Shoulders sagging with long-delayed relief, I tuck my groceries away into one of the cabinets and finger the sweet note left on the counter. Enjoy your time!
I know Kimmie’s parents themselves didn’t leave the note—they’re in Pennsylvania. But the fact that their cleaner or condo manager or whoever did is still nice. Turning to my Neoprene wine sleeve at the other end of the counter, I take out the very expensive bottle I’ve been saving for a special occasion and set it next to the note. It’s not like it cost a million dollars—more like sixty—but for a single high school teacher without a trust fund, it’s a huge splurge. And since the moment I booked this stay three months ago, I’ve been looking forward to drinking it while my toes are in the sand and the calm waters of the Gulf roll in before me.
“Okay,” I mutter to myself, surveying the kitchen counter around me. “I think that’s everything.”
Satisfied with my unpacking job, I fold up my reusable grocery bags and stack them together so I can tuck them into the drawer next to the sink. Everything looks completely in order, just as when I arrived.
I lift my overnight bag onto my shoulder and peruse my way down the hall toward the two bedrooms at the end. Photos dot the walls, mostly abstracts and landscape-style shots of the beach, but a braces-sporting shot of a middle-school–aged Kimmie pulls me up short and makes me smile.
Oh man, I wish Kimmie and I were closer. This would be the perfect opportunity to send her a text message and tease her a little about her parents’ nostalgic décor.
But I don’t have her phone number, and even if I did, I probably wouldn’t use it. I’m not the bold type who texts people teasing things. I’m the overthinking type who thinks them, types them, and then deletes them swiftly.
Back in motion, I pad my way down the hardwood floor and peek into the first bedroom I reach. It’s the smaller of the two, I remember from the website listing I booked on, but is perfectly quaint enough for a weekend at the beach. What the listing didn’t show, however, is the mini Kimmie Shrine, full of photos and medals and trophies.
Photos of a teenage Kimmie in a wrestling onesie, mind you.
Oh boy. That’s something…
Feeling a little uncomfortable to have so much insight into Kimmie Ward’s childhood and apparent love of wrestling as a teenager, I pull the door shut and head to the bedroom at the end.
Once I step inside, my eyes take in the way the light filters through the huge windows on the ocean side of the room and wispy white curtains float in the soft breeze drifting in through the screen.
Instantly, I inhale the addictive aromas of salt water and fresh air that are wafting in from a cracked-open window.
Living in Savannah, Georgia, means I’m not far from the ocean, only a fifty-mile drive to Hilton Head, but there’s just something about the Gulf waters and white sand beaches that speaks to my soul.
“Yes,” I whisper joyfully, dropping my bag to the floor and performing a spin.
The huge four-poster bed in the middle of the back wall is covered in bright white linen, and the walls are a bright blue-gray that make the room seem like it goes on forever.
“Oh yes,” I moan then, spotting the bathroom on the left side of the bed and the glittering white-and-silver tile in the gargantuan walk-in shower. A nice hot soak under the rain showerhead is exactly what I need after the six-hour drive from Savannah to Destin.
Gently, I set my bag on the edge of the bed and start digging through my clothes and setting them into the drawers of the dresser. It doesn’t take me more than five minutes to get all my things organized, and the water of the shower heats up just as quick.
And once I step under the spray and inhale a deep breath, I know I’m exactly where I need to be.
Yep. I’m pretty sure this is heaven.
2
Mack
With the wind of the open road still burning on my cheeks, I turn my Jeep into one of the open parking spaces for the condo complex I’ll be calling home for the next few days and shift the engine into park. I’ve made good time, after getting a later start than anticipated thanks to my neighbor Mr. Lanahan’s bird, but the stiffness in my legs still screams at me to get out onto the beach and work some motion into these muscles.
Soon.
I know, I know, how can I leave an aviary cliffhanger just dangling like that, but trust me, it’s a long, boring, repetitive story I’ll have to tell another time, when a three-day vacation on the beach doesn’t await.
The Florida sun is bright and beautiful, bouncing its rays off everything around me and heating the air to a perfect eighty degrees.
There are a ton of other cars here, but with forty other beachfront condos and a weekend as beautiful as this, it’s no shock that it’s starting to fill up on a Friday afternoon.
My loud music cuts off dramatically with a turn of the ignition key, and thanks to riding topless with no doors, jumping out is a breeze. I reach easily into the open back and grab my overnight duffel and my surfboard before bleeping the locks with my key fob.
I know it’s pointless in a completely open vehicle, but I swear it never stops making me laugh to do it anyway. Mostly because I love the confused looks it gets from bystanders.
The sidewalk through the center of the condo complex gives a view to the beach ahead, and the smell of the salty ocean air beckons. I don’t get to the ocean nearly enough, but when I do, everything else disappears.
Though, if I’m being honest, I live a pretty stress-free life, and I do it with intention. Too many people get caught up in the peskiest little day-to-day shit, and I don’t have time or energy for it. I’m a man who’s determined to enjoy his time on this earth and to live each day with a fervor for things that provide happiness not stress. At least some of that, I’m sure, is because of the way I was raised.
As a “surprise baby” that came fifteen years after my sister, I had a fifty-fifty chance of being my family’s greatest joy or biggest resentment. Lucky for me, my family went with the former, putting me at the center of their world and finding absolute elation in all my growth and milestones. My sister Lizzy was like a built-in second mother when needed, and the rest of the time, a champion and friend.
Of course, this also means my parents are forty years older than me, and they’ll be gone a lot earlier than I’d like, but I choose to be thankful for each and every moment life provides instead of dwelling.
Frankly, my family is the reason I teach music. They didn’t complain when I picked up an instrument and taught myself to play. And let me tell you, in the beginning, my musical aspirations were to the detriment of their ears, but they somehow managed to handle it all with kid gloves.
And they didn’t balk or judge when I said I wanted to make a career out of music. They made it fun, and they made an effort to encourage, which shaped me into a teacher who wants to be a support system for his students. A teacher who keeps an open mind and always tries to inspire a love for learning. So many of my kids who show a real interest in music and the arts don’t have the kind of support I did growing up, and I feel it’s my duty to give them that when they’re in my classroom.
Once I reach the end of the sidewalk, I stop at the front door of my condo rental, set my surfboard against the outside wall, and punch in the code from the emailed rental instructions.