George saw Abbi before she saw him. At least that’s what he claims, and he didn’t waver a bit from this version of events in all of the years following, regardless of Abbi’s telling of the same story in which she claims that she saw him first. It was always the primary point of dissension between the two of them, which we can all probably agree is not half bad, all things considered.
The rest of the story is more or less the same regardless of who has told it and, having heard both versions many times, I believe that I can do a fair job of recounting it here.
————
George was at the poolside bar, having a daiquiri, and Abbi was lounging by the pool in a hammock, which she had somehow managed to string up between a few trees that were undoubtedly meant solely for decoration. That was the first thing George noticed. The second thing was how beautiful she was. She had the youthful glow that only a girl of eighteen can have. A glow that comes from hope as much as youth. By nineteen, enough of the hope is gone that she cannot recover the glow, even if the beauty stays. George was freshly twenty-one himself, and had nearly lost hope altogether, or thought he had until he saw Abbi swinging subtly back and forth with a casual grace that never ceased to amaze him. She never lost anything but the glow, a fact which was a source of jest between the two for years, for George regularly accused Abbi playfully of using witchcraft to retain her youthful beauty in such a way that was nearly unbelievable.
The first thing Abbi noticed about George was that he seemed sad. In fact, he looked so damned pitiful that she distinctly remembers feeling sorry for him. She was an empathetic person to begin with, and he was a rather handsome young man, so before long she decided to get up and go talk to him. For his part, George did his best to not lose his cool—or so much cool as he had, anyway—as she walked over. Not wanting to appear as if she had walked over specifically to talk to George, Abbi ordered a soda at the bar.
“¿Con ron?” the bartender asked her.
Abbi didn’t understand, so she shrugged apologetically. The bartender apparently took this as an answer, for he nodded and turned around. It was at this point Abbi turned towards George and introduced herself.
“Where are you from?” she asked him after hearing his American accent.
“Pensacola,” he said. “You?”
“Montgomery,” she replied. Then, looking around: “You here by yourself?”
“More or less.”
That was hardly definitive, but Abbi had a feeling that it was related to his sadness so she pressed onward.
“It’s a nice day,” she said.
He glanced at the sky. “Won’t last.”
“Why’s that?”
“Storm’s coming in.”
“It’s not supposed to be here until noon tomorrow,” she replied.
He looked back up. “It’ll get here early.”
“How do you know?” she pressed, growing a bit annoyed at his attitude, but not willing to give up yet.
“I’ve been coming here every year for a decade,” he replied. “I’ve learned a thing or two. Storms always hit early here.”
“Interesting.”
Abbi paused, gathering her thoughts and considering what to say next. The bartender slid her drink across the bar. She paid cash and turned back towards George.
“Not to pry,” she began, before George cut her off.
“If you have to say that, it’s probably not true.”
Abbi was lost for words. A sudden burning anger arose in her, but before she could explode, George miraculously realized he had gone too far and backtracked.
“Sorry,” he said. “You seem very nice. It’s just been a rough few days.”
Abbi cooled back down, slightly, and replied: “I’m sorry to hear that.” A brief pause, then: “Care to talk about it?”
“Not particularly,” George said. “But I’d be down to talk about nearly anything else.”
“Like what?”
“I dunno,” he shrugged. “What brings you down here?”
“Vacation,” she said simply.
“Well, obviously,” George said, chuckling slightly to lighten the mood. “But why here specifically? It’s not the standard tourist trap.”
“Well,” Abbi started, “I threw a dart at the map and this is where it stuck.”
“Really?”
“No,” she smiled. “It was the cheapest place I could find that didn’t also look like somewhere I’d get murdered.”
“Never know,” George said, sipping his drink.
Abbi’s eyes lit up with sudden caution and George, realizing he had made another mistake, quickly attempted to calm her down.
“Sorry!” he said. “Bad joke.”
“Yes,” Abbi replied. “Yes, it was.”
George had the good sense to look properly scolded. Abbi took her first sip of her drink and realized what the bartender had been asking. She forgot the legal drinking age was both lower and less enforced here. She wasn’t disappointed at all.
The two got to talking, slowly getting used to one another, and eventually—as most conversations of this sort do—they got around to talking about their wildest dreams and ambitions.
“I want to be a writer,” George admitted. “Live somewhere like this, Hemingway it up.”
“Hemingway it up?” Abbi asked.
“Yeah. Live among the locals, sort of. Drink a lot. Write.”
“Oh, okay.”
“What about you?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I mean I have some vague ideas, but nothing concrete. I definitely want to travel.”
“You could be a model,” George said, blushing slightly, though after several drinks, the change in the color of his cheeks was negligible.
“Thank you,” Abbi replied, embarrassed, “but I don’t think that’s for me.”
“Why not?” George said, emboldened.
“I dunno. I’m just not…that pretty,” she shrugged. Then, seeing the skepticism on George’s face: “Don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen the way people look at me. I know I’m a certain degree of attractive, at least, but models have a certain look, you know?”
“I suppose so,” George said cautiously.
“It is what it is,” Abbi said, shrugging again.
The conversation died for a while after that and the two sat at the bar, enjoying the weather while it lasted, sipping cocktails, until Abbi’s mother found her.
“Jennifer Abbigail!”
“Uh oh,” Abbi muttered. “Gotta go.”
“Wait,” George said. He dug around in his pockets for a pen and wrote his number on a napkin. “Text me.”
Abbi smiled—at least as much as a young woman who knows she is about to be in serious trouble with her mother is able to smile—and nodded.
“Okay,” she said, and ran off.
George watched her go, feeling bad for her, but overall better than he had in a long time. The day had turned out okay, after all.
————
That was twenty years ago. Both of them remembered it like it was yesterday, despite the single discrepancy. It was far lovelier to hear them tell it, but I feel like I’ve done a good enough job capturing the events and putting them down on the page.
They were married a year later. Her parents weren’t thrilled, but she didn’t care and in the end they realized they couldn’t stop her and came around. Eleven months later I came along. I wasn’t exactly “planned”—something they’ve joked around about many times—but I’ve never felt unwanted or unloved, despite the wrench I threw into their plans.
My dad never quite made it as a writer, and my mom’s hopes of travelling were all but ruined when I came along, but the way the two loved each other was inspiring, and when I decided to write a story it was the first that crossed my mind. I wonder why my dad never wrote it down. Perhaps to him it was too close to the heart to do anything with, but none of this matters, I suppose, in the end.
I miss them both, terribly.
I suppose that’s the reason I’m writing this down. My dad didn’t make it as a writer, but maybe I will, and I can tell the stories he never was able to put down on the page. For him and for my mother.
Pre-order my new collection The Idea of Romance and Other Lies: Stories at major e-book retailers now. Will include this story.
Caleb Bedford 