Summer of the Wilds

We pulled into The Meridian just after ten. Already the sky was too blue, too cloudless, the kind of morning people post online with casual captions like escape or earned it.

We arrived in a black SUV—rented, but dressed up with a driver, because appearances mattered. Always had.

A valet opened the door and said, “Welcome back, Dr. and Mrs. Saroyan,” like it was muscle memory.

I stepped out last.

My sneakers hit the drive awkwardly. My shirt was creased from the three-hour ride, and I already hated the way the air clung to me—perfumed, manufactured, expensive. There were white umbrellas dotting the pool deck, sleek electric carts ferrying guests past water features and manicured palms, and bellboys in pressed linen moving like ghosts through glass.

I was overdressed. Underdressed. I didn’t know which. Probably both.