Me: Miss you.
I stare at it for a second before hitting send. For the first time in years, I’m not chasing the future.
I’m hoping it includes him.
I wake up reaching for him, but my hand slides across the cool and empty sheets. Then I remember that I’m in New York. But in my dream, I was back at Cocktails & Chaos. Cal was behind the bar, smiling at me like the world was simple again, and paparazzi wasn’t waiting for me everywhere I turned.
Then I wake up to reality. I still feel nauseated, probably from not eating enough, and remember that we’re leaving today. Wilby and I are going back to Coconut Beach for a while. My suitcase is packed and ready. I’m ready. I miss Cal.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand. The hard floor is cool beneath my feet. It feels sterile and immaculate here. Not comfortable like Cal’s cottage with rugs and mismatched cozy lamps. I walk out and stare out at the skyline from the massive windows and don’t feel anchored here anymore. I feel done.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Wilby: Car will be there in twenty.
Me: I’m ready.
That’s not true, but twenty minutes is enough to get myself Coconut Beach ready. Because in Coconut Beach, I feel myself whenI’m going there. I get to wear simple and comfortable clothes. I get to be me.
The ride to the airport is quiet. The city blurs past the window. I don’t check the headlines or my email. For once, I let everything sit.
At the private terminal, Wilby is waiting for me next to his suitcase. I haven’t missed how Wilby wants to go back as well. He loves it there. We both do.
“Hey, have you seen the weather they’re calling for tonight at Coconut Beach? There’s a bad storm coming.”
I discuss this with the pilot, and he’s convinced we’re safe, so we prepare to take off.
“You sure about this?” Wilby asks.
“Yes,” I confirm. “He says it’s okay.”
He studies me for a second. “Okay. If you’re sure.”
The cabin smells faintly of leather and recycled air. I buckle in and stare out the window as the plane taxis. As we lift off, the skyline tilts beneath us. For a moment, Manhattan looks small. Then it disappears into the clouds. I lean back against my seat and relax the further we get away from it.
The turbulence starts sooner than I expected. Not violent. Just enough to make the cabin sway. I grip the armrest.
“You good?” Wilby asks.
“I’m fine,” I grit out.
The plane dips slightly, and my stomach lurches. That’s strange. I’ve flown since I was a child. Private jets. Commercial flights. International travel. I’ve never gotten motion sickness. In fact, I usually read and do stuff on my computer regardless of turbulence. Something Wilby has always made fun of me for.
The cabin tilts again, and nausea rushes up fast and sharp. I’ve felt terrible the past few days. I chalked it up to exhaustion. But this was my father’s life. Constantly working, moving, traveling. And I don’t want this life. I want a balanced life. I want a life.
I close my eyes and wonder if I’d ever be able to have both. I press my palm to my stomach. It doesn’t settle. I excuse myself and make it to the tiny bathroom just in time.
When I return, Wilby is watching me closely. “You’re pale.”
“It’s just turbulence,” I say as I close my eyes and try to focus onsomething boring like a spreadsheet, or anything to not think about the plane moving like this.
“You never get turbulence sick.” He eyes me suspiciously.
I finally fall asleep, exhausted, and he gently taps my arm when we descend toward Coconut Beach. The storm is visible over the water. Sheets of rain move across the ocean like curtains, and the runway glistens when we land.
I thank the pilots, grateful to hear they’re staying overnight at the Palm and returning tomorrow after the storm.
The second the cabin door opens, the salty, humid air hits me, and storm winds whip around us. It fills my lungs like oxygen I didn’t know I was missing. I step down onto the tarmac, and the wind tugs at my hair.
