“Do…” he stops and clears his throat before running a soapy hand through his hair. I chuckle as I stare at the groups of bubbles now stuck to the strands. He sighs and scratches the back of his head. A simple act that I now know means he’s feeling anxious.
“Do you want to come with me?” he asks. My focus moves from his soapy hair to his eyes. “I, uh, I thought you might want to see where I grew up. Meet my family.” My heart does something in my chest at the mention of meeting his family, and I press my lips together to suppress a smile.
“Only if I’m allowed to look through all your old photo albums and watch countless hours of home movies,” I say, and he groans. “For research purposes, of course.”
“God, my mom’s going to love you,” he says, and I smile.
“Is that a yes?” I ask.
He turns to face me.
“Yes,but,” he says, holding up a finger. “I get final say in whatever you choose to include in the book. No embarrassing photos of me dressed as a Spice Girl for Halloween.” I choke on a laugh.
“You dressed as a Spice Girl for Halloween?”
“My sister had three best friends, which obviously meant they were one short of the five needed for the full effect. I was recruited.”
“Oh my god,” I say, covering my mouth to hold in the laughter that is begging to break free. “Which one were you?”
“Baby Spice,” he grumbles, and I snort. He gives me the side-eye, and we finish up the dishes and change before packing for a few nights in the hotel and calling an Uber to take us across town.
After we check in and I make it to my room, I do the first thing I always do when we get to a hotel—take the longest, hottest shower of my life just because I can—before getting dressed and heading out to explore the city.
As soon as I step outside, the humidity wraps around me like a blanket, and I immediately feel a thin layer of sweat clinging to my skin. Perhaps I should have saved the shower foraftermy walkabout.
Normally, Eric and I venture out together—sometimes just the two of us, sometimes with the rest of the guys—but today, they have interviews at a few local radio stations, so I’m on my own.
Orlando had always seemed like a place of endless possibility, with theme parks, art districts, and a healthy dose of kitschy touristy things that I have every intention of checking off my list.
I pop an ear bud into my ear, pull up a map of the city on my phone, and start walking, eager to see the mix of art, food, and architecture that Orlando has to offer.
As I walk through the streets, I notice the energy of the city feels alive in a way that was different from any place we’d been so far. People chatting on sidewalks, kids running past, and the smell of coffee and food fills the air. It has that perfect blend of small-town charm and big-city buzz.
I wander past murals and street vendors, stopping to snap photos of the bold colors splashed across buildings. One particular mural catching my eye—bright oranges and yellows swirling together into a vibrant sunset scene—and I stand there for a moment, taking it in and snapping a photo before I continue walking.
A street performer playing smooth jazz on his saxophone catches my attention next. He’s so into it, eyes closed, lost in the music. I throw a few bucks in his open case, smiling as I walk away. It seems not all of Orlando was about the theme parks and the crowds. There was soul here, too.
I wander over to Lake Eola Park, where a giant fountain stands in the center, its waters sparkling under the sun. A group of swans glide across the lake, completely unbothered, oblivious to the fact that they were being watched. The park is busy but still feels peaceful. I sit down on a bench by the water, letting myself relax for a moment until my stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten since breakfast this morning.
As I usually do when I’m out exploring, I decide to grab something local. After some quick Google searches, I find a food truck park a few blocks away and practically run there.
I initially have a hard time choosing between all the options that await me, but I finally settle on a Cuban sandwichfrom a brightly painted truck, the scent of slow-cooked pork too irresistible for me to resist.
I plop down on a bench and do some people-watching while I eat my sandwich, which turns out to be exactly what I needed—crispy on the outside, tender on the inside, with a tangy bite of pickle and mustard. Absolute perfection.
I walk back to the hotel still eager to see more, but Eric and the guys don’t have any scheduled events before tomorrow’s show, so I’m hoping to spend a little time exploring with him. He always has a ton of recommendations when we go somewhere, and I love going wherever he takes me because I get to learn more about him outside of the interviews—what his interests are, what food he likes, how he remembers people by name, even though it’s usually close to a year before he makes it back to the same place.
My phone buzzes in my hand and I look down to see a text from him.
Eric: Hope you’re having fun and not melting out there in the Florida heat.
I smile and send him one of the selfies I took at the park with the city skyline in the background.
Ty: Orlando is beautiful!
Eric: Orlando isn’t even close to the most beautiful thing in that photo.
My cheeks heat and I smile, even though I wish he’d stop doing this to me. Stop calling me “Sunshine” and telling me I’m beautiful. It’s messing with my head, because I’m stillfeeling the things I felt the night we met, and given our close proximity, they’re starting to intensify.
