37
The landing in Tampa was as smooth as a sip of gin for Bernie—meaning, completely imperceptible. He didn’t move an inch until the flight attendant pried the empty glass from his hand and Tess waved a mini liquor bottle under his nose like a school bell.
Outside, Florida air hit us like a wall—humid heat, wrapped in saltwater and cheap sunscreen.
A black limousine waited at the curb. It rolled out of the airport and into Tampa’s streets, sliding past palm-lined boulevards swaying lazily under a flawless blue sky.
We passed pastel-colored motels, neon-lit diners, and billboards advertising cruises, magic shows, and all-you-can-eat shrimp buffets.
The limo’s air-conditioning was arctic, but every time a window cracked open, a rush of humidity and ocean tang reminded us where we were.
On the beach, Bernie was deposited onto a lounge chair between us. He still wore the Hawaiian shirt from the flight, corduroy pants rolled up to his knees, and plastic sunglasses that had given up the fight to stay on his face. He looked like a tourist lost in the wrong travel brochure.
Tess rubbed tanning oil into her skin with Olympic precision, while I tried to read a book through the stop-and-start rhythm of Bernie’s snores.
The water, clear and tempting, shimmered under the afternoon sun, while opportunistic seagulls hovered above, scanning for abandoned fries.
The whole scene played to a soundtrack of reggae drifting from a nearby shack, mixed with the sweet smell of sunscreen and frying fish.
The sun slid toward the horizon, painting the sky with orange and pink that spilled across the water. The sand, now warm and clinging, seemed reluctant to let us go. But Tess spotted a beach bar nearby, its wooden tables strung with lanterns swaying gently in the breeze.
We sat down and ordered two mojitos, plus a glass of rum for Bernie, who accepted it like a rightful tribute.
As I sipped my drink, I checked the time and did a quick mental calculation. “You know this means we’re going to be late to the concert, right?” I said.
Instead of answering, Tess adjusted her sarong like it was the most pressing issue in the world and ran a hand through her dark hair. “The Countess élo?se writes: Absence, when calibrated, is the most powerful accelerant of desire. ”
“It’s a concert, not a date,” I shot back. “Zane Ryder isn’t going to stop mid-show and ask where you went.”
Tess smiled without looking at me, eyes fixed on the horizon as if the ocean owed her something shiny. “Oh, he’ll ask. Maybe not out loud. Maybe only to himself, while he sings. And every note will be a call in my direction.”
“Or in the direction of the girl in the front row with the see-through T-shirt and the Marry me, Zane sign.”
She raised her glass and toasted alone. “May the best woman win.”