hookah lounge. Dive shops, hat shops, shops selling kitschy gifts made out of coconuts and palmetto leaves and conch shells, raunchy t-shirts, tacky lingerie, shot glasses, key chains.
And chicken art. So much chicken art.
We pass a juggler, a mime. Someone dressed as Darth Vader, playing a banjo. The restaurants are wide open to the warm, humid night. Livemusic pours out of some of the bars and clubs. Barely dressed women beckon from others. Cars race up and down the street, thumping with bass.
We drink at Sloppy Joe’s for a while. A biker there tells us that if we really want to see where Papa drank, we should go to a place on Eaton Street. By midnight, we’re at our fourth “Hemingway bar.” Will goes to the bathroom. Javier and Freddy are talking with a couple of German tourists at the next table. Nicole is … I look around. I don’t know where Nicole is.
I feel so relaxed and happy. It’s great to be home.
Will comes back and sits down. He runs his hands through his hair, making it stick up in funny ways. But then, it usually sticks up in funny ways. Still, he seems nervous. I put a hand over his. “Are you okay, honey?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Your parents arrive tomorrow, right? Are you worried?”
I haven’t met my future in-laws. I was supposed to go to Chicago for Christmas, but an emergency in one of my cases intervened. Will gets a little tense whenever he talks about them—I think there must be some drama there.
“Worried? Not at all.” He squeezes my hand.
“It’s going to be great,” I assure him. “Parents love me.”
He smiles and kisses the side of my head.
I watch a rowdy bachelor party barge through the door. I go up to get another drink.
The in-laws, arriving tomorrow.
The wedding, six days away.
I look around. This place is boring. I leave.
I find myself in the restaurant next door. There’s a super-cute guy sitting at the bar. He’s got dark hair and a few days’ worth of stubble. I sit down next to him. I smile at him. He smiles back.
“Okay okay okay.” I hold up my hands in surrender. “You can buy me a drink.”
He laughs sheepishly. “I’d love to. But … I’m married, just so you know.”
“I’m engaged,” I say. “Officially, that’s a tie.”
He looks puzzled. “Don’t overthink it,” I advise him. “Overthinking is overrated.”
We start talking. His name is Tim.
“So Tim,” I say.
“Tom,” he says.
Maybe it’s Tom.
“This marriage thing,” I say. “How’s it working out for you?”
He shrugs. “You know. It is what it is.”
Quite the conversationalist. But with those eyes, who cares? We have another drink. I put my hand over his on the bar. He doesn’t pull away. I turn his hand over. I stroke his palm lightly with my fingers. I brush my fingers across his wrist, feeling his pulse. I look up at him. “Where is this alleged wife of yours?”
He shifts in his seat. “She flies down in a few days. A friend of mine is getting married.”
I smile at him. “What a coincidence. I’m here for a wedding too.”
We’re facing each other on our stools. I catch one of his knees between mine and hold it. I lean toward him. “Hey, Tom. Do you want to know a secret?”
He hesitates, then he looks me in the eye, and I know I’ve got him.
I lean closer, placing my hands on his thighs. “The state of Florida doesn’t recognize marriages performed outside its borders.”
He raises his eyebrows and smiles. “Is that true?”
“That is true.” I slide my hands up his legs. “So unless you and your wife tied the knot here? You’re not
actually
married right now.”
He looks down, shaking his head, but he’s still smiling. I stand and place my hands on his shoulders. I look into his eyes.
“You can trust me on this, Tom. I’m a lawyer.”
He laughs, and I lean closer. He smells like the beach, like salt and sand and sunscreen. I slip a hand around the back of his neck, into his hair. I let my lips brush his ear.
And chicken art. So much chicken art.
We pass a juggler, a mime. Someone dressed as Darth Vader, playing a banjo. The restaurants are wide open to the warm, humid night. Livemusic pours out of some of the bars and clubs. Barely dressed women beckon from others. Cars race up and down the street, thumping with bass.
We drink at Sloppy Joe’s for a while. A biker there tells us that if we really want to see where Papa drank, we should go to a place on Eaton Street. By midnight, we’re at our fourth “Hemingway bar.” Will goes to the bathroom. Javier and Freddy are talking with a couple of German tourists at the next table. Nicole is … I look around. I don’t know where Nicole is.
I feel so relaxed and happy. It’s great to be home.
Will comes back and sits down. He runs his hands through his hair, making it stick up in funny ways. But then, it usually sticks up in funny ways. Still, he seems nervous. I put a hand over his. “Are you okay, honey?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Your parents arrive tomorrow, right? Are you worried?”
I haven’t met my future in-laws. I was supposed to go to Chicago for Christmas, but an emergency in one of my cases intervened. Will gets a little tense whenever he talks about them—I think there must be some drama there.
“Worried? Not at all.” He squeezes my hand.
“It’s going to be great,” I assure him. “Parents love me.”
He smiles and kisses the side of my head.
I watch a rowdy bachelor party barge through the door. I go up to get another drink.
The in-laws, arriving tomorrow.
The wedding, six days away.
I look around. This place is boring. I leave.
I find myself in the restaurant next door. There’s a super-cute guy sitting at the bar. He’s got dark hair and a few days’ worth of stubble. I sit down next to him. I smile at him. He smiles back.
“Okay okay okay.” I hold up my hands in surrender. “You can buy me a drink.”
He laughs sheepishly. “I’d love to. But … I’m married, just so you know.”
“I’m engaged,” I say. “Officially, that’s a tie.”
He looks puzzled. “Don’t overthink it,” I advise him. “Overthinking is overrated.”
We start talking. His name is Tim.
“So Tim,” I say.
“Tom,” he says.
Maybe it’s Tom.
“This marriage thing,” I say. “How’s it working out for you?”
He shrugs. “You know. It is what it is.”
Quite the conversationalist. But with those eyes, who cares? We have another drink. I put my hand over his on the bar. He doesn’t pull away. I turn his hand over. I stroke his palm lightly with my fingers. I brush my fingers across his wrist, feeling his pulse. I look up at him. “Where is this alleged wife of yours?”
He shifts in his seat. “She flies down in a few days. A friend of mine is getting married.”
I smile at him. “What a coincidence. I’m here for a wedding too.”
We’re facing each other on our stools. I catch one of his knees between mine and hold it. I lean toward him. “Hey, Tom. Do you want to know a secret?”
He hesitates, then he looks me in the eye, and I know I’ve got him.
I lean closer, placing my hands on his thighs. “The state of Florida doesn’t recognize marriages performed outside its borders.”
He raises his eyebrows and smiles. “Is that true?”
“That is true.” I slide my hands up his legs. “So unless you and your wife tied the knot here? You’re not
actually
married right now.”
He looks down, shaking his head, but he’s still smiling. I stand and place my hands on his shoulders. I look into his eyes.
“You can trust me on this, Tom. I’m a lawyer.”
He laughs, and I lean closer. He smells like the beach, like salt and sand and sunscreen. I slip a hand around the back of his neck, into his hair. I let my lips brush his ear.
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