Part 2
“A week?” Olivia murmured.
“Seven days,” Helen said, giving her hand a firm squeeze. “Book the ticket.”
The Florida air hit Olivia the second the automatic airport doors slid open—a wall of thick, salt-tinged humidity that instantly began to thaw the Midwestern chill she had carried with her on the plane. She took a deep breath, the scent of warm asphalt and distant ocean water filling her lungs.
By the time she reached her small, pastel-painted hotel on the Gulf Coast, the tension in her shoulders had already begun to ease. Her room was modest but clean, featuring a balcony that overlooked a quiet stretch of white sand. For the first two days, she did nothing but sleep, read paperbacks in the shade, and listen to the rhythmic crash of the waves.
She missed Jack fiercely. She called her mother three times a day, always waiting for a disaster report. But Helen was handling it with seasoned calm. During their latest call, she could hear the TV playing cartoons in the background and Jack happily demanding more apple juice. “He’s fine, Liv,” her mother had reassured her over the phone. “Stop checking in and start enjoying the peace and quiet.”
On her third afternoon, walking back from the beach under the heavy heat of the Florida sun, Olivia stopped at an open-air produce stand. The woven baskets were piled high with citrus, but her eyes locked onto the massive, striped watermelons. The thought of slicing into one, letting the cold, sweet juice wash away the heat of the afternoon, felt like exactly what she needed.
She picked out the largest one she could manage—easily a fifteen-pound beast—and paid the cashier.
The walk back to the hotel was only a few blocks, but the watermelon grew heavier with every step. She had both arms wrapped tightly around it, pressing it against her stomach as she navigated the crowded sidewalk. Up ahead, a loud group of sunburnt tourists in matching neon tank tops was walking toward her, taking up most of the pavement.
Olivia shifted her weight, stepping toward the edge of the sidewalk to give them a wide berth.
She never saw the man behind her.
He collided with her shoulder, a solid, heavy impact that threw her completely off balance. The watermelon slipped from her sweaty arms, tumbling toward the concrete.
It hit the ground with a sickening, hollow crack, bursting open on impact. Bright pink flesh and black seeds scattered across the gray pavement, sending a tidal wave of sticky juice splashing onto the ankles and flip-flops of the passing tourist group.
The tourists immediately began groaning and wiping at their sticky legs, muttering complaints as they hurried away. Olivia just stood there, staring down at the ruined fruit, an irrational wave of exhaustion washing over her. It was just a watermelon, but for a second, it felt like the final straw.
“Oh, man. I am so sorry,” a deep voice said beside her.
She looked up. The man standing there looked mortified. He was tall, with dark, slightly rumpled hair and a faint sunburn across the bridge of his nose. He wasn’t dressed for the beach—he wore dark jeans and a gray button-down with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, looking out of place in the sea of board shorts.
“I completely wasn’t looking where I was going,” he said, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “That was entirely my fault. Please, let me replace it.”
Olivia looked from the pulverized melon back to him. Her instinct was to sigh, tell him to forget it, and walk back to her empty room. But she really wanted that watermelon.
“It’s fine,” she said, brushing a stray drop of juice off her sundress. “I should have held on tighter.”
“No, absolutely not. I wrecked your groceries,” he insisted, already taking a step back toward the direction of the produce stand. “There’s a bench right over there in the shade. You go sit down, take a breath, and don’t move. I’ll be right back. I promise.”
Before she could argue, he turned and jogged back down the street, weaving through the afternoon foot traffic.
Olivia sighed, stepping around the sticky puddle, and walked over to the wooden bench he had pointed out. She sat down, letting the coastal breeze cool the back of her neck.
As she waited, she watched the people walking by. A father pushing a stroller stopped a few feet away, kneeling down to carefully wipe a smudge of ice cream off his little girl’s chin. The child laughed, batting his hands away, and the dad just smiled, hoisting her onto his shoulders.
A familiar tightness gripped Olivia’s chest. It was the kind of simple, ordinary family moment she had always wanted for Jack, and the kind Mark had never been interested in providing. She looked away, staring out at the hazy horizon over the water, actively pushing the memories back down.
“Okay, I’m back. And I think I upgraded.”
She turned. The stranger was standing there, slightly breathless, holding an impossibly large watermelon against his chest. A few beads of sweat gathered at his temples.
“You really didn’t have to do that,” Olivia said, standing up and smoothing her dress.
“I definitely did,” he said, smiling. It was a warm, easy smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. “I’m Owen, by the way.”
“Olivia.”
“Well, Olivia. Which way to your hotel? Because I’m carrying this, and I am not letting you drop it again.”
She couldn’t help but laugh softly. “It’s just up the block. Follow me.”
They fell into step beside each other. The silence was surprisingly comfortable, accompanied only by the sound of passing cars and the rustle of palm fronds.
“So, where are you visiting from?” Owen asked, shifting the heavy melon slightly.
“Chicago area,” she said. “Escaping the freeze.”
“I don’t blame you. I’m actually in the middle of a relocation myself. Moving up north in a couple of weeks for work. Trying to soak in the last of the heat.” He glanced down at her hand, his eyes resting for a fraction of a second on her bare left ring finger. “You’re down here by yourself?”
“I am,” she said, feeling a sudden need to be honest. “Just needed a break.” She looked over at his hands, noting the absence of a ring. “I’m guessing you’re traveling solo, too?”
“Guilty,” Owen said, a wry edge creeping into his voice. “I was engaged. Until she decided she’d rather be with my best friend. So now, I pretty much keep to myself. Once bitten, twice shy, I guess.”
Olivia looked at him, genuinely surprised by his candor. He wasn’t trying to be smooth or impress her. He was just a guy carrying a watermelon, admitting he had baggage. In a strange way, it was the most refreshing thing she had heard in years.
“Well,” Olivia said, stopping in front of the pastel awning of her hotel. “We have that in common, at least. My ex-husband wasn’t exactly the loyal type either.”
Owen stopped, adjusting his grip on the melon, and met her gaze. There was a quiet beat of understanding between them, an unspoken recognition of shared exhaustion.
“Third floor,” Olivia said, gesturing toward the exterior staircase. “You sure you can make it up without dropping our dinner?”
“Lead the way,” Owen said, a spark of amusement returning to his eyes.