Crossing over the Mid-Bay Bridge toward Destin, I feel like I’m entering the second act of a play. Except this play is my life, and like all tragedies, the end is inevitable.
“It’s even prettier than I remember,” Dad says, as if it’s been years since we’ve been down here instead of the few months since spring break.
But he’s right—it is beautiful. Water as far as I can see to the left and water as far as I can see to the right. The view usually feels like a reward for making it through the long drive, a promise of things to come.
Except this time I know what’s coming and I don’t want anything to do with it.
Dad seems to have forgotten why we’re here, because he’s acting like it’s just another summer. He lowers his windows all the way and the car fills with a rush of salty air. The wind is so loud that I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I know him well enough to know he’s making a joke about the wind running through his nonexistent hair.
Unbuckling my seatbelt, I lower my window and pull the rubber band out of my hair. Before Mom can tell me to stop, I tilt my head outside.
The wind is strong, but I’m stronger. I close my eyes and turn my face up to the sun. I resist the pressure, letting my head move back and forth like I’m dancing with the wind. My hair whips around, stinging as stray strands slap my face, but I don’t care. This is what being alive feels like.
The pressure fades and I slip back inside as Mom slows the car down for the tollbooth.
I lift the armrest back up and slide to the other side so I can get a good look at the painted whales. When I was little, I thought they were real, jumping out of the water to welcome me back to Destin, wondering why I’d stayed away so long.
Of course, I know better now. It’s just a mural painted on the side of the building where they store the boats at Legendary Marina. If you look closely, you can see places where the paint is starting to chip away. Still, there’s some small part of me that feels like it’s just my old friends saying hello.
“It’ll feel good to stretch our legs,” Mom says.
I don’t bother answering—she always says the most obvious things that don’t need to be said. It’s like she’s just talking to fill space. Dad’s more like me; he knows that sometimes there’s no need to ruin the quiet with words.
My toes start tapping as we get closer to Highway 98. I’ve been coming down to Destin since before I was born, so it’s like my body has a natural response to this place. Like it’s in my genes or something.
As Mom turns onto 98, I look for Bruster’s, making sure my favorite ice cream place is still there. But before my eyes reach the red benches where Dad and I used to sit, eating our ice cream in a race against the sun, a billboard catches my eyes.
“Holy shit,” I say before I can stop myself.
“Language,” Dad says.
I usually try not to curse around him even though Mom does it all the time. But holy shit! I blink a few times quickly, but sure enough, the billboard still says what it did the first time I read it. DESTIN WELCOMES THE CAST AND CREW OF THE SEASIDERS. I read they were shooting the new Netflix series on a beach in a small Florida town, but I didn’t realize it was my small Florida town.
We stop at a red light directly in front of the billboard, so I snap a picture out the open window. Maybe this summer isn’t going to be so bad after all.
My smile fades when I realize Mom is watching me in the rearview mirror. I can see her eyes growing wide as she looks between me and the billboard. It’s like she knows I’m imagining the day I’ll casually run into one of the show’s casting agents on the beach.
I can picture it—he’ll say he’s got an eye for natural talent, and when I introduce myself as Cecelia Whistler, he’ll ask if I’m related to Monica. I’ll tell him that no, unfortunately there’s no relation between myself and one of the show’s stars. My dad’s an only child, so I don’t have any aunts or cousins or anything. But still, it would be great to play Monica’s daughter or something on the show. I mean, who am I kidding, I’d settle for a walk-on role!
“Babe,” Dad says, as cars behind us start honking.
Mom takes her eyes off me and back to the road, where the light has already changed. It’s pathetic how obvious she is. I really wish she would focus on her own life instead of trying to ruin mine. If she didn’t want me to fall in love with acting, then she shouldn’t have cast me in one of her stupid commercials when I was a kid. And if she really believes in my talent like she said after the play, then she shouldn’t worry about how hard rejection might be because I won’t get rejected.
Once I start talking to her again, I’ll tell her that’s how she can make it up to me—getting me an audition. She could call her commercial casting people in L.A. to see if they know the casting people down here. It’s worth a shot, and it’s the least she can do after making me spend the whole summer down here.
I post my photo of the billboard to Instagram with a caption: I’m ready for my audition #ComeFindMe #AStarIsBorn #ActingIsMyJam #TwoWhistlersAreBetterThanOne.
I text the picture to Liam. I’ve wanted to text him a million times over the past two weeks, but I didn’t want to seem desperate. Now at least I have something interesting to share.
I look back up just as we turn onto Crystal Beach Drive. The familiar two-story houses stand tall in a row, lined up like a box of pastel crayons: pinks and blues and yellows and greens. The palm trees in the front yards make me think of Hollywood. Maybe when I’m a famous actress living there, the palm trees will remind me of Destin, the place where I was first discovered.
Mom turns left on Luke, past Stingray Street, past Cobia—which reminds me I want Dad to take me down to the fish market—and then right before Pompano, there’s our beach house with the front porch swing, identical to the one we have back home. It’s one of my favorite places to sit when Mom’s not hogging it.
“We’re here,” she says, stating the obvious again.