Page 24 of The Gathered Fragments of Us
I stood in front of the hotel mirror, still wrapped in the plush terry cloth robe, my skin glowing from the day's treatments. My phone sat on the nightstand, screen dark. Part of me wondered if Caden had tried to call, what he’d thought of my letter. The thought made my stomach twist, so I pushed it away.
I opened the closet doors and stared at the limited options I'd packed. The blue dress with tiny flowers hung there, too formal for a beachfront bar. My fingers moved past the work clothes I'd somehow thrown in out of habit. Then I saw it—a simple sundress I’d brought. I'd almost left behind. Low back, soft fabric, the kind of thing I used to wear when I felt young and free. When had I stopped wearing clothes that made me feel beautiful instead of just appropriate?
I slipped it on and turned to face the mirror. The woman looking back wasn't the corporate executive who lived in blazers and carefully coordinated accessories. This was someone softer, more open.
My hair was a mess of sea-salt curls from the ocean air. Instead of fighting it with a brush or trying to tame it with product like I would at home, I just ran my fingers through it, letting it be wild and imperfect. I turned my face side to side, touched up my makeup, and smiled. I felt beautiful.
I checked my phone one more time—still nothing. I stowed it in my crossbody purse and walked out of my hotel room. Lettingthe door close behind me, I felt excitement bubble up inside—it was going to be a good night. I was sure of it.
The beachfront bar was exactly what I'd hoped for and exactly what intimidated me. It was alive with music and the pulse of the ocean. Lights strung through palm trees, laughter over clinking glasses, the air thick with lime and salt and maybe just a little magic. The outdoor area ran right into the sand, giving the illusion of almost being on a deserted island. I could see the back of the bar from my hotel room, so I knew the walk home wouldn’t be painful at the end of the night. This place was perfect.
Standing at the entrance, I felt myself pause, suddenly aware of how long it had been since I'd walked into a bar alone. At home, social events meant Caden and I attending corporate functions or dinners. I can’t remember the last time we went bar hopping and it felt strange to just walk in.
A couple brushed past me, arms wrapped around each other, laughing at some private joke. They found a table near the water, and I watched the man pull out the woman's chair, saw her reach across to touch his hand as they settled in. I saw myself and Caden in them. Not the us of today, but the us of yesterday—when life was carefree and the kinds of problems we face today weren’t even in our imaginations.
I forced myself to walk in and move toward the bar, aware of the eyes that followed me—not unfriendly, just curious. A woman alone often drew attention, and I felt exposed in a way I hadn't experienced in years. At home, I was Mrs. Barrett, Caden's wife, the HR Executive. Here, I was just Felicity, and I wasn't sure who that was anymore.
The bartender was mixing something complicated for another customer, shaking a martini with theatrical flair. Music pulsedfrom speakers hidden in the palm trees—something Latin and infectious that made my hips want to move. I could smell the aroma of grilled seafood wafting from the kitchen, mingling with the buzz of animated conversations that rose and fell around me.
I slid onto a stool, ordered a mojito, and let the night air wrap around me like a cloak. The mint and lime were sharp and clean, the rum warming me from the inside. For the first time in months, maybe years, I wasn't thinking about tomorrow's schedule or what needed to get done the next day.
That's when I noticed them.
A group of seven women, tucked beneath the string lights at the corner patio table. They were radiant—laughing with the ease that comes from deep friendship. I envied them and their carefree night they clearly had ahead of them.
I ordered an appetizer and tucked into my mojito.
"You here solo or waiting on someone to join you?" The bartender asked.
"Solo. Just visiting for the weekend."
"All alone?" I heard from just behind me. I swiveled on my stool and found one of the women from the table standing there.
I smiled. "Guilty."
She looked at the bartender, "Juno, we'll take another pitcher. Put it on the tab?" With a nod, she turned toward me.
"Well being solo here is just not allowed," she said, looping her arm through mine. "Come meet the bad decisions committee."
I laughed, collected my mojito, and tagged along with my new, but very necessary, bad influence.
Upon arrival at the table, I got the rundown of the crew—Tanya, from Miami, Janet, and Tiff both from West Palm, Mercedes who lives in Orlando, and Rina, who is from a place called Melbourne. Then there was Olivia and Pam both from out of state—New York and Vegas respectively.
All different ages—ranging from mid-thirties to mid-fifties—a more eclectic group of women I'm not sure I remember ever meeting. A teacher, a chef, a hotel manager, a retired scientist, and one who just shrugged and said "consulting." They all seemed to be from different backgrounds, to look at them, they were a mosaic of beautiful colors.
Apparently, they met over ten years ago at some women's wellness retreat, hit it off, and from there a tradition was born. Once a year, every year they come together for a weekend in one of their cities—live, laugh, drink, whatever the weekend calls for.
I sat down and instantly felt like I'd stepped into a secret club, but one where I was immediately let in on the secret. They didn't ask me to explain all my woes for why I was there alone. They didn't ask my job title or my marriage status—though I'm sure my ring said it without words. They told stories that made everyone laugh.
Tiff complained about a song being stuck in her head which led to all of us singing it—loudly and off key because Mercedes was convinced that singing it would "kill the ear worm." Needless to say, it didn't, and we all ended up with it stuck in our heads for the rest of the night. But it made us laugh that much louder and harder.
Plates of Cuban sliders, fried plantains, garlicky shrimp with mofongo, and the best damn empanadas I'd ever had, were brought to the table in rounds along with each round of drinks. Mojitos turned into mango mojitos which turned intostrawberry mojitos, and so on it went. I'm sure you get the picture. By a couple of hours in, I was blitzed and wasn't sure I had ever had as much fun as I was having with these ladies before.
At some point, Janet grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the patio's makeshift dance floor. We danced barefoot in the sand, hips swaying, arms up, salt air clinging to our skin. I was spinning and laughing so hard that my side ended up hurting—I drank and laughed through it.
When the bar finally turned on the overhead lights, signaling closing time, we booed like kids past curfew. Phones came out, numbers exchanged, and promises made—half-serious, but given this group of ladies, I think maybe more real than not.
I walked back to my hotel barefoot in the sand, opting for the oceanside walk instead of using the sidewalk out front. My sandals dangled from my fingers as I swung them by my side. My hair now piled on top of my head, curls escaping and sticking to my face and neck.
