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“Reagan? You’re kidding me, right? He’ll be jumping higher than Mr. Goobers for treats,” Jolene says. “But do whatever you need to feel comfortable. Because you’re going on this vacation, and you’re getting that D deficiency fixed.”
“Summer camp!?” Reagan shouts before I can tell him any details, such as that there will be no cannibals there. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” He starts running around the house like one of my four-legged clients when they get the zoomies.
Jolene was right. He’s clearly over the moon. So much so my chest squeezes unpleasantly. I’ll need to figure out how to give him more experiences like this.
But also… would it hurt my son to at least pretend he’ll miss the person who was in labor trying to give birth to him for thirty-five torturous hours?
On the flight to Jacksonville, Reagan plays his video game while I do my best not to snap at him or any other innocent bystanders. Thanks to my shit luck, the Red Wedding arrived mere hours ago, giving me the kind of cramps that, if you gave them to a prisoner of war, would go against the Geneva Conventions.
Thanks, body. Was a relaxing plane ride too much to ask for?
I glare at my wrist where my birthday gift from last year resides. It’s an Octothorpe Glorp, a fitness tracker that’s supposed to warn me when Aunt Flo is coming to town. Often, I imagine the gizmo talking back to me in a voice that’s a mix of Richard Simmons and Gollum:
My dear Precious, if I could, I’d keep every tampon you’ve ever used in a shrine and glue to them the smiles I cut out of my favorite pictures of you. Alas, when it comes to the feature you mention, I merely track your cycles, not predict them.
I suffer the rest of the flight as stoically as I can. Once we land, I rent a car and drive Reagan straight to the camp—a beachy and chill establishment that plays Jimmy Buffett on a loop.
“Okay, bye,” Reagan says without a second of hesitation before running off to check the place out.
I wait to make sure he doesn’t run back and tell me he doesn’t like what he sees. Nope. He probably thinks I’ve already left, or has forgotten that I exist altogether.
“He’ll have access to a phone,” the nearest Boy-Scout-looking counselor says to me reassuringly. “And we have your number on file. Once he’s settled in, he’ll give you a call. Go.”
With a sigh, I head back to the car and start driving.
My mood was already crummy, but now it’s worse than that of a stressed-out, sleep-deprived, and tick-riddled hippopotamus. The green and idyllic nature around me only makes me feel shitty about where I actually live, as do the much nicer roads and cleaner streets. But then I almost run over an-honest-to-goodness live alligator and feel a little better about the comparison between my namesake in NYC and Palm Islet, Florida, the illustrious little town where my vacation is to be. Same goes when a deer tries to commit suicide by car a few minutes later, and when the woman in the car in front of me stops to rescue a turtle—getting peed on in the process.
Got to love Florida.
My Airbnb turns out to be located in a gated community, and the female security guard at the entrance is as thorough as a TSA officer. When all my papers seem to be in order, she wrinkles her nose and mutters something about the HOA usually prohibiting Airbnb rentals in the community, and that mine is a rare exception to the rule. She further informs me that the HOA usually charges an overnight guest fee, but that the owner of my Airbnb is exempt from “all the rules.”
Oh, the humanity. How do the poor members of the HOA sleep at night? As I drive away, it takes effort not to ask if the HOA in this case stands for Hilariously Overbearing Authority.
Driving through the community, I notice that the houses are charming mixes of Spanish, Mediterranean, and Caribbean styles, and that they all have impeccable lawns—must be the same HOA ruling with an iron fist. But when I pull into the cul-de-sac where my Airbnb is located, the monotone pattern is broken. Houses number four and five on Gatorview Drive are twins, and both have sharp corners, are covered in mirrored surfaces and tons of chrome, and remind me of something you might see in a modern art museum.
Since one of these is mine, I assume both belong to the same HOA rules-exempt owner.
My mood lifts minutely as I spot the lake adjacent to both houses, with untouched nature on the opposite bank. The view from my Airbnb must be spectacular, though slightly less so than from the neighboring house.
I check my fitness tracker for the time.
Dearest Precious ought to consider taking more steps, to tighten those succulent thighs for my stalking—I mean viewing—pleasure.
Crap. I’m too early for check in, and it’s getting pretty hot. According to Evan, who’s been sending me taciturn texts on behalf of this Airbnb, the code for the garage lock can only be used after eleven-thirty, but I may die of heatstroke by then.
Also, I kind of want the vacation to start, along with the associated relaxation.
Why don’t I test said code now?
Walking up to the garage, I type in the code and the door opens. Score! Between this and the lack of a car in the driveway or in the garage, I’m pretty sure I can get inside the house.
After parking in the garage, I open the door to the house proper—which, according to Evan, is the entrance I’ll use to come and go.
The door leads right into an ultra-modern kitchen the size of my whole apartment, and there, on the granite island, stands a spread of yummy tapas.
Now this is a fancy welcome. I spot a tiny piece of grilled salmon, a giant bean, a side of rice, an assortment of pickles, a ton of tiny vegetable plates, and something that looks and smells just like miso soup.
Japanese tapas?
