From Vegas to Key West: Our Unforgettable 7-Day First Date!
- Jonna Royer
- Feb 14, 2024
- 9 min read
Don't feel like reading the article? Just click the video below and watch! If you didn't catch the first part of this post, you can find it here: https://www.callmejj.blog/post/from-vegas-lights-to-key-west-delights-a-magical-meet-cute-and-first-date-adventure
Arriving in Atlanta, I checked my watch. Steve’s plane hadn’t even arrived quite yet and we had a fairly significant layover, so I decided to get us a table at one of the restaurants. I wondered briefly if it was going to be weird seeing him again, but remembered how easy it was to be together and put my fears away.
He joined me just after I had ordered my food, shrimp mac-n-cheese, and the conversation picked back up like we had never left Vegas. We chatted nonstop while eating and continued on during the short flight to Key West.
We checked into the hotel and stowed our suitcases, then Steve said we needed to rent a scooter because it was the best way to get around the island. We walked a few blocks to the rental depot and I leaned against the counter while Steve made the arrangements and started to fill out the paperwork.
Even though we had talked so freely, there were still so many things I didn’t know about him and I found myself looking over his shoulder to see what he was filling out on the paperwork. It was all fairly insignificant information until he came the section for “Age.” Curious, I watched as he wrote 62 in the box. Doing some quick math, I realized there were 24 years between us. That surprised me. He looked so much younger and certainly had a zest about him that didn’t match that number. But, I shrugged it off. Who cares? We were just here as friends and it hadn’t made any difference up to this point, so why would it make any difference now?
We zoomed away on our scooter and I drank in every detail about the island: the gorgeous flowers that bloomed everywhere, the beautiful old style architecture, the warmth of the sun on my face. It was literally 80 degrees warmer in Key West than it had been at home when I left that morning. Steve was a knowledgeable tour guide and told me tidbits about the island as we drove. I kept pointing at things exclaiming, “I want to go see that before we leave!”
Steve knew of a place that served great BBQ, so we went there for dinner, parking the scooter a few blocks away and walking to the restaurant. It was rustic quaint like so many buildings we had seen so far and I loved it. When the waitress came, we ordered a drink and dinner, then continued on with our conversation as we sat along the open wall that looked out to the street.
I felt a little weak and tired, but it had been a long day of traveling, so I brushed it aside. I also felt a little flushed, but, then again, it was significantly warmer than what I had been living in for the past few months, so I didn’t think anything of it.
Our food arrived and one look at it made my stomach rise.
“I’ll be right back,” I said and jumped up to run to the restroom.
Pacing the tile floor, I fought to get my stomach under control. I will not throw up in a public bathroom. I will not throw up in a public bathroom. The thought looped on repeat in my head.
After who-knows-how-many minutes, I finally felt like I could leave the restroom, but I knew I was still in danger of losing it.
“I need to leave,” I said as I approached the table.
Steve jumped up, threw some cash on the table, and escorted me outside. I snatched up to-go cup on our way out so I would have somewhere to throw up if needed. Steve told me to stay put in front of the restaurant and immediately ran off to get the scooter.
As we buzzed furiously back to the hotel at 25 mph, I leaned against his back with my eyes closed trying to keep control over my stomach. I had food poisoning from my airport lunch and I was feeling it big time.
As soon as the scooter was parked at the hotel, I jumped off and started toward my room while Steve kept pace next to me.
“I’m sorry,” I gasped. “I don’t feel well.”
Much later, Steve would reveal to me that he was so relieved to find out I was sick because I had given him zero explanation as to why we had to leave the restaurant so suddenly. He thought I had decided that I didn’t want to be on this trip with him and wanted to go back home. At the time, I was so sick that I didn’t even realize how this must have looked to him.
When we got into my room, Steve was attentive to my every need. The immediate need to throw up had passed but I was still far from well. For almost five hours, I battled feelings of sickness while Steve did everything he could to make me feel better. He rubbed my feet, showed me funny videos on YouTube, and, mostly, we talked. Never in my life had I ever talked to anyone as much as he and I talked, and we never ran out of things to say.
The next day, I felt great and vowed never to eat Shrimp Mac-N-Cheese again, so we went to Pepe’s for a nice pancake breakfast instead and followed that by a morning of sightseeing.
We were at lunch the first time Steve shocked me.
As we walked down Duval Street, I heard a guitar and someone singing in an alley bar between two buildings. Pulling Steve inside, we ordered a couple of drinks and some food. I sang along with the music, befriended the bartender, the guitar player (whose name was Roger) and a couple other people sitting at tables near us, and had a smile on my face that never left.
“I love you,” Steve said as I was watching Roger perform.
My gaze immediately diverted to Steve. “What’s that?”
“I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t say it. I know we’re just friends. But I can’t help it. You are so beautiful and so lovely and so full of life. I love you.”
I stared back at him with a dumbfounded smile on my face.
“I’m not expecting you to say it back,” he went on. “I know I shouldn’t be saying it. I just can’t help it.”
“That’s okay,” I finally replied. “I just don’t want you to get hurt if I’m not there with you.”
“I won’t. I understand. We’re just friends.”
That afternoon, Steve suggested we visit Hemingway’s home. I was enchanted by it even before we passed through the gorgeous brick walls that surrounded the beautiful 2-story edifice.
My fascination with Hemingway started back in middle school when we read Hills Like White Elephants and continued into adulthood as I pursued creative writing on my own. My bookshelves were littered with instructional tomes on how to write like Hemingway and collections of his works.
Now, I was walking around his home! The crowd faded away as I imagined what it must have been like when this was a residence instead of a tourist attraction. Each picture and caption on the wall completely engrossed me and we must have spent over an hour in the house.
The grounds were equally fascinating and when we wandered into a beautiful area laid with pavers and surrounded by trees, a sign caught my attention.
Ask us about having your wedding here.
“Look at that,” I pointed. “They do weddings here! How cool would that be?”
Steve leveled his gaze at me. “I would like to meet you in Hemingway’s garden someday.”
The symbolism of that statement was not lost on me and I stared back at him in shock, unsure of what to say.
“Come on, let’s go check out the gift shop,” Steve said and the moment passed, but the sentiment didn’t.
Over the next few days, the “I love yous” came more and more frequently, especially if we’d imbibed in a few drinks, but we were still having a great time and Steve didn’t push the issue any more than just an oral expression of his feelings, so it didn’t bother me. I didn’t return his feelings, but I did really enjoy being with him. He was so easy to be around. And so much fun!
Toward the end of our week, we deicide to go jet skiing. The trip was one of those where you follow the leader in a trail of machines, but it was still a lot of fun. Halfway through on the blue-green waters of the Gulf, the instructor had us circle up and told us we could have some free time.
“And no full-speed high fives,” he said pointing at me and Steve. I was the only woman that had her own jet ski. All the others were on the back while their male partner drove.
I laughed at the instructor and tore off at full speed with Steve close behind me. We blasted through the water doing hairpin turns that sent up waves before rocketing off in the other direction. After twenty minutes, the tour leader blew his whistle and I came to a stop whipping my jet ski around to face the other direction. Steve had been a little ways behind me and he roared to a stop, slicing his jet ski to the right sending up a wave of water, then cocked his arm on the handlebars and grinned at me.
My heart sped up as my stomach dropped. I suddenly saw him in a way I hadn’t seen him before.
Realizing my mouth was open slightly, I snapped it shut and smiled back at him.
Later that night, we sat on the same side of a table at a rooftop bar overlooking the marina. My feet were in Steve’s lap and he rubbed them as we enjoyed the peacefulness of the evening. I was in heaven because no one had ever rubbed my feet before and this man had done it more than once in less than a week. He was smiling at me and the adoration was evident on his face.
“Okay,” I said slowly. “How would this work?”
Clearly surprised, he looked at me for a moment before answering. “It’s just a time and money issue.”
I nodded but didn’t pursue the subject any further.
Two days later, it was time to go home. Honestly, I was ready. I was exhausted. We had visited every tourist trap, drank at almost every bar (or so it seemed), and indulged in every activity the island had to offer.
As we sat in the airport, Steve told me he didn’t want to leave and that he was going to miss me. I smiled at him, but, between the exhaustion and my confusion over my feelings for him, I didn’t have anything to say in return.
We parted ways, but we kept in touch. Phone conversations were an everyday occurrence for us and, when we weren’t talking, we were texting.
Not quite two weeks after arriving home, I texted Steve.
I have a date tonight. I feel like I’m cheating on you, which I know is silly. But I do.
His reply was immediate. Go on your date. We’re just friends. Have a good time.
I sensed that his text was far from sincere, but what was I supposed to do? This couldn’t go anywhere. We lived in two different states. There were 24 years between us. I had 2 girls who were teenagers, and he had a son that was only a few years younger than me. It was impossible. Wasn’t it?
I went on the date.
The guy was polite enough. The restaurant was nice enough. But there were massive gaps in our conversation. There was never any silence when I talked to Steve, I thought.
We finished dinner and decided to grab a drink at a bar nearby. Even after a drink, the conversation was stilted and bumped along rockily. Excusing myself, I made my way to the bathroom and took out my phone. My fingers flew over the letters on the screen.
I’m on this date and the guy’s not doing anything wrong, but all I can do is think of you.
Ditch the guy and call me.
Steve and I talked on the phone until dawn and one month later, we were engaged.
One year from the day that Steve said he wanted to meet me in Hemingway’s garden, we returned with all our friends and family, and got married by the pool. Our reception was in that little area with the pavers where the sign hung that I had read on the first day of our Seven Day First Date.
Remember Roger, the guy that was singing in the bar the first time Steve told me he loved me? On our first anniversary, Steve took me back to the garden at Hemingway’s house and Roger stepped out from the trees and sang me a song.
It has now been 8 years since our first date and 7 years since we were married. And in all that time, we’ve never had any issues, money, time or otherwise.
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