Page 14 of Rum Sips and Salty Lips

I don’t normally endup at Paradise at three in the afternoon on a workday, but my week has been so thoroughly fucked that I don’t question it.

The street I live on dead-ends at the beach. I have uninterrupted views of the Gulf of Mexico. A few feet from my front door is a path through the beach grass that takes me over the sand dunes and directly to the water. It’s quiet for the most part, with people only venturing here if they live on my street or have rented one of the houses as a vacation property. All the houses have the same Key West-style architecture, with pastel paint and wraparound porches, regardless of when they were built. We’re supposed to feel transported to a different time and a different island, two hundred miles south of us.

The house next door to me, which mine blocks from having a perfect sea view, was sold six months ago. Since then, it’s been through extensive renovations. The noise has been truly terrible at times. It must be almost done because the same SUV has been parked in the driveway the last few days.

I’m sure it’s been transformed into a short-term rental property. I miss the former owners. I grew up with the elderly couple watching out for me during our vacations here. Mrs. Lawson always made sure I reapplied sunscreen and refilled my lemonade when my parents were too busy with work to care about me frolicking on the beach. It’s a miracle I didn’t drown.

The Lawsons were having troubles with the house’s narrow staircase, so they moved to a retirement community on the mainland. It’s just across a short bridge, but that strip of water makes it seem so much farther than it is. I now need to prepare myself for loud parties and people who don’t feel any sense of responsibility for the area.

This morning a truck delivered furniture and I needed to be out of the house for as long as possible. I can’t concentrate in my home office with its sliding glass doors facing that house, and every noise breaks my concentration. Then I look at my phone and wonder that while I didn’t give Orion my number, I still feel like I’m waiting on him to call.

I have years of experience with mindfulness. I know how to control my thoughts. It’s been a week, but I can’t get him out of my head.

I’ve never felt a connection like that with anyone else. Not even Hamilton when we were years into our relationship. Sex never made me feel closer to him. It was a fun thing we did. I live by the lessons my mother instilled in me when I was fifteen: Relationships always end. There is no such thing as a happy ever after. Leave before you get left.

It’s cold, but living any other way feels too much like a risk.

Instead of working from home, I walk the mile to the Wendell Beach downtown area and the Nebula Athletics storefront. It’s the location of my first-ever store, the yoga studio I opened a few years later, and our corporate office. It’s right on the town’s main street, surrounded by restaurants, touristshops, and resort wear boutiques. All of them have the town’s same pastel-colored buildings with balconies on their second stories.

It’s here I answer emails about supply chain issues, brainstorm new fabrics with the design team, and co-teach a vinyasa class to a group of women from Georgia who traveled to Wendell Beach to visit the studio. I’m incredibly honored their road trip through Florida involved a stop at a place I created. It happens often, but it always means the world to me when I hear it.

I founded the company while I was getting my MBA. My dad wanted me to start as soon as I could. Most first businesses fail. He thought if I got it out of the way young, then I could recover faster and better. I’m determined to prove him wrong. I won’t fail at all. My first business is my last. It will continue to succeed.

Unfortunately, he’s convinced it will end any day. My sales numbers don’t matter, or which celebrities are seen coming out of a spin class in my leggings.

After the yoga class, I’m sweaty and grabbing my things to go home to shower and finish up the rest of my work there, crossing my fingers that the noise has ended. My friend Christian walks into the lobby. He owns Wendell Beach Rum Works which is next door to the studio. We have lunch together frequently. Sometimes he offers to drive me home when it’s storming.

“Hey, Carina. Any chance you’re done for the day?”

A few of the students from the next class notice him and browse the racks of clothes instead of heading into the studio space. But they aren’t paying attention to the clothes, they’re watching us.

Christian and I have been friends for years. He’s married to a lovely woman named Autumn and has never once flirted with anyone else. But that doesn’t change the fact he’s one of the most attractive people I’ve ever met. I beg him to model for me, buthe declines. He’s an excellent friend and wears my T-shirts with jeans like they’re his uniform.

Of course, my mind drifts to what Orion would look like draped in the fabrics and cuts I plan. But I need to refocus on the now and not on the sailor I met a few days ago.

“I can be,” I respond. I’ll catch up on work later. If he’s here, it’s probably because he needs something. I’m always happy to help him. “What’s up?”

“I’m opening the first bottle of a new batch with Alex at Paradise. Thought you might want to join.”

I understand this is a moment he wants to share with Alex. They are close friends. But I don’t know why he’s reaching out to me. I’m near him, that’s all.

I shouldn’t take time off in the middle of the afternoon to sample alcohol. But a thought niggles my brain—it’s rum. Orion loves rum. Christian will give me an entire history of its origins and how this batch was created. When I see Orion next, I’ll have something to discuss with him.

I stopped at the liquor store the other day to grab a bottle of wine. I strolled through the rum aisle, looking for the bottle I shared with Orion. I wanted to remember the way he tasted on my lips. They didn’t have it, and I was so disappointed.

But it’s a terrible idea. I don’t want to hook up with him again. I stick to flings because I know how those end. I set expectations. And with the precautions I take, the biggest risk is it isn’t fun. I felt something deeper with Orion. This could turn into something more. I could become invested. He doesn’t have any connection to Wendell Beach. He could leave at any time. He lives on a boat. Dreams of sailing around the world. This place won’t hold him long. And I’ll be left standing on a beach, alone.

He demanded my honesty. No one has wanted that from me before.

Christian asked me to join him for this occasion. He is truly one of the nicest, most caring men I have ever met. He inherited his grandparents’ distillery a few years ago and has worked diligently to make it better than it was before. He didn’t have any business experience, so I taught him how to keep his books in order and developed a solid marketing plan for him. He took my advice and ran with it. He’s a few years younger than me and has done so much with what he has been given.

He probably doesn’t have investors breathing down his neck to take his marketing in a different direction.

“Sure. But I’m sweaty,” I answer.

“It’s Florida. Everyone is always sweaty. Get your water and get over it.” He smiles.

I grab my bag, wave goodbye to my staff, and head out the door with him.

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