Although I’m sure I will love them.”

We park in front of Andrew’s complex and he carries my bags to his apartment. The unit is different than I remember. To be fair, I was three sheets to the wind last time I set foot in this place. It’s incredibly clean, clutter-free, and cozy. It has an open floor plan, no doors except for the ones leading to the bedroom and bathroom. There's a wraparound couch in the living room, with dark wood end tables. They match both the coffee table and media console.

I grab a seat on the couch, sinking into the cushions. With a contented sigh, I lean back until my head is resting comfortably. Andrew places my bags in the bedroom, then sits down beside me.

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

I tilt my head. “Not starving or anything, but I can always eat.”

He looks at his watch. “Traffic might be bad now, but what if we grab dinner in about an hour? Does that work?”

I smile. “Sounds great to me.”

“Maybe I can check out your blog in the meantime...” he suggests.

I sit up and type the web address into my phone. “Sure. Here ya go. Sorry in advance if it sucks.”

“Oh, stop. I know you well enough to know it’s not going to suck,” he insists.

“Don’t say that ‘til you read it,” I warn with a half-smile.

While Andrew reads my blog, I lean on his shoulder.  A big window next to the television reveals the last traces of daylight. They dance on the horizon, briefly, before fading into the dark sky. Palm trees shimmer beneath the moon. Their leaves cast shadows on the wall, dancing around me as Andrew immerses himself in the emotional letters which have no recipient.

I close my eyes, sinking deeper into the space between his cheek and his collarbone. He smells good, a cologne I’ve grown to love over the past few weeks. Without looking away from my phone, Andrew slides his arm around me. Somehow his touch is both firm and reassuring.

“Callie,” he breathes.

“Mmm?”

“You have a gift, Cal,” he says.

I open my eyes. “You don’t have to say that, Andrew.”

“I do,” he insists. “Because I mean it. The thing about your writing is, it’s honest and compelling. It doesn’t require a background story. Actually, it doesn’t even require an identity. I think the anonymity is part of the reason your blog is so interesting. It’s relatable.”

“Really?” I ask, placing my hands on his chest so I can face him directly.

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m a thirty-year-old male who knows nothing about living in San Francisco or flying around the country every week. Yet, in spite of all that, I had a tough time putting the phone down because I just wanted to read another post, then another, then another. So the answer is yes, Callie, I definitely think it’s engaging. You grabbed my attention and kept it the whole time. This is good stuff.”

I smile. “Thank you, Andrew. I needed to hear that.”

“Someone is going to discover your talent,” he tells me, his brown eyes fixed on mine. “You are something special, Callie Schneider.”

“Nah, I’m just a free-spirited stewardess that fell into bed with a stranger,” I tell him. “Who happens to be a really good guy, it turns out…”

“Yeah? I guess he’s alright,” Andrew laughs.

He leans in to kiss me. I hold his face and kiss him back, small kisses at first and then bigger, more dramatic ones.

We’ve slept in the same bed so many times, cuddling and talking and falling asleep to the sound of each other’s heartbeat. That was enough for me, in the past. I didn’t need anything more.

But now, straddling Andrew on the couch in his living room, moonlight pouring in through all the windows, I am revived. And also certain. My skin tingles with anticipation.

We’ve done this before, under drastically different circumstances.  This time, I want to savor it.

I pull Andrew’s shirt over his head, tossing it behind the couch. He slides his hand under my sweater, his palm cool against my stomach. He looks at me for a moment.

“Are you sure?” he asks, eyes brimming with concern and hope and curiosity.

“I’m sure,” I say, and for the first time in a long time, I really am.