Our texts end when she sends me an eye-rolling emoji. She knows me too well. But Alyson also knows I won’t ruin this for any of us. Personally, there is no doubt she loves messing with me as much as I do her. Probably the reason we work so well together.
And although Alyson lies in bed sick, an over-stretched smile tightens my cheeks. Knowing I will see Cora in less than ten minutes has my synapsis firing double time. We are scheduled to meet on the beach by the gate for the hotel patrons. If lucky, maybe today I can convince her to have dinner with me. Just me and her. Some good food and conversation. No promises. Just two people with history catching up with each other.
At least that is what I try to convince myself.
Chapter Seven
Cora
It might be completely out of my way, but I leave my house early and drive to my favorite juice place in Dunedin. When I step inside, the owner is busy making an açai bowl for the only other person. I walk over to the cooler across from the bar top seating and grab my favorite juice from the shelf.
The owner promises she will be with me in a minute and I nod. I sit at the long dining table and look at the cute bohemian décor along the walls and tables. There is a small couch, chairs, and coffee table opposite the dining table. A couple times, I have come in and sat at this very table and done photo edits while enjoying one of their bowls. It can be noisy at times, but it doesn’t bother me when I get in the zone.
The woman before me pays and leaves. I head for the register and am surprised when I spot my favorite bowl packed into a container and waiting for me. Setting my juice down, she bags everything and I pay.
“Thanks for remembering,” I tell her. Perhaps I visit more than I realize. Guess there are worse addictions to have.
“You’re welcome. Have a great one,” she says and waves as I go.
I decide to drive along Edgewater and am glad I do. The sun is barely in the sky, so the hues are soft and muted and it makes for a beautiful morning and backdrop to wake up to. For me, to love photography is to love getting lost in everything. Landscape and architecture and strangers. Everything and everyone has its own beauty. My job is to locate that one angle or profile or perfect lighting and accentuate it. The job is equal parts challenging and artistic. Keeps my blood pumping and my mind churning.
I glimpse the skyline as I drive over the Memorial Causeway. If it remains a little cloudy, it will be perfect for taking photos. One less piece of equipment to lug on the beach.
Arriving at the hotel thirty minutes earlier than necessary, I park and take my breakfast to a bench by the sand. I sit and watch the surf, enjoying the quiet before all the bodies fill in the empty sand. I am two bites away from finishing when I see a familiar silhouette walking toward the hotel’s guest gate on and off the beach.
Gavin.
For the love of all that is holy in this world. Some divine intervention needs to swoop down and rescue me from this man. As hard as I work to keep him at arm’s length, failure takes residence in my veins. Gavin has been—and probably will always be—my one weakness. The boy who captured my heart, held it prisoner, and took it with him when he left.
Last night, for the first time in years, my sleep was shit. My mind cycled through every moment we were together. Remembering the way my skin heated when his fingers painted over my flesh. How he always found a way to touch me, even if it was only him tucking my hair behind my ear. The way his eyes held mine. As if nothing else mattered or ever would. And his smell… an odd mix of beach and pine. Nothing compared to Gavin’s hypnotic scent.
All night, memories of him and us flickered through my head like an old black and white movie. And no matter how hard I tried, no matter what I did, the flashbacks wouldn’t shut off. Eventually, exhaustion overtook me and I fell asleep. This was four hours ago.
Seeing him now, when he is himself and oblivious to my voyeurism, has my stomach doing somersaults. How much of Gavin is real and how much is for show? Working in an industry where you’re in the limelight hardens you. Changes fragments and splinters of who you are. But in the end, how much of Gavin is still inside?
T
he Gavin I knew, those two perfect years, is not the same as the man walking inside the hotel. Yes, they are spitting images—time has been kind to him—but when it comes to personality… current Gavin is a douchebag. He has got an ego bigger than the state of Florida. And his general attitude could use a little love.
Parts of me want to believe it is forced; all for show. Yes, he was a bit confident when we were together, but he never displayed it in front of others like a badge of honor. Is he like this with his family? The day he acts like a dick in front of his parents is the day lightning strikes me down.
I finish the last of my bowl and toss my container and utensil in the recycling bin. Walking back to the car, I spot Erin pulling in and give her a wave. She parks near me and we start hauling equipment from our cars and into a collapsible buggy. We lock up and start walking to where we told Gavin to meet us.
Erin glances at me from the corner of her eye and her inspection weighs heavy. It is way too early for this. Too early for inquisitions and judgment. Please don’t let this be how my entire day goes.
“Yes?”
“Nothing.” She is quick to respond. “You look a little tired is all.”
“Your assessment would be accurate. I had trouble sleeping last night.”
If possible, she studies me harder. Her eyes narrow and her head tilts as she assesses me like a mother. “Any particular reason why?”
And seeing as I am fueled on three hours of sleep and the breakfast I just consumed, I fire off, “Oh, you know. Just another asshole I have to take pictures of.” Damn, I am feisty already.
She stops walking and gasps, her hand flying over her mouth. “Did you just say that? Or am I hearing things?”
“Depends,” I say. “What did you hear?”