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TRUST THE CHARM, IGNORE THE EDGE

I wake to the sound of the ocean, its breeze drifting in, carrying with it the scent of salt and plumeria, filling the small apartment with a sense of promise. I pull an oracle card from my deck. DREAM.

It feels like the universe is nodding in agreement. After years of stress, corporate drudgery, and making compromises that chipped away at my soul, I’m finally free—living the dream I’ve whispered about to myself on restless nights. No more firing tons of people over Zoom. No more forcing myself into places where I never really felt I belonged. Now, it will be just me and Sabre, the ocean, my writing, and, hopefully, someone to share it all with.

Whether or not that person turns out to be Timmy, I know one thing: I’m not settling any more. This is my new life, and I intend to live it fully.

Timmy picks me up bright and early again, and we wind our way along the coastal roads to a beach I’ve never been to before—secluded, and framed by man-made lagoons surrounded by jagged reefs.

The water is clear and sparkles in the sunlight. In the distance, the sleek high-rises of the resort district rise against the backdrop of the rugged, emerald-green mountains. The water stretches out in shimmering shades of turquoise, so clear I can see schools of tiny fish darting just below the surface.

For a fleeting second, my mind forces me to take a detour: I don’t know him that well. What if he’s not who he seems? What if he’s a serial killer? But surely not. Nobody this fun and laid-back could be a serial killer.

He scrambles easily up the sides of the reef, his long limbs moving with the confidence of someone who’s spent their whole life hopping across rocks and waves. His feet grip the uneven surface like they belong there. He turns, motioning for me to follow.

“Come on! What are you waiting for?” His grin is infectious.

“I don’t exactly have your mountain goat-like agility,” I laugh, eyeing the rocks skeptically.

I watch in awe as he runs along, leaping over little gaps and divots with ease.

He eventually convinces me to jump up, reaching down, taking my hand and effortlessly helping me onto the reef. “There you go,” he says, pulling me up with surprising strength. “You’re sure you’re ready to surf? Because with balance like that…” he teases, flashing me a playful smirk.

I blush, and, laughing, I tell him the story of slipping my way through a waterfall hike with a friend in Puerto Rico. He laughs, his large hand brushing a stray strand of hair from my face. Then, without missing a beat, he leans in and kisses me—a kiss that tastes of salt and unspoken promises. “You’re perfect just the way you are,” he whispers, his lips lingering against mine. “And you’re going to be an amazing surfer.”

Later, we head to a tropical-themed bar nearby, one I discovered many years ago. The place is a hidden gem, tucked away in an industrial side street where tropical decor drips from every wall and ceiling beam.

Masks, old surfboards, glass floats and worn-out license plates tell stories of countless visitors who have stumbled upon this hidden- away slice of paradise in Sunset Cay. The bar smells like pineapple, rum, and nostalgia.

“Whoa,” Timmy’s eyes widen as he takes it all in. “This place is wild . How have I never been here?”

Timmy strikes up a conversation with the bartender, and soon they’re swapping names of surfers and locals they both know. I watch, fascinated. Timmy fits into the world so naturally, moving through it like he belongs in any setting—a stark contrast to the cold detachment, the hesitancy in communicating with strangers, the sometimes outright rudeness that I’d encountered in my last relationship. His ease draws me in like a warm current, and for the first time in years, I feel like I’m floating rather than treading water.

As Timmy wanders around while our drinks are being prepared, exploring the decor, he snaps a few pictures. “I’ll have to send this to a friend,” he says, his tone casual. “She loves tiki shit.”

“Oh yeah?” I arch a brow.

He grins but doesn’t elaborate, just continues scrolling on his phone.

Then he pauses, his gaze catching on an old black-and-white photo on the wall. The photo shows a young woman in a vintage bikini, her smile wide and radiant. “She has a beautiful smile,” he murmurs.

“Oh, I thought you said I had a beautiful smile,” I nudge him playfully. I have no problem with him complimenting the woman—I’m definitely not threatened by an old photo, and she does have a beautiful smile—I’m just giving him a hard time.

His eyes flick to mine, and for a brief moment, there’s something unreadable in them—something just a little too sharp to be playful. “More than one person can have a beautiful smile, Margaux,” he replies, the edge in his voice unexpected.

I blink, caught off-guard by the swift change in his tone.

But, just as quickly, the moment passes, and he’s back to grinning at me, light and easy.

I tell myself it’s nothing.

Relax. Focus on the fun.

We leave the bar and head back to the main strip. We stroll down the boardwalk, the night air warm and tinged with the scent of sunscreen and barbecue. The stone path along the beach is bustling with life—street performers, tourists smiling and laughing, and couples hand in hand.

Timmy spots a familiar face in the crowd, a street performer with birds perched on his shoulder. Without hesitation, he plucks a banana from the guy’s hand, grinning as one of the birds swoops down to perch on his outstretched arm.

The crowd gasps, and Timmy just laughs, unfazed by the bird flapping its wings inches from his face. “What? You’ve never seen a guy share a banana with a bird before?”

I laugh, the tension from earlier melting away. Timmy’s got that kind of charisma that draws people in—a carefree recklessness that’s both thrilling and disarming.

As we wander further along the boardwalk, he turns to me, his grin sly and full of promise. “So… are you gonna let me stay over tonight?”

The thought sends a flutter through my stomach. The apartment’s still relatively sparse—just the mattresses on the floor and a quilt, thanks to Timmy’s help—as well as the other items we picked up from the store, the desk still waiting to be set up. But the idea of spending the night wrapped up in him, of letting go of everything and diving into something spontaneous and wild, makes my pulse quicken.

“Yes,” I say, my voice softer than I intended. “You can stay over.”

He beams at me, his hand slipping easily into mine as we continue down the boardwalk. The night stretches ahead of us, full of possibility—like the ocean just before a storm, calm and inviting but with a thrilling undercurrent of something about to break.

I know, deep down, that there’s more to Timmy than he’s letting on—more than just charm and good vibes. And the fact that the photos from the bar went to her —a friend, maybe, but possibly more— sits uncomfortably in the back of my mind. I'm not a jealous person by nature, but the way he said it just made me feel weird.

But for tonight, I don’t care. We just met, we haven’t by any means discussed exclusivity other than his cryptic comments about nobody else being able to stay over at my place, and of course he’s allowed to have female friends. It’s not like I don’t have plenty of male friends.

Tonight, I’m not going to worry about it anymore. I’m ready to be swept away.