Between Ella canceling her ticket back home to New York, Delilah constantly bringing up Real Love, and the pressure mounting at work to turn in a perfect performance, both my work life and my home life are total disasters. It’s like the closer to thirty I get, the messier my life is. I’ve never ended a week feeling more exhausted. All I wanted to do was lock myself in my bedroom and sleep straight through the weekend.
Unfortunately for me, this was not a plan Ella agreed with.
When I got home from work last night, she informed me that she had made plans for us this weekend and I had no choice but to tag along or she would call Mom and convince her to come visit.
As far as threats go, that is the most terrifying one she could have come up with.
And since Ella is a notoriously late sleeper, I assumed that I’d still get to sleep in before this little adventure.
I was wrong.
“Where are you taking me? And can we please get coffee?”
The early morning sky dances with oranges and yellows as the sun rises. Even though I want to be in my bed admiring the three-hundred-dollar pillow I splurged on, I can’t help but appreciate the beauty of a calm Miami morning.
“I tried to tell you to leave work early last night.” Ella doesn’t take her eyes off the road in front of her. Even though she hasn’t had a car since she lived with our parents, she looks at ease behind the wheel. “You have no one to blame but yourself.”
Because I still haven’t been caffeinated, I don’t attempt to hide the dramatic roll of my eyes.
“Cool, but can I blame myself while I’m holding a cup of coffee?”
She turns her head to level me with a glare. “For a person who wakes up early every day, you’re very annoying in the mornings.”
I reach over the center console and pinch her as hard as I can on the back of her arm. I don’t know why. I guess I woke up today and chose violence.
“Ouch! What the hell? Do you want me to crash your precious car?” She rubs furiously at the underside of her arm. The only thing better than instant gratification is delayed revenge, and I take not-so-secret pleasure as I remember the way she pinched me when she first got here. “You can’t pinch me when I’m driving!”
This is actually the brilliance in attacking her right now. She’s so concerned about not crashing and killing us—thank god—that she’s not going to fight back. This might be my only opportunity to beat her in a fight.
“I’m hangry for coffee. Cangry? Angfee? I don’t know. Whatever the term would be, I’m that. I need caffeine.”
She lets out a groan and sounds just like our mother. But while the pinch might’ve stung a bit, comparing her to Mom might be something she’d never forgive me for.
“Fine.” She finally gives in and I can already feel my mood changing for the better. “But no chain coffee shops. Their unsafe coffee practices are destroying the world.”
I can’t tell if she’s kidding or not, but I have a feeling she’s serious, and I can’t deal with an environmental lecture from the sometime vegetarian this early in the day.
“Fine by me. I try to shop local whenever I can.” I want to tell her about my butcher, Joey, but again…sometimes vegetarian. I swipe open my phone and will technology to lead me to the closest small-business coffee shop. One that hopefully has breakfast burritos or pastelitos or better yet, both.
It’s amazing what quality coffee and sugary breakfast treats can do for one’s attitude. Even Ella pepped up by about a million percent when she bit into a cream-filled puff pastry that tasted like it came from the heavens.
Ella takes us down Highway 1, something I’d never heard of until she pulled onto the road. As we’re driving, I see why she insisted on being behind the wheel. In the Midwest, our road trip scenery consisted of cornfields, cows, and the occasional hill. This? It’s almost hard to put into words. It’s like we’re driving on water. The narrow road hovers just above the clear ocean. The sun that has now fully greeted us glistens brightly off the water like gems just out of reach. By the time the two-hour drive is over, I’m ready to turn around just to enjoy the view all over again…or at least I was until we drove down Main Street in Islamorada.
“How did you find out about this place?” I ask as I throw my purse across my body and put my sunglasses on.
“I don’t know why you bother asking anymore.” She unfolds out of the car and smooths some of the wrinkles from the long sundress she’s wearing. “You know I’m not going to share my sources. But also, how have you lived in Miami this long and not explored anywhere?”
“I have explored,” I straight-out lie to her face. “Delilah has taken me to some great little places only locals know about and Bailey is all about exploring.” We just happen to be on the hunt for the perfect happy hour and not cute coastal towns…
Even though Ella has shown several bouts of wisdom during this trip, I’ll probably always have a hard time admitting when she’s right. The most exploring I’ve done since moving here is trying the restaurants on the way home from work and testing all the spas within a ten-mile radius. Work has consumed so much of my life I’ve forgotten that I need to actually live it.
“I spent one night with your friends and I already know you’re completely full of shit.”
“Whatever.” I choose to ignore her so I don’t add another lie to the long list of things that will be held against me when I die. “What’s the plan today?”
“Do you not listen to anything I say?” She shakes her head and does the Mom sigh again. “The plan is that there is no plan. We’re going to vibe. Do what feels right. I heard there are some good restaurants and lots of little shops. We’re just going to walk around and live in the moment.”
I look around to make sure nobody is close enough to hear her.
We’re already two Black women in a small Florida town, Ella can’t make her liberal, hippie nature even more well known. This town might look adorable, but if Lovecraft Country and Jordan Peele taught me anything, it’s to stay alert.
“Okay,” I say when I see we’re alone. “Then why don’t we start with the shops and then head to a little place for lunch when we get hungry?”
Her perfect smile—thanks completely to modern dentistry—shines a little brighter under the morning sun. “I love this for you.”
“Love what for me?” I ask, confused by her nonanswer.
“This.” She opens her arms wide and gestures around us. “You away from work, you going with the flow. We just got here and I swear, your energy is already so much different.”
“You’re such a weirdo, and please don’t talk like that in front of people, you’ll scare them.”
“Somebody’s deflecting!” she says in a singsongy voice behind me as I pick up my pace.
It’s getting way too frequent, her being right.
I don’t check my horoscope. I don’t know what my enneagram number is. I have no idea where in the hell Mercury is or what it has to do with my electronics going wonky. But I do know that since Ella pulled onto that highway and I lost the signal on my phone (thanks a lot overpriced cell service), I’ve just felt…lighter. Like this load of bricks I didn’t even know was resting on my shoulders has finally lifted. My breathing feels deeper. The ocean looks more vivid. Time seems to linger instead of rushing by in a flurry of anxiety and fear. I can exhale and breathe in this moment instead of rushing ahead to the next one.
My therapist once told me that anxiety was the antithesis of spontaneity, and the truth in those words has never been more apparent than it is right now.
It doesn’t take long before Ella’s long strides have caught up to mine. We chat about nothing and everything as we wander aimlessly, flowing in and out of stores, buying things we don’t need but absolutely must have. And when we stumble into a bohemian courtyard, it’s like my peak happiness is reached.
The sidewalks are made of wooden planks, and even though the ocean is still a few blocks away, sand fills the space between the abundance of greenery. Wooden benches and oversized dream catchers line the little shops of Islamorada that look more like cozy bungalows than retail spaces. It’s so far from what I’ve come to know as Florida, and I can’t believe all this was only a short drive away.
“Oh!” I grab Ella’s arm and pull her when I see a cute little art gallery among the boutiques. “Let’s go see what’s in there. I’ve been thinking about adding more stuff to my apartment.”
When I first moved in, I thought I wouldn’t be there for too long. Just a pit stop before Vaughn and I were engaged and creating our life together. Aside from my furniture and some rugs I couldn’t say no to, it’s lacking any personality whatsoever. I say it’s modern, but it’s really just boring.
“Oh…this place? Yeah, let’s go explore.”
There’s weird laughter in her voice that I don’t understand, but I rarely understand Ella, so I brush it off.
When we walk in, the acoustic version of a popular rap song sets the tone of the space. Immediately I know this isn’t your average art gallery that you’d find in any small Florida town. Paintings of Black women sitting in fields of flowers and laughing with friends that would just seem pretty if they were of white women feel inherently political. Black joy showcased on canvas instead of trauma. Bold prints with bright colors and powerful designs cover the walls, and they each catch my eye. But it’s the blown glass scattered around the modest space that really calls to me.
I’ve seen the little glass flower tchotchkes in gift shops in hospitals and airports, and honestly, when I think of glasswork, it reminds me of the vases my grandma used to have in her house. But these pieces? These are whimsical and fun. They seem indestructible yet infinitely delicate. As ridiculous as it should be, my favorite one is a beautiful cake stand with a glass apple pie on top of it. Maybe it’s a stretch and I’m being one of those ridiculous people making something out of nothing, but it feels like a joke. Like the artist is poking fun at the perception of what perfect Americana is supposed to be. A beautiful pie that not only can’t be eaten, but will shatter if you even try. Just like the lives of people trying to portray perfection. Apply pressure and it will crack.
I look around the glass for something telling me how much my new favorite piece of art costs, but there are no prices anywhere. Which, if experience has taught me anything, doesn’t mean good things for my bank account.
“Excuse me,” I call to the saleswoman who earlier introduced herself as Ruby and then—to my complete pleasure—left us alone to browse. “How much is this?”
“The pie?” Ella laughs. “You want to bring the pie into your ultramodern apartment?”
“Shut up,” I hiss as Ruby walks toward us with her supercute nose ring and bright pink pixie cut.
Thankfully, if she hears our bickering, she pretends she doesn’t. She looks at the pie I’m interested in and a smile makes her already kind face even kinder. “Oh my god, I love this one!” She practically claps, and I get an unexpected burst of pleasure knowing my taste has impressed someone who surely must know art. “We have local artists display their pieces in the gallery on weekends, so I’m not exactly sure what the price is.” She must see the disappointment on my face, because she rushes on. “But this artist just stepped out and should be back soon, so you can ask them then.”
“Great, then I’ll just keep looking around if that’s okay.”
“Knock yourself out,” Ruby says. “But if you like this one, we have a space upstairs with some more pieces I think you’ll really enjoy if you want to check them out.”
I didn’t realize there was more space to explore when we walked in. As she guides me to what feels like a hidden corridor, I feel even more special. This place feels like a magical art wonderland.
“Ella,” I call from the back corner when I realize she isn’t following us. “Are you coming?”
“I’ll be up in a second, I’m just going to step out and make a quick phone call.”
I give her a thumbs-up—which I regret immediately—and trek up the narrow and creaky staircase to the top floor.
Unlike the main room that smells like an essential oil diffuser that hasn’t ever been turned off, this space has the distinct musty smell of an old book. The sconces lighting the staircase illuminate the particles of dust floating around me as I disrupt them from where they’re lying on the wooden steps beneath me. The door at the top of the stairs seems old and in need of a good sanding and paint job. As I approach it, I lose faith that I’ll find anything good up here—it’s not exactly a customer-ready space. When I push through the door, I’m prepared for a continuation of this space—old and dark, where the art must go to die.
But instead I’m hit with sunlight as bright as if I stepped outside. Unlike the typical modern art gallery downstairs, this matches the free spirit vibe of the bohemian courtyard outside. Patterned rugs overlap one another, only letting glimpses of the tattered wooden floors beneath them peek through. Plants hang from the ceiling along with lanterns providing even more lighting than the window-lined wall at the back of the room. What I assume are oil paintings hang on the walls behind colorful dressers with their drawers pulled out and filled with handcrafted jewelry. Low tables are surrounded by poufs and pillows in different jewel tones. Some tables are topped with glass lanterns, while others are covered with glass vases that at first seem to be separate, but at second glance are so dependent on the others they could never stand alone.
It’s the complete opposite of any place I’ve ever lived or even imagined myself living, but—and maybe I’ve just been around Ella too much lately—it feels like the first space I’ve ever been meant to be in. The rich tones and deep, earthy scents of cedarwood and spice call to a part of my soul that I never even knew existed.
And it scares the absolute shit out of me.
I can’t let myself start to slip into this fantasy world Ella lives in, not now that my dream is closer than ever. Despite what Ella thinks, I know what I’m meant for. I’m meant for a high-powered job in finance in a big urban city, not some little hippie hideaway like this. I fight back against my desire to linger, to break the rules I so vigorously follow, and to touch all of the art here that speaks to me. I ignore the velvet pillows I want to settle on and resist the urge to breathe in this space a little longer, and instead pull open the door and quickly rush down the stairs.
But as soon as I enter the modern gallery, I realize that upstairs in my secret fantasy world was a much safer space than this.
Because right next to the pie, the saleswoman is having a very animated conversation with Ella and the person I’m assuming is the artist.
And it’s Kai.
Of fucking course it is.