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by an offer. I return to the hotel with three opportunities, not including the Round House. Since I cashed out my five years of teaching retirement, I’m not in that much of a hurry to start working. Do I want to be a cook-slash-bouncer, a bartender, or a T-shirt salesman?
    Questions from earlier circle like buzzards. Am I running away or moving forward? There was no way I could’ve stayed in St. Louis. My parents would just nag me about getting another job. They never understood why I quit without a fight. They had a hard enough time understanding the week in Key West with Birch’s band. Having a master’s degree and moving to an island to work some meaningless job for the summer was a complete waste of time in their eyes. We had already had two fights about it when they stopped by the night I was packing up. If I wanted to go away peacefully, maybe litigation with the school district was the better choice.
    My mom immediately took out a cigarette when she saw the empty apartment and the small collection of belongings that I planned to take with me. She hadn’t smoked in years, so I knew things were not going to go well. I said, “If you want to smoke, you have to go out on the terrace. I don’t want the place to smell like smoke and lose my security deposit.”
    She fumbled with the cigarette trying to put it back in the pack, eventually breaking it. She said, “I still don’t understand why you’re leaving.”
    My dad took the pack from her. “It’s just for the summer. He’ll be back.”
    I couldn’t believe we were talking about it again. Did they really think they could come over and change my mind? The deal was done. It wasn’t a matter of if I was going but how long I was staying. I said, “Not sure what I’m going to do at the end of the summer.” I close up a box and stretch tape across it. “Maybe I’ll stay there or maybe go down to Key West for the winter.”
    My mom stomped toward the window and stared outside, unwilling to even look at me. “I can’t believe you’re giving up so easily.”
    I made the same “What other choice do I have?” argument I had for the past month. “I tried,” I said. “I really tried to fit into that world. But how much of myself am I supposed to sacrifice to blend into my surroundings? At some point, I have to mold my environment to reflect who I am.”
    My dad accused me of being a drama queen. “No one is asking you to be something you’re not,” he continued. “You’ve worked hard to get where you are, and we just don’t want to see you throw it all away to go live on some island and become a drifter.”
    I said, “You know the best part about my life? It’s that it’s
my
life.”
    I wanted to take these words back the second they came out, but it was too late. Tears began streaming down my mom’s face, and my dad contorted his to hide the pain they caused.
    My mom wiped her eyes. “We didn’t come here to fight. We just wanted to say good-bye and wish you well.” She kissed me on the cheek and headed for the door.
    My dad didn’t say anything, just began to follow her.
    “Trust me. I know what I’m doing,” I said. “I’m just taking a vacation.” It was what I had been telling everyone who challenged my decision or asked questions that I didn’t want to answer. On vacation you can be and do whatever you want—exactly what I needed.
    “You didn’t have to be so mean,” my dad said, and my parents left.

    A waft of barbecue chicken greets me as I approach the hotel. On the side of the building next to the Round House on the patio in front of the Park Hotel, there’s a sixteen-by-four-foot gas grill half full with quarter chickens sizzling and glistening with barbecue sauce, which a sign next to the grill divulges is made with island wine. Patrons sit at round stone tables ravenously tearing meat from bone. The sauce covers their hands and clings to their chins. The picture is more reminiscent of medieval times than a resort