Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Though, I figured I’d be sharing it with Anna.
The mere thought of vacationing without my best friend has me pulling my cell phone out of my purse and sending her a text message.
Me: I have officially arrived in Destin, and I still feel bad I’m here without you.
Her response is instant.
Anna: Don’t be stupid. Enjoy your vacation. You deserve it.
Me: I said I felt bad, not that I wasn’t going to enjoy the time, regardless. LOL
Anna: Is that…Katy Dayton…being sassy???
Me: I can be sassy.
Anna: Really?
Me: I can!
Anna: I guess we’ll just have to find a way to fit in a summer trip so you can show me. But I expect to see you shit-faced and partaking in debauchery.
Me: I can get on board with that.
I mean, once we’re on the trip, she won’t be able to do anything about it if I’m not quite as loosey-goosey as she’s expecting.
Me: How’s the sickness going? Any signs of death or dismemberment on the horizon?
Anna: I dismembered my right lung earlier by coughing it up, but other than that, I’m good. Currently bingeing The Office and sucking on cough drops like they’re my sole source of nutrients. Now, go do the damn vacation thing. And I don’t mean be boring and read a book on the beach. I mean, go find a big, muscly, meathead that you can bring back to the condo and bang for me. It’s what a good best friend would do.
Me: That might be the weirdest, most disturbing thing you’ve ever said to me.
Anna: Don’t be a prude. You need to enjoy this vacation for both of us.
Me: Yeah, okay, weirdo. I’ll be sure to film the banging and send it to you.
Anna: Perfect. Use Cinematic Mode! You’ve got that fancy iPhone for a reason!
On a snort, I slip my phone into the back pocket of my jean shorts and finish unpacking my groceries.
Once I’m satisfied with my unpacking job, I fold up my reusable grocery bags and stack them together so I can tuck them into the drawer next to the sink. Everything looks completely in order, just as when I arrived.
Yes, I am the proud owner of a type A personality, but I can’t help it. I think the wild, unpredictable, and impulsive lifestyle of my parents forced me to become this way out of survival.
I grab my suitcase and peruse my way down the hall toward the two bedrooms at the end. Photos dot the walls, mostly abstracts and landscape-style shots of the beach, but a braces-sporting shot of a middle-school-aged Kimmie Ward pulls me up short and makes me smile.
Back in motion, I pad my way down the hardwood floor and peek into the first bedroom I reach. It’s the smaller of the two, I remember from the website listing I booked on, but is perfectly quaint enough for a weekend at the beach. What the listing didn’t show, however, is the mini Kimmie Shrine, full of photos and medals and trophies.
Photos of a teenage Kimmie in a wrestling onesie, mind you.
Oh boy. That’s something…
Man, I wish Kimmie and I were closer. This would be the perfect opportunity to send her a text message and tease her a little about her parents’ nostalgic décor.
But I don’t have her phone number, and even if I did, I probably wouldn’t use it. I’m not the bold type who texts casual acquaintances teasing things. I’m the overthinking type who thinks them, types them, and then swiftly deletes them.
I’m also the type who keeps my friends circle small and intimate. Which is why Anna is the only person I feel compelled to send a snapshot of Kimmie’s bedroom.
Her response is instant.
Anna: Am I high on cough syrup or is that Kimmie in a wrestling leotard?
Me: You are experiencing both at the same time.
Anna: For the love of everything, don’t bring our meathead back to that room. He’ll never come with that in his field of vision.
Feeling a little uncomfortable now that Anna has mixed coming into the conversation with Kimmie Ward’s childhood and apparent love of wrestling as a teenager, I pull the door shut, pass the hallway bathroom, and head to the bedroom at the end.
A magical light filters through the huge windows on the ocean side of the room, and wispy white curtains float in the soft breeze drifting in through the screen.
Instantly, I inhale the addictive aromas of salt water and fresh air that are wafting in from a cracked-open window.
I love the ocean. I always have. That was one of the perks of growing up in Savannah, Georgia. Hilton Head and the Atlantic Ocean were only a fifty-mile drive away.
Don’t get me wrong. I love living in New York, but I can’t deny there’s just something about the Gulf waters and white sand beaches that speaks to my soul.