Season of Dreams

Callie

The Pacific smelled different than the Gulf, sharper somehow. Like the ocean here had opinions.

Back home in Mississippi, the air was thick. Humidity tucked itself into your skin like it planned on staying awhile. It wrapped around you, heavy and familiar, the kind of embrace that didn’t ask if you wanted it. But here in Marina del Rey, the breeze came in cool, salty. Honest in a way that made me feel seen and a little called out.

Which, fine. I probably deserved it.

I swung my camera strap over my shoulder and walked the docks, sandals tapping quietly against sun-bleached boards. The wood was worn smooth by countless strangers who’d walked this path before me. Boats bobbed lazily in their slips, ropes creaking with the rhythm of someone whispering “slow down,” water slapping gently at hulls in a language I didn’t speak yet. Pelicans perched like grumpy old men judging everyone, their heavy beaks tucked into feathers that looked like they’d seen too much.

This was supposed to be relaxing.

A “forced break,” as my editor Max called it.

“You haven’t taken a vacation since the Egg Bowl three years ago,” he’d said, leaning on my desk like gravity didn’t apply to him, that unlit cigar clamped between his teeth like it was holding his face together. “Go somewhere warm. Take pictures of anything that isn’t cleats, turf, or a dugout. Rest.”

I’d told him I was fine. He’d told me my eye twitched when I lied. Then he booked my flights himself, sent me a picture of the Airbnb he'd rented, and threatened to change my laptop password if I opened the newsroom drive. He’d meant it too. Max had been my editor since I was an intern with a cheap point-and-shoot and dreams of covering the Olympics. He knew me better than I knew myself sometimes.

So here I was, walking a marina in California, trying to remember what my life looked like when it wasn’t measured by final scores and deadlines, when my worth wasn’t tied to whether I captured the perfect moment at home plate or the winning goal in overtime.

Trying not to think about the fact that, a year ago, I was supposed to get married.

Don’t go there yet. Just breathe.

But breathing was harder than it used to be. Some days, it felt like I had to remind my lungs how to do it, like they’d forgotten the rhythm between inhale and exhale. Like somewhere between the altar and the airport, I’d lost the automatic nature of being alive.

A gull screeched overhead like it had a personal vendetta against peace. Fitting.

I lifted my camera out of habit and pointed toward the water, where sunlight glittered off the surface like spilled glass. A couple paddled by on matching boards, laughing, their hands brushing as they moved. Their voices carried across the water, carefree, unbothered, the kind of easy intimacy that used to make my chest warm and now made it ache.

I snapped a photo. Something tugged in my chest. Not jealousy. Just distance between where I was and where I thought I’d be by now.

A year ago, I was planning a honeymoon, researching beaches or cabins in the mountains, making lists of places to photograph with Matt beside me, his arm around my waist as we scrolled through travel sites on his laptop. We’d talked about it for years. Where we’d go when we finally had time, when the season ended, when life slowed down enough for us to breathe together.

Instead, I was here alone. Matt was in Chicago, probably throwing bullpen sessions or doing interviews, living the life he’d chosen over me.

I shifted, found a better angle ,the bow of a sleek sailboat against the sky, mast lines cutting sharp across blue. The composition was perfect. The light was golden and forgiving. My fingers moved automatically, muscle memory from thousands of games, thousands of moments captured through glass.

Click.

“Hey!”

The voice came out of nowhere. Sharp, irritated, cutting through the peaceful morning like a knife through silk. I lowered my camera, startled, heart jumping against my ribs.

A man stood a few slips down, sunglasses, and messy dark hair that looked like it had been arguing with the wind all morning. A t-shirt clung to broad shoulders, the fabric pulled tight across muscles that suggested he spent more time working than posing. One hand gripped the railing of a sailboat with white-knuckled intensity.

He glared like he’d just caught me committing a felony instead of taking pictures. Like I’d reached into his chest and pulled out something private. As if I was the latest in a long line of people who’d taken something from him without asking.

“You could ask, you know,” he said, voice rough, irritated. “Or is privacy optional when someone owns a nice boat?”

Okay. Wow. Welcome committee was feisty today.

I blinked, trying to process the sudden shift from peaceful morning to confrontation. “I wasn’t photographing you.”

His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath skin that looked like it hadn’t seen enough sleep lately. “Sure you weren’t.”

“I’m serious.” I lifted my camera a little. “I was taking pictures of the marina. The light’s good.”

He snorted like he’d heard every lie in the world and this one was his least favorite. Like he’d been burned before, repeatedly, by people who said exactly what I’d just said.

“That camera screams paparazzi.”

The word hit me like a slap I wasn’t expecting. Not because it was insulting, I’d been called worse by angry coaches and disappointed subjects. But because of the raw edge in his voice. The way he said it like it was a weapon that had been used against him too many times.

I laughed, short and surprised, more reflex than humor. “Paparazzi? Look, buddy, if I were paparazzi, you’d see a telephoto lens and hear my editor breathing heavy in my ear. I’d be hiding behind a dumpster, not standing here in broad daylight with a camera that costs more than my car.”

He didn’t laugh. His sunglasses hid his eyes but everything about his posture said not buying it. Shoulders locked forward, weight balanced like he was ready to move, to fight, to run. Like he’d spent too long waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I inhaled, patience stretching thin. “I’m not paparazzi. Or whoever you think I am. I’m on vacation.”

“Right,” he muttered. “And I’m just a guy who hates cameras and coincidence.”

I squinted at him. Something about his voice tugged familiar, like I’d heard it in a movie or interview once. And now that I was looking, he did have that Hollywood-pretty thing going on. Jawline carved out of stubborn, shoulders built like he accidentally picked up gym memberships with every movie role. The kind of face that launched a thousand think pieces and gossip blog headlines.

Ah.

Then it clicked.

Paul Merritt.

Actor. Rising star. Recently photographed dodging a red carpet like he owed it money. Rumored to be “difficult,” one reporter called him “allergic to fame,” which honestly sounded fair so far. I’d seen his face on magazine covers in grocery store checkout lines, on posters outside theaters I never had time to visit, in the background of entertainment news segments I half-watched while editing photos at 2 AM.

Well, fantastic.

Max would have a stroke if he knew I’d stumbled into Hollywood proximity this fast. He’d probably demand I get an exclusive interview, or at least a candid shot for the Sunday edition. Good thing he didn’t know. Good thing I wasn’t that person, the one who saw every encounter as a potential story, every stranger as a possible subject.

Before I could say I recognized him, or decide whether I should, I steadied my voice.

“Look, I’m not here for you. I’m not tracking you. I didn’t even know who you were,”

Don’t say famous. Don’t feed him.

“a boat guy.”

Smooth, Callie. Pulitzer material.

His mouth almost twitched. Annoyed or amused, hard to tell.

“A boat guy,” he echoed.

“Yep.” I gestured awkwardly. “Just a regular boat man, doing boat things.”

A beat of silence.

Then, unexpectedly, a soft exhale. Almost a laugh. Almost.

“You’re not from here,” he said.

“Was it the accent or the sandals?”

“Both.”

“Starkville, Mississippi,” I said. “And before you ask. Yes, I know cowbells are loud. Yes, I hate Ole Miss. And yes, I can drive in snow. Technically.”

His shoulders relaxed half an inch. Good. Progress.

He nodded toward my camera. “So what do you shoot, if not me?”

“Sports,” I said. “Baseball mostly. Some high school football. Whatever game needs a lens.”

The words came automatically, the same way they had for years when people asked what I did. But this time, they felt different. Hollow somehow. Like I was describing a life I used to have, a person I used to be.

His head tilted slightly, sunglasses catching sunlight. “So you’re working. Vacation’s just the cover.”

“No,” I said, and the word felt heavier than it should, like it was carrying more than its share of weight. “Actually on vacation. Forced. Apparently working myself into dust isn’t a personality trait.”

“And yet.” He glanced at the camera still hanging at my hip, the way it always did, like an extension of my body I couldn’t quite shake.

“It’s muscle memory,” I said. “Like breathing. Or bracing for impact.”

Something shifted in his posture then, not much, but enough. Like he understood exactly what I meant. Like he knew what it was to have your body remember things your mind wanted to forget.

He looked at me then and something softened. Just enough to let me know he was actually seeing me, not just another threat, another camera, another person trying to take something.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I get that.”

I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I’ve had too many people taking photos lately.”

“Sounds exhausting,”

He hesitated, then extended a hand. “Paul Merritt.”

“Callie Gordon.” He had the kind of grip that said he’d been raised to look people in the eye when he apologized. Firm but not crushing, confident without being aggressive. The kind of handshake that said he meant it.

“Mississippi?” he asked.

“Starkville,” I reply. “Mississippi. Born and raised.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “Duluth. Minnesota.”

“Ah, so you understand winter,”

“Winter, yes. Humidity, no.” He grinned then, and it hit me square in the chest, unexpected and unfair. The kind of smile that made you want to smile back even when you didn’t want to, that made you forget for a second why you were guarding your heart in the first place.

I tried not to smile back. “I was taking pictures of the pier, Duluth. Not your precious boat.”

The name Second Wind shimmered in silver paint along the stern, catching the morning light in a way that made it seem almost alive. “You know what,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, a gesture that seemed more vulnerable than it should have been, “if you had been, I’d almost forgive you.”

“Bet it photographs well,” I say with a little shrug, trying to keep my voice light even as something tightened in my chest.

“Was my dad’s phrase,” he added quietly, and the way he said it, like it was something precious, made my breath catch. “Said a bad day always had a second wind in it somewhere. You just had to wait for it.”

I don’t know why that lodged in my chest, but it did. Maybe because I was still waiting for mine. Maybe because some days, it felt like I’d been waiting since the morning Matt called, since the moment my life split into before and after, since the second I realized that some second winds never came.

“Good philosophy,” I managed, my voice barely steady.

“Good man,” Paul said, and for the first time, he sounded completely real. Unmasked and almost gentle. Like he was letting me see something he didn’t show many people.

A gull flew low, breaking the moment. He cleared his throat, adjusting his grip on the rope.

“Just… be careful with cameras around here,” he said, not unkind now. “People get jumpy.”

“Clearly,” I murmured.

He almost smiled. “That was the polite version.”

“I figured.”

Another pause, gentler now.

“I’ll stay out of your way,” I said. “You stay out of my frame.”

“That wasn’t my best moment,” he admitted, voice lower. “Sorry.”

I shrugged. “I’ve had worse days.”

He hesitated, then nodded once. A small truce.

As I walked away, he called, “Hey.”

I turned, surprised by how much I wanted to keep walking and how much I wanted to turn back.

“What’s it short for? Callie.”

It wasn’t a question so much as curiosity. Like he was filing away details about me the same way I filed away details about the people I photographed, the small things that made them real.

I blinked. “Calliope.”

His brows rose. “The muse.”

I huffed. “Let me guess. English lit major?”

“Teacher,” he corrected. “Before all this.” His mouth tugged at one side. “Vacation, huh?”

“I'm trying,” I said, and the word felt more honest than I intended.

He nodded toward the water. “Good place to start.”

I left him there, sunlight on the waves, hand still resting on the railing like he wasn’t sure whether he belonged on land or at sea. Like he was as lost as I was, just better at hiding it.

And as much as I didn’t want another story right now. I already knew I’d remember the way he said “Calliope.”

Like he saw something in me worth remembering.

I walked back to the Airbnb with my camera still hanging heavy at my hip, the morning light feeling different now. Warmer somehow. Less honest, maybe, but more forgiving.

And for the first time in three months, I wondered if maybe, just maybe, there was a version of my life where the story wasn’t over yet.