Paradise is subjective.
Most people picture pearly white beaches, palm trees, coconut water, and tropical hibiscus flowers. The whole Caribbean fantasy. I understand why it works. Escapism has its appeal.
That’s not what makes the island paradise to me.
It’s simplicity. The right people around you with no pressure to impress, no rush, no compulsive need to check what’s happening elsewhere through the screen of your phone. Elysia Beach is that kind of place.
You can show up late with nothing but a bag of ice and a guitar, and still being welcomed like you brought a winning lottery ticket.
The air feels charged.
Maybe it’s the hot night. Or maybe it’s the way Tom keeps touching me, then retreating like none of it happened.
He sure knows how to edge, driving me insane in the best and worst way possible.
I shake off the thought and focus on the scene ahead.
The parking lot is a chaos I can actually handle. For a night.
It’s messy. The opposite of everything I grew up with. Maybe that’s exactly why it feels like home. People everywhere. Coolers, mismatched chairs, plastic tables set up around barbecues.
I slow down the car, paying close attention, because kids are chasing each other in-between vehicles.
Tiffy texted earlier, saying she found a spot by the first palapa behind the beach-side restaurant. It’s usually quieter there, a bit further away from the loudest speakers.
That seems like the perfect place to introduce Tom to the local way of life. Judging by his expression, he might need it. He looks overwhelmed.
Maybe he forgot this kind of community spirit existed.
I know the feeling. I was once in the same boat.
My headlights catch a familiar silhouette waving at us.
Tiffy must’ve seen my Gremlin approaching. She points to a free space, shouting something back to the group.
I hesitate. Is Tom ready to be back amongst people? People who might recognize him?
For a split second, I consider turning the car around, and take him back to Arcadia, where he can just be Tom. No expectations. No spotlight.
Then he looks at me.
Reassuring. Like he knows I’m about to pull the plug.
He gives me a small nod.I’ve got this.
I nod back.
I climb out first. Tom follows, guitar over his shoulder. I grab the cooler.
We walk side by side toward the palapa.
Tiffy staggers in our direction, nearly tripping over a rock.
Fuck.
So busy spiraling in my own head, I forgot the obvious. Barbecues come with Cuba Libres and Mojitos. Always.
Worst therapist of the year. Congratulations.
