Chapter 12 Isaac
TWELVE
ISAAC
The area I want to show Evan is more crowded than usual.
We drive around for almost fifteen minutes before getting lucky and finding a parking spot in the lot closest to where the food trucks usually park.
Thankfully, I did a second pass through the lot as someone was pulling out.
I pay at the kiosk then fall in step next to Evan.
The September sun beats down on us and I’m grateful I opted for shorts and a T-shirt instead of jeans.
It never gets cold in Miami, but at least in the winter months, the humidity isn’t quite as bad.
We walk two blocks north and turn right toward the beaches.
As soon as we turn, we are met with a packed street.
Several city blocks are barricaded, and vendors are set up along the street.
I forgot it was Labor Day weekend and they were having the street festival today.
No wonder I had trouble finding a parking space.
“What’s all this?” Evan asks with a look of amazement.
“Street festival. They have it most holiday weekends,” I explain. “Do you want to look at some of the booths?” I ask him.
“Absolutely!” Evan takes off toward the one closest to us, weaving through a few people to get a closer look. It takes me a minute to catch up to him because I get stopped twice for photos. When I reach Evan, he is talking to the vendor about some old WWII photograph.
“My dad was a journalist during the war. These are prints of some of the photos he took,” the man explains.
“They’re fantastic. I’ll take these two,” Evan says, handing the prints to the gentleman. “My dad will love them. He’s a history buff, especially anything to do with war and he loves planes.”
“Would you like them framed?”
“No, thank you.”
The man wraps the photos in tissue paper even though they are already in sealed plastic sleeves, then carefully places them in a bag.
“That’ll be thirty dollars. I take cash or cards.”
Evan hands over his credit card and the man completes the transaction. “Thank you. Have a nice day.”
“You, too.” Evan smiles and waves as we start toward the next booth.
“Sorry about that. I had to take a few pictures and sign some autographs.”
“It’s no problem. Part of being a big football god is catering to the fans,” he teases me with a flippant wave. All I can do is smile and shake my head. I like that he gives me shit in a fun, teasing way.
“Was your dad in the military?” I ask, nodding to the bag.
“No, but he loves to watch war documentaries. I think sometimes he regrets not joining, but he married my mom right after high school and went to work in a factory.”
“Wow, they got married young.”
“Yeah, eighteen, but they didn’t have me for almost ten years. I’m an only child and I’ve often wondered why they waited so long.”
“You never asked?”
“No. I’m not sure I want to know. If they wanted kids, but struggled, I don’t want to bring up bad memories. If they never wanted children and I was an accident, I don’t think I want to know.”
“It’s possible they always planned to have one child and waited until they were older so they could grow up together first. It might be a happy, positive story.”
“You’re right and I’ve thought that, too. I guess I figured if it was a story worth telling, they would have shared it with me.”
We glance at the next few booths, but nothing catches our interest until we get to one selling vinyl.
I have to take a look. Evan follows me and immediately finds the section labeled Jazz while I look for Pop.
There are a few Beatles albums that I don’t have so I choose one.
By the time I meet Evan at the checkout table, we both have several albums in hand.
“Do you have a record player?” I ask. It’s a stupid question. Why would he be buying records if he has no way to play them?
“Actually, no. These two are for my mom,” he says, showing me a Dolly Parton album and a Christmas hits album with some of the most iconic female singers of all time.
“What about that one?”
“It’s for me. I moved with a small collection of vinyl, but since the only player we had at the house belonged to my parents, it stayed in Jersey. Purchasing one has been on my to-do list since I moved, but it keeps getting pushed to the back burner.”
“We definitely have to fix that soon.”
We make our purchases and meander past a few more booths. No one else stops me, but I get a few waves and some ‘Go Dolphins’ as we weave through the crowd. We are close to the end of the vendors and a sea of food trucks rests in the next block.
“Are you hungry?” Evan asks, eyeing the trucks.
“Starving.”
“Good. Let’s eat.”
After a short discussion we settle on a Mac’s Seafood truck, serving fish tacos and lobster macaroni and cheese.
We order one of each with a side of chips and guacamole and four bottles of water.
He packs the food in a to-go bag and hands it to Evan while I pay.
Evan offered to pay, but I refused. I asked him out, so today is my treat.
“Come on.” I nod my head to the right and start toward the beach. “I know the perfect place to enjoy our lunch.”
Leading the way, I take Evan to North Shore Beach about a half-mile down the street.
It’s a beautiful strip of white sand and tends to be off the tourist radar.
Usually, it’s pretty quiet and laid back.
When we arrive, I stop at the rental booth and get us two chairs and an umbrella.
We find a spot near the end of the strip where no one else is sitting right now.
Most people are back on Miami Beach near the food trucks and vendors, so I don’t expect it to get much busier here.
“This is beautiful,” Evan gushes, taking a seat and divvying up the food. “I can’t believe it isn’t packed here.”
“It never is. Most people stay near the beaches close to hotels and restaurants.”
“It’s the perfect place for a private lunch. Good call.”
We fall into comfortable silence as we devour the tacos, chips, and macaroni. Mac’s Seafood is my favorite food truck in the area, so I was ecstatic to see it at the festival. After we eat, Evan kicks his shoes off and runs for the water.
“What are you waiting for?” he tosses over his shoulder.
I can’t help but laugh at his antics as he runs into the small waves.
He kicks his feet, splashing water and drenching the bottom half of his shorts.
I’m not a huge fan of the ocean, too many things can go wrong.
Pushing my reservations aside, I leave my shoes next to the chair and run to join Evan.
As long as I don’t go too far out, I’ll be fine.
As soon as I’m next to him, he kicks one foot then the other at me, making my shorts as wet as his.
“Can you believe how warm the water is here?” he practically squeals with excitement.
“Yeah, I can,” I chuckle.
“Oh, huh, I forgot you’ve lived here for six years.”
“First time in warm tropical waters?”
“Yep. The water in Jersey never gets truly warm and it’s probably been ten years since I’ve been to a beach.”
Ten years. Wow. I’m not sure why that surprises me so much. I rarely visited a beach before I moved here, but now it seems so odd to hear someone say they never go to the beach. I come out here to relax at least once a week even though I don’t go in the water.
When we are both thoroughly drenched, Evan runs back onto the sand and drops to his knees. At first, I think something is wrong, so I rush to his side. When I get there, he is packing sand into small squares.
“What are you doing?”
He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, “Building a sandcastle,” he says it as if the most normal thing in the world for a grown man to be kneeling in the sand building his own castle. I guess it isn’t that uncommon. There are huge sandcastle building contests around the world.
Deciding that he’s having way too much fun without me, I park myself next to him and start making my own squares. “Do you have a plan?”
“Not at all,” Evan laughs. “Stack the squares to make walls?” He says it as a question, so I agree and start stacking.
By the time we have the third wall built, it’s beginning to look a little like a building. Evan starts a new wall, coming off one of the three completed ones, but not closing the fourth wall. When he notices me staring at him with a raised brow, he shakes his head.
“We can’t have a one room castle.” It sounds as if he can’t believe I didn’t understand that piece of information, which I didn’t.
“Alright. Since you’re the master architect, how many rooms are we making?”
“Ten,” he says with confidence. “On the first floor.”
“Ten? First floor? You really are building a castle.”
“Well, yeah, go big and all that.” He waves his hand as if it makes perfect sense.
This guy is amazing. If someone would have told me a week ago, I’d be spending today building a sandcastle with the hottest guy I’ve met in a long time and enjoying every second while falling very hard and very fast, I would have laughed in their face and called them crazy.