The movers had just left when Lea collapsed onto the bare living room floor, her back sticking to the polished concrete. The Miami heat had already seeped into every corner of the empty house, making the air thick and syrupy. She stared up at the vaulted ceilings where a single ceiling fan spun lazily, doing absolutely nothing to cut through the humidity.
Her phone buzzed against the floor.
Mom: Did you make it okay?
Lea typed a quick reply with one hand while the other fanned her face.
Lea: Alive. Barely. This house is an oven.
Mom: Turn on the AC!
She groaned. Right. The AC.
Pushing herself up, Lea wandered through the empty rooms, her sneakers squeaking against the pristine floors. The house was smaller than she remembered - a two-bedroom bungalow with a pool out back that had seemed enormous when she was eight. Now, it felt almost quaint.
The kitchen still smelled faintly of the lemon-scented cleaner the realtor had used. Lea rummaged through the single box she'd labeled ESSENTIALS and pulled out a protein bar, chewing thoughtfully as she surveyed her kingdom.
Her kingdom currently consisted of:
An air mattress
Three suitcases of clothes
Her gaming laptop
A framed photo of her and Liam making stupid faces at Disneyland
Not exactly luxurious, but it was hers. Alone.
By sunset, the AC had finally cooled the house to something resembling livable. Lea stood under the weak spray of the master bathroom shower, washing off the grime of travel. The water pressure was terrible and the tiles were cracked in places, but when she wrapped herself in a towel and looked out the window at the palm trees swaying against the pink sky, something tight in her chest loosened.
This was hers. Just hers.
She pulled on cutoff shorts and a tank top, grabbed her keys, and headed out into the balmy evening. The rental car - a modest Honda Civic that made her miss her Mustang desperately - started with a quiet purr.
Lea drove without direction, windows down, letting the humid air whip through her damp curls. The city smelled like salt and gasoline and something sweet - maybe the night-blooming jasmine that climbed fences in this neighborhood.
She found herself on Ocean Drive almost by accident, the neon lights of art deco hotels reflecting in puddles from an earlier rain. Music spilled from open-air restaurants where tourists sipped colorful drinks. Lea parked haphazardly and wandered until she found a tiny Cuban place with peeling paint and a line out the door.
The croquetas were exactly as she remembered - crispy outside, molten cheese inside. She ate standing up at the counter, watching the street life pass by through the smudged front window.
It was nearly midnight when she got back in the car, her stomach full and her limbs pleasantly heavy. The streets were quieter now, just the occasional roar of a sports car or motorcycle cutting through the night.
At a red light near her neighborhood, Lea rested her elbow on the open window, tapping her fingers to the beat of the radio. The growl of an engine approached from her left.
She glanced over.
A motorcycle idled next to her, the rider clad in all black, his face hidden behind a tinted visor. Something about the way he held himself - shoulders relaxed but alert, one boot planted firmly on the pavement - made her look twice.
On impulse, Lea rolled down her window further.
"Let's break up," she called out, her voice loud in the quiet night.
The biker's head snapped toward her. Even through the helmet, she could feel the weight of his attention. The light seemed to take forever.
Finally, just as it turned green, his voice came through the helmet, deep and amused:
"Take it back."
Lea grinned and hit the gas.