Goodbye to You (8 page)

I’m glad I texted Thea last night and invited her and her friends on this trip out to Fort Jefferson this morning. She seemed excited in her reply, telling me she’d wanted to visit, but she didn’t want to take the two-and-a-half hour ferry trip by herself.

The owner of the seaplane tour company owed Da, so I asked Da if I could call in the favor. I want the opportunity to spend more time with Thea and impress her with an amazing experience.

I told her to bring along her friends, but I’m surprised they came. They seem to be night owls. In the waiting room, the redhead Felicia is drinking her third cup of complimentary coffee. Bennie is in the chairs, head leaning against a corner wall, feet propped on a bag filled with beach towels and water bottles. She snores quietly while we wait for the rest of the plane’s morning passengers to arrive.

I show Thea a map of our trip across the water, pointing out the private island whose owner once hosted the likes of Truman Capote and Tennessee Williams. Since she likes Hemingway and loves to read, I thought that would interest her.

I guide her hand across the map with mine. We both know she can follow along without the physical contact, but her breath hitched when I touched her, and she didn’t pull away.

Tony comes into the lobby and calls out everyone’s name, checking to make sure we all brought water, snacks, and sunscreen. He directs those who didn’t to a vending machine in the corner since the bookstore at the fort doesn’t sell these items.

He asks if anyone’s going to snorkel—they provide the masks, air tubes, and flippers, and Thea and I both raise our hands. She came prepared with her camera and its waterproof case to take underwater pictures.

Bennie grumbles something about finding a tree to sleep under, and Felicia declines.

“She’s not much of a swimmer. Doesn’t leave the shallow end of the pool,” Thea whispers.

“So why’d you guys come to an island for vacation?”

“Because the price was right, silly.” She sticks out her tongue at me, but her action doesn’t make me laugh.

It makes me want her tongue licking me in all the right places.

I hold my backpack in front of me and adjust the uncomfortable erection pressing into the front seam of my shorts.

We board the plane, and I whisper to the pilot while the ladies and other passengers take their seats on the ten-passenger seaplane.

I tap Thea’s bare, freckled shoulder and signal for her to come with me to the cockpit.

She tilts her head and purses her lips.

Confusion looks so cute on her.

“Tony, this is my friend Thea. Thea, Tony needs a copilot today, and I thought you might enjoy the view from upfront.”

“I . . . I don’t know. I’ve never ridden in the front seat of a plane before.”

Tony scratches his bald head. “Nothing special—but a better view than from the back. I’ve got the controls.”

“Go on,” I urge her, “It’s spectacular, especially on the landing.”

“Oh, sure.” She takes a seat in the cockpit, her sky-blue eyes wide as her fingers hover above the controls, gadgets, and meters.

I take a seat in the first row on the left, with Thea in my sights.

We take off smoothly, flying over the island and moving to open water in a flash. The flight is an hour long, and the recorded narration interesting. The shipwrecks visible from the plane are fascinating. When the narrator mentions the wreckage of Cuban immigrant boats, Bennie perks up and glances out the window.

Thea’s staring through the windshield, mouth agape at the view from the cockpit. We’re pulling in for our water landing, which is much smoother than on the ground.

Fort Jefferson is a national park, so a park ranger meets us at the plane and offers to take us on a tour. A family of four elects the tour and Thea wants to join. Bennie and Felicia hop off with their bags and ask the guide if there’s a shaded area where they can crash.

She points them in the right direction, and we follow the guard to the red brick fort’s entrance.

The dark corridors of the fort and Thea’s soft hand in mine inspire me to wrap her in my arms and press her against the chilly stone walls, kissing her senseless.

“Let’s move on to the prison cells . . .” the guide interjects before I act on the impulse, and we shuffle behind her.

I pull a bottle of water from my backpack, crack the cap, and offer her a sip.

Her slender fingers brush mine as I hand her the bottle. Sparks shoot between us, and she laughs weakly. Does she feel the zing too?

She wraps her pink lips around the bottle top and drinks. She pulls the bottle away and licks at the drops dribbling from her mouth.

It will be a long, painful morning if she does that again.

We finish the tour and head back to the plane to get our snorkeling equipment. I guide her to the small beach behind the fort, where the snorkeling is best. She takes her camera off her neck and sets it on the picnic bench.

She slips the straps of her pink dress down, revealing inch by delectable inch the curves I can’t wait to touch.

My gaze skims her from head to toe, and I swallow as I realize she’s wearing a bikini. Not tiny patches held together with string. This suit is sexier. The striped top, modest by most bikini standards, supports her. Her breasts sit high, and one might say, proudly on display.

Begging to be touched.

Forget about this being a long morning.

Today might be my last day on Earth because this woman is trying to kill me.

We gear up and hit the water, Thea with her camera strapped around her neck. We swim out and explore.

She snaps more pictures. Blue and yellow angelfish, fat mottled groupers, and silver barracudas paint the underwater landscape on a backdrop of sea urchins, anemones, brain coral, and sea fans.

She’s enjoying the view.

As much as I’m enjoying the view of her.

I don’t think she has a clue how sexy she is, but I want to show her later, when we’re alone.

I check my watch, and it’s time to go, so I tap her leg and point to the surface.

After we break through the water, I pull the air tube from my mouth. “We’ve got to get going. I wish we could stay all day, but it’s time.”

She screws up her face, as disappointed as I am that the day here is done.

We swim to shore and gather our belongings. Sand is clinging to the backs of her thighs and the tiny sliver of butt cheek peeking out from the bottom of her suit.

I want to brush off the sand, but know if I touch her my hands will stick to her like powerful magnets.

Instead, we rinse off in the showers and change into dry clothes.

Bennie and Felicia are already on the plane. They both appear more rested and not as surly as earlier.

It’s something. At least they won’t give Thea a hard time about getting them up so early. They may head back to the condo and sleep the day away before hitting the bars tonight, as Thea mentioned they’d been doing most of the trip.

I don’t want to party or drink, like some people heading into the most stressful years of their lives.

My time with Thea is all the recreation I need.

I am so in love . . . with Key West.

At first, I thought it was a crazy idea to visit somewhere even hotter than central North Carolina in July. I’m glad I overcame that thought.

Everything about this place is perfect.

A tiny island packed with lots to do, or you can do nothing at all. That’s what I did the first week, but I’m happy I’ve been active these last few days.

I can’t think of a more perfect place for vacation.

My sole regret? Not meeting Shay sooner.

The past few days have been a fantasy, and I wish I’d started living the dream earlier in the trip.

We stroll leisurely, hand in hand, on Whitehead toward the waterfront.

Apparently, no trip to Key West is complete without a visit to the Sunset Celebration at Mallory Square. While I’ve witnessed a few sunsets since the start of the trip, I haven’t been to the square to watch the performers.

A small crowd gathers, clapping and whistling erupting from the middle of the throng gathered on the brick-paved square.

Shay leads me in closer, and cats are jumping through flaming hoops, hopping from stool to stool, and walking a tightrope—all at the command of an older gentleman. He chatters endlessly about the critters, all the while getting them to do tricks no cat I’ve known could be trained to perform.

The show ends, and the crowd applauds before dispersing.

We tread the red brick of the square. The rich, full sound of bagpipes from another performer follow us for hundreds of feet.

“Oooh!” I point to a small cluster of storefronts.

“What?”

“Ice cream!”

His eyebrows shoot up as he smiles. I think he’s used to my foodie quirks. The one quirk.

How much I love to eat.

My mint-chocolate-cookie ice cream in a waffle cone is the perfect treat on this hot evening.

Shay takes a lick of his ice cream and a glob of chocolate sticks to the tip of his nose.

I lean in and kiss it off, the ice cream sweet but salty from his skin.

Near the footbridges, a young lady is playing country songs on her guitar. I check her list and ask for a Johnny Cash song. He was one of my granny’s favorites.

I toss a few dollars in her open guitar case. We lean on the railing of the small footbridge overlooking the water. We eat our ice cream in companionable silence and listen to the powerful voice of the singer, the haunting lyrics of “I Walk the Line” casting a spell on me.

Or maybe I’m enchanted by the peach and purple and pink streaks painting the sky in a watercolor haze. The sun blazes a fiery path on its westerly descent across the horizon. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“No kidding.”

I glance at him, but he’s not looking out at the sunset.

The admiration in his eyes fires my blood.

I stand on my toes and place my free hand on his strong chest. The muscles flex under my touch and desire boils to the surface, heating my skin.

I can’t wait for dark when we can find somewhere to be alone together.