Julia
I reachedfor my phone on the nightstand, groaning with frustration when I saw it was nearly one in the morning. I shouldn’t have had any trouble falling asleep. I’d been up since five. I hadn’t slept well last night to begin with, as always seemed to happen the first night I was away from my own bed. But despite the exhaustion I felt all the way to my marrow, I couldn’t quiet my mind.
One second, my body buzzed with excitement from the reminder of the way surfer boy caressed my skin while he played doctor to my sting at the restaurant. Then I would remind myself it was crazy to see it for anything other than a helpful young man making sure I was okay.
That alone was further proof of the ridiculousness of this scenario. I thought of him as a young man. That was something an octogenarian would call him, not someone who’d only been forty for a matter of minutes.
When I was younger, forty sounded so old. I’d imagined having my shit together by now.
I certainly didn’t picture myself alone, wearing a t-shirt that said “I give just enough fucks to stay out of jail”, happy to spend hours watching viral videos of people making food that made my stomach churn, yet I couldn’t look away.
I was so far from having my shit together it was laughable. But I did have a thriving business. And my amazing daughter. That was enough.
Then why couldn’t I shake the feeling there was something missing?
I blamed Naomi and her insistent meddling into my personal life during dinner.
Throwing the covers off, I thought perhaps a walk along the beach as I listened to the waves and relished in the feel of the ocean breeze on my skin would help relax me. Give me the inner peace I sought.
After pulling on a pair of denim shorts and re-securing my hair into a messy bun I was sure made me look more like a homeless transient than a chic, young hipster, I headed out of the bedroom, down the stairs, and into the kitchen. As I passed the island, my gaze landed on the pile of napkins containing my Forty, Fabulous, and Free list we’d concocted tonight.
Unsure what possessed me to do so, I shoved them into the back pocket of my shorts as I made my way toward the back door and stepped into my flip-flops, mindful of the sting that was now nothing more than a dull, bearable ache. Then I left the beach house.
The air was lush with the scent of flowers, sea breeze, and something else that was quintessentially Hawaii. The thick humidity covering the island during the day had broken slightly, the temperatures much more comfortable, especially when coupled with the ocean breeze and lack of sunlight bearing down on me. Instead, the sky was a blanket of black, the dusting of stars giving way to a brilliant moon.
As I strolled, I admired the waves lapping against the shore. This time, I was cognizant to not get too close, particularly as I slipped off my flip-flops to enjoy the coolness of the sand. Some of the houses along the shoreline were lit up, people sitting on the lanai or back lawn, even at this late hour. But for the most part, it was quiet, allowing me the opportunity to reflect on the last decade of my life.
It seemed like it was yesterday I’d turned thirty. I laughed to myself when I recalled Imogene asking how old I was, her eyes growing wide with amazement when she’d learned I was thirty. To a four-year-old, thirty was such a huge number. Unreachable, really.
Funny how that worked. One day, you’re a child with your whole life in front of you, making all these plans for things you want to do when you’re older.
Now that I was older, I couldn’t help but feel like I’d veered so far off the course I’d originally charted for myself. Granted, early on in life, I’d accepted the fact that a unicorn trainer wasn’t an actual career path. Still, it felt like I’d taken a wrong turn at some point.
How did I go from wanting to shower people with love through food, like my meemaw did, to being the owner of one of the most popular pastry shops and bakeries in the United States?
Sure, every entrepreneur dreamt of success, but what exactly was success? I feared I’d forgotten my definition of success. Of happiness.
I slowed, coming to a stop and staring out at the dark ocean, my mind no more at peace than it was when I left the house. If anything, it was even more restless, thoughts I’d suppressed rearing their ugly heads once more. I should have been happy with the business I’d built. With seeing the line of people waiting outside my bakeries on opening day to finally have a taste of my sweets. With all the offers that came with the success — cooking shows, book deals, speaking engagements.
Yet it wasn’t enough.
Or perhaps it was too much.
“Watch out for jellyfish.”
I instantly stiffened, the familiar accent and deep timbre causing my stomach to clench.
Was he really here? He couldn’t be. It was impossible. One time was a fluke. Twice a coincidence. But a third? My brain had to be playing tricks on me.
But as I slowly turned and my gaze fell on him sitting on the beach, I knew that wasn’t the case. This was real.
His attire no longer consisted of the jeans and button-down shirt from earlier. Instead, he wore a white t-shirt and gray sweatpants.
Sweet baby Jesus.
I’d heard women fawn over younger men in gray sweatpants. Naomi told me there were entire social media accounts with huge followings that only posted attractive men dressed as such.
Now I knew why.