I know the place my husband goes for drinks after work. The bar is claustrophobic and humid from sweat. Partiers crowd together, either at the bar, around dinner tables, or on the dance floor. Anyone who wants to maneuver around these crowds is funneled into little streams of people lined up individually like they’re in grade school. The single women caught in these streams hold hands so they’re not separated. No conversations can be held above the deejay’s air horn. A live five-piece band with a busty singer tags out the deejay. Sweating cocktail glasses are abandoned next to appetizer scraps. A tourist takes off her heels. Credit card receipts litter the floor. The whole situation might be considered trashy if the city wasn’t Miami, where the spring breaks are legendary and international superstars lend their clout.
The phone rings once before he answers. My husband always picks up for me, and this time is no different. He calls me by a pet name that is so sappy, I can’t help but blush when he bellows it across the grocery store.
He hollers into the phone that he can’t hear me, but hang on and he’ll step outside. I wait and feel a swell of relief. I still marvel at how two people from such different parts of the world could meet in a third culture and continue to love each other.
Our friends are all jealous because we live where they vacation—blue skies and beaches and palm trees. “Paradise.” All the other cities in the US were shut down during the pandemic or struggled to function normally. Miami hustled her way through that year, and that’s what attracted him here. She offers so much opportunity for growth. I have to admit she’s pretty. She’s the type of woman who can put on white in the morning, wear red lipstick, drink coffee, go about her business, and still be wearing white at the end of the day. She does have an air of sophistication. Men leave New York for her. Europeans lust for her. Latin Americans risk their lives for her.
“Hey, Boo Boo Bear,” he says. The sounds of the bar have been replaced by honking horns and road rage.
“Do you still love me?” I say.
He answers without hesitation. “Always. We’re on the last round and then I’ll be home.”
“Te quiero. Besos.”
I can hear her calling to him in the background.
If Miami were a person, she would have veneers from the same dentist who does her Botox because her dentist has a license to administer Botox since the license is so easy to obtain in Florida and fillers are a fast, easy way to make money. Also fast and easy is her sense of fashion, with a tiny dress from Shein paired with a rented designer purse to elevate the outfit. Miami and I couldn’t be more antithetical to each other. My hair has been the color I was born with for my whole life. I exercise daily, but my physique isn’t enhanced by synthetic implants or surgeries. My face is aging, but I have decided against injectables. He sometimes tells me to let him know if I’m ever considering any sort of body modification so he can try and change my mind.
The jangling of the house keys in the door lock wakes me up. I hear him kick off his shoes at the front door. He comes to kiss the top of my head before going to the kitchen in search of a snack. I hear him take off his clothes one garment at a time as he makes his way from the kitchen and into the shower like Hansel and Gretel once they became old enough to drink. He flops into our marriage bed smelling like Dove soap, rolling me over at his back so I’m the big spoon.
Miami is alone with him in our living room when I wake up. Swaths of sunlight sit on his lap where he’s reading on the couch. The neighbors and their dogs are greeting each other outside in their cheery Saturday morning voices. I crawl into my rightful place on his lap, positioning myself between his eyes and his book. I hate feeling needy, but also don’t want to ask for reassurance. As I get up to make breakfast, I have the urge to shut Miami out of the whole house, in spite of myself. The freckles on the bridge of my nose and cheeks are proof I once more-than-loved the sun—I worshiped the planet’s biggest star. I crack three eggs into the pan: me, my husband, and Miami. They can have each other, I think, in a fit of jealousy. I don’t like to play games that I think I’ll lose, and I’m afraid I’m losing him. We had agreed on three years to complete his citizenship before choosing a new city, and that expiration date is approaching. He wants to buy the home we’re renting, while I’ve been hoping to break the lease. The argument is moot since we cannot afford either situation. I decide to scramble the eggs and put them over rice with soy sauce, which I know he’ll love. Except, he loves arepa con huevos more, and I don’t know how to make the dish. Miami knows, though. She can cook all his favorite foods.
Another of our couple friends from New York has come for a visit. We take them to brunch at Verde in the Perez Art Museum. Our table is outside on the lanai, with a delicious breeze and a view of Miami’s best side. The Icon of the Seas is in port today, eager to take her maiden voyage out of the city. Our friends are delighted with the experience they’re having and ask how much we love Miami.
I let him take the lead on this question, while I try to think of something to say that is positive but honest. He talks about the proximity to his home country of Colombia and how we can always find a live salsa band for a night out dancing. To my relief, he mentions that we aren’t planning to live here forever but that he is happy for now.
“I’m trying to like Miami,” I say when it’s my turn. “I know a lot of people love it here, but I guess I’ve been spoiled by living in way more amazing beach destinations.”
Both my friends roll their eyes.
“Oh, boo hoo,” one mocks me.
I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but I want to be validated. Compared to other cities in the developed world, Miami is overhyped, in my opinion. In a heated discussion with my husband once, I told him that he had been sold the American Dream. I had grown up with the American Reality, and we needed to leave the US as soon as he finished his citizenship. His citizenship will come from his years on a green card, not from our marriage. He retorted that Miami was more like Latin America’s capital city than a city in the US.
I threaten through tears that night to leave the city. I do not want to leave him. I only want to leave Miami. He holds me and tells me he understands. He doesn’t want me to leave our marriage, nor the city, but he does not offer to come with me. We will make our relationship work, even if we have to be based in two different places for my own happiness.
Maybe I need to get to know Miami better. I’m going to dress nice and drive to a quaint neighborhood that has one of the few bookstores in the entire city. I miss my hometown of Seattle, where bookstores were on every corner just like coffee shops, and the weather always provided an excuse to stay inside and read. I put on makeup, a floral print minidress, and bright yellow wedges. The bookshop is a solid forty-five- minute drive when there is no traffic, so I leave an hour early since there’s always an accident. Traffic is the biggest waste of life.
I find parking near the bookshop, where influencers are having a photo shoot on the street. Miami is home to the biggest population of OnlyFans account owners and Brazzers porn stars. I’m already grumpy from driving, and these young entrepreneurs having no regard for anyone else trying to use the sidewalk annoys me further. My inner dialogue rages about Miami being the most self-absorbed city.
The bookstore has an outdoor cafe almost the size of the retail space. I order an iced coffee and pastry for the price of an entree while I wait and sit down to eat, which should make me feel better. A text vibrates on my phone. Miami has just canceled our first friend date, so I will be spending another afternoon alone.
I talk for hours on the phone with my girlfriends in other cities because I don’t have any friends in Miami. This is not a place where women are friendly and trusting of each other. I eat alone at work every day, while my female colleagues pass by my desk on their way to lunch in their little cliques. This has never happened to me in any city where I’ve lived, so I refuse to believe I am the problem. My phone friends listen and validate my feelings, but they also warn me against leaving my husband alone in Miami. But I don’t understand why the narrative is I am leaving him and not—he has chosen not to come with me.
