It ended up being a late night, with Morgan riding back to the condo with me while the others hopped in an Uber. On the way, she confessed that Holly and Stacy were already pressing her to post the videos they’d made of her singing.
“What do you think?” she asked, uncertain. “Do you think it would be a mistake?”
“How could it be a mistake?”
“I don’t know… Do you think it’s good enough? What if, like, some A&R exec comes across the video? It’s not exactly studio quality, and my throat has been kinda scratchy lately. I didn’t have a chance to warm up and I didn’t even know all the words perfectly—”
“Morgan.” I took one hand off the steering wheel and laid it firmly over hers. “Stop.”
When she turned toward me, I went on. “You were fantastic,” I said. “If anyone sees that video, they’ll see that you have superstar written all over you.”
Morgan covered her face with her hands in embarrassment, but I could see the smile peeking out between her fingers.
The following morning, I drove her back to the Don. The conversation in the truck was muted, and though we made plans to meet by the pool in a few hours, she was quieter than usual, her expression preoccupied.
I didn’t ask the reason, if only because I already knew.
Our time together was quickly coming to an end.
Because I’d be working the following evening, I wanted our Friday night to be memorable. Doing some quick research on the internet, I was able to arrange for a private catamaran ride at sunset. I winced at the cost but tried to remind myself I only lived once.
I also planned to make her dinner afterward, which required yet another trip to the grocery store, as I wasn’t sure I trusted that the chicken I’d bought before the power outage would still be safe to eat. I also had to figure out a recipe that sounded good but was also supremely easy. In the end, I didn’t make it to the Don until half past eleven.
This time the group of friends was on the beach, and again, a chair for me had thoughtfully been placed beside Morgan’s. Though part of me considered inviting only Morgan on the catamaran, by then I’d come to like her friends and figured they’d enjoy it, too. Their excitement at the prospect was even greater than I expected, however—they kept mentioning how much they were looking forward to it, which earned some grateful expressions from Morgan, as well.
She and I wandered off for lunch together alone. Afterward, we walked the beach and waded in the surf to cool off, and it was easy to imagine a life with her in the future, if only I had the courage to make it possible.
In late afternoon, they regrouped in their rooms to get ready; I did the same at the condo, then met them at the Don for the drive to the docks. Though I should have expected it, Morgan’s friends had their phones out and were taking selfies as soon as we stepped on board, prompting the occasional eye roll from Morgan. It wasn’t a huge vessel—I figured that it was comfortable for up to seven or eight guests—but the girls swooned over the fruit and cheese and complimentary champagne. Surprising me, even Morgan had some, and we all clinked glasses in celebration.
We left the dock and cruised along the waterfront; twice, we spotted dolphins trailing alongside the catamaran. The spectacular sunset somehow seemed closer when out on the water, as though we were actually sailing into it. With the wind in our faces, Morgan leaned into me, and I held her as we skimmed over the gentle waters. Her friends kept trying to get us to pose for photographs, too, but after a couple, Morgan shooed them away, trying her best to preserve the moment for just the two of us.
Once we were back onshore, the girls suggested that we head into downtown St. Pete. Though I offered to go with Morgan in case she wanted to join them, she shook her head and said she’d rather return to the condo with me.
In the small kitchen, Morgan watched while I preheated the oven and popped a couple of baking potatoes in; later I retrieved the marinating chicken breasts from the refrigerator, placing them on a baking sheet. I put them in the oven along with another foiled baking sheet bearing asparagus coated with olive oil and salt.
“I’m impressed,” she said, raising an eyebrow.
“Don’t be. I googled it this morning.”
When I reached for the tomato to start slicing it for the salad, Morgan wrapped her arms around my waist from behind and kissed me behind my ear. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“You can slice the cucumbers,” I said, reluctant to have her move away.