Secluded Cabin Sleeps Six(10)

You all have a long drive tomorrow.

So do I.

I stand beside a towering queen palm, blending in with the night. I’ve set this thing in motion, a great boulder that I leaned my weight against and now it’s tumbling down, ready to crush everything in its path. It has taken time and planning. More than six months. Multiple moving parts.

I sigh, listen to the singing of the frogs, the whisper of wind in palm fronds.

Do you remember the day you first met me? I certainly do. It was one of those perfect Florida mornings when the air is neither hot nor cold, where the sky is a crisp baby blue and the clouds happy white mountains in the air. This dank blanket of humidity that comes in late spring and lingers into late autumn hadn’t fallen yet.

The world felt clean.

I felt clean. Electric with purpose.

There was a lot of birdsong that day, if I recall correctly. More than usual, maybe. Yes. I remember thinking that when I woke up just as dawn was breaking. How happy the birds sounded outside my window. A mockingbird trilled, his call an overture of other birdcalls. It felt like a good omen.

That morning I practically leapt out of bed, got in the shower right away, not wanting to be late for the job interview that hadn’t been easy to get. I was determined to ace it.

I wanted you to want me as much as I wanted you.

And you did.

As soon as we were alone in that posh office of yours at the very top of one of the few tall buildings in the area, I could see it on your sculpted face. I was just your type.

Your walls were windows; all around us was the city, the glittering bay, the shipping yards, the marina where the giant cruise ships roll in. To the west, off in the distance, I could just see the white sand beaches cut into jewel-green water.

People make fun of Florida, and this area takes a particular hit. Perhaps it lacks Miami’s more obvious glitz, luster, and culture. But there’s a secret beauty here; something that breathes in morning, and sings at sunset. There’s a violence, a wildness. A peace. Florida hides its predators well—beneath the still lake water, in tall grass, under the foamy waves. Foliage blossoms, grows fecund and thick. The stars glitter and the music wafts; drinks flow. You never see it coming, the darkness.

But I did. I saw that darkness in you—beneath your glittering star eyes, your musical smile. Your ebullient charm, booming laugh, and ready smile. That’s the best trick of the predator, to glamour his prey so he can get in close. Once he strikes, they don’t have a chance.

You enthused over my résumé. My experience, my glowing recommendations. We laughed—at your silly jokes, your self-deprecating comments. I didn’t want to be impressed by you, honestly. But I was. Your intelligence, your obvious passion for the work, the local environmental causes your wealth allowed you to support.

“At heart I’m still a Florida kid, tramping around beaches, kayaking through the mangroves. I want that Florida to be here for my kids—clean and wild.”

Your earnestness. I didn’t expect that.

You showed me around—ushering me from the coders to the testers, from the marketing to publicity departments. The people at their desks were heliotropes and you were the sun, everyone turning a worshipful face to you as you strolled through. By the time we got to the break room—a comfortable space with colorful couches, a generously stocked snack area, Sub-Zero full of beverages, a coffee maker that cost more than a used car, Ping-Pong table, gamer consoles—you had already put a gentle hand on my arm. Just a brush really.

We communicate so much with so little. It was just the slightest breach of professional boundaries. I was sure not to pull away or react with anything but a sweet smile, even though your touch revolted me for a hundred reasons.

The space was expansive with tall ceilings, bright lighting, furniture white, big iMacs gleaming, expensive ergonomic chairs, glass-enclosed conference rooms with screens on the walls. Most of the employees seemed young, not a wrinkle or a gray hair among them. The women were mostly stunners—tall and svelte, or busty, stylish, or quirky. But all shiny hair and the plush skin of youth. Like me. Almost everyone had AirPods in or big Beats making them look like air traffic controllers.

“Family in the area?” you asked.

It was a throwaway question but something that people ask often, as if maybe you wouldn’t come here for any other reason. It’s not New York or San Francisco, or Los Angeles, or any of the places people most often go to hustle and make their dreams come true.

“Some.”

I didn’t go on and you didn’t press.

“What do you think?” you asked. And I saw your boyish need for praise, for people to be impressed by what you’ve shown them.

“It’s—amazing,” I answered, suitably breathless. I tilted my head up, hoped my eyes were gleaming.

The male gaze. It slides, just glancing over the objects in its field. Rarely seeing what is there, merely confirming what it already believes to be true. It only rests on the thing it desires, only notices what whets the appetite.

You must be so proud, I said, to have built this.

I’ve been lucky, you said. That’s all. I had lots of help.

This surprised me.

You took me to lunch in the building’s cafeteria which was surprisingly upscale—we had sushi rolls and seaweed salad, sitting outside in the fresh air while you talked about Red World, and gaming, and how you’re just a geek at heart who got to do the thing he loved the most.