We end up in Wynwood, and it’s overwhelming in the best way. Every surface covered in art. Massive murals span entire buildings, vibrant colors that seem to pulse in the afternoon sun. Abstract patterns blend into photorealistic portraits. Political statements sit next to whimsical creatures. It’s chaotic and beautiful and somehow cohesive.
“This is intense,” I say, stopping in front of a piece that covers an entire warehouse. A woman’s face in shades of blue and purple, her eyes somehow following you no matter where you stand.
“I know. I love this place,” Jack says, coming to stand beside me. “Every time I come back, there’s something new. Some pieces get painted over, new ones go up. The whole place evolves. Here, I’ll show you my favorite, if it’s still around.”
He takes my hand and pulls me through the streets, weaving between tourists and locals until we stop in front of a massive mural. It’s a landscape—mountains and sky and water—done in colors that shouldn’t work together but somehow do. Deep purples bleeding into oranges, blues that fade to pink. It’s breathtaking, and it triggers something in me. Some kind of nostalgia I can’t quite place, like a memory of a place I’ve never been.
“It’s beautiful,” I say quietly.
Jack looks at it like he’s greeting an old friend. “This one’s been here for three years. Most don’t last that long.”
We wander through more streets, Jack pointing out pieces he recognizes and ones he’s never seen before. A memorial for a local activist, her face surrounded by butterflies. A celebration of Cuban culture, bright and joyful. A massive collaborative piece that somehow works despite having at least a dozen different styles competing for attention.
Eventually the buildings thin out and I catch glimpses of water between them. Jack takes my hand again, pulling me toward the beach. Not the famous South Beach with its Art Deco buildings and crowds of tourists. This is quieter—South Pointe Park, he tells me. Families spread out with coolers and beach blankets. Teenagers play volleyball. Surfers bob beyond the break, waiting patiently for waves.
Jack buys us mangopaletasfrom a cart, and we find a spot on the seawall to sit. The concrete is warm beneath me, and I dangle my legs over the side, watching the water.
Thepaletais perfect. Sweet and tart and cold, already melting faster than I can keep up with. Juice runs down my fingers despite my best efforts.
“So this is the good stuff?” I ask, licking mango off my wrist. “Your secret Miami?”
“Part of it,” he confirms, watching a family nearby trying to keep their beach umbrella from blowing away. “The festival and sponsor events are necessary. Nothing beats race day for me, obviously. But I love getting any off time I can to just… exist. Explore the city. Not that I get a ton of time off when I’m racing, but over the years I’ve managed to find these spots.”
“Thank you for showing me all these places,” I say. “I loved today.”
We sit in silence for a while. The waves roll in with a rhythmic sound that’s almost hypnotic. Children shriek with laughter as they chase each other at the water’s edge. The soundof someone’s speaker playing reggaeton mixes with the cry of gulls overhead.
Down the boardwalk, a street musician has set up with a guitar and a small amp. He’s good—playing something jazzy and complex that drifts over the sound of the waves. A few people have stopped to listen, dropping bills into his open case.
Jack and I both turn to watch him. He’s older, maybe in his sixties, with weathered hands that move over the strings with ease. There’s something mesmerizing about watching someone who’s truly skilled at their craft, even in a setting as casual as this.
“I hope I get to come back here one day,” I say, the words slipping out before I can think about them.
He looks at me. “You will. You’re probably going to stop here on tour at some point.”
I laugh, but it comes out more uncertain than I intended. “Well, fingers crossed the LA meeting goes well. And I can magically overcome my stage fright. I’m just avoiding thinking about that, honestly.”
He’s quiet for a moment, watching the musician pack up his guitar and count his tips. “No, you will. You’ve got it, Lark. That magnetic thing. I saw it in our videos, and when you performed at the open mic. I know you look at that night as a failure, but I wish you could see it how I saw it. You faced your fears. You went up there and you were incredible. Yeah, maybe it was your first time in years so it didn’t go exactly how you wanted, but you had it. That magic.” He turns to me, his green eyes intense and serious. “I’m not just saying this as your fake boyfriend. I hope you know that.”
My throat feels tight. The sincerity in his voice, the way he’s looking at me like he actually believes every word—it breaks something loose in my chest.
“That means a lot,” I say. “Coming from you.”
He smiles and reaches over, taking my hand and giving it a squeeze. His palm is warm against mine, and I don’t pull away.
We sit like that for a moment, watching the water, his hand in mine. Then he looks back at where the musician was, something thoughtful crossing his face.
“You know, I have an idea for one last stop,” he says. “Unless you’re too tired?”
I grin. “Not tired at all.”
“Perfect.” He stands, pulling me up with him. “Because this next place is my favorite. And I think you’re really going to like it.”
CHAPTER 17
LARK
The venue is in the heart of Little Havana, and I can hear the music from a full block away. Live horns and percussion cut through the humid night air, the kind of music that demands attention, that pulls you toward it whether you want to go or not.
