Calla:
The bridge into Eastside always felt like crossing into somebody else's life. The Riverside side was cracked pavement, bait shops, shrimp boats tied to weathered docks, and old houses that had survived more hurricanes than they could count. Eastside? Palm trees lined every median. Landscapers somehow managed to keep flowers alive in July. Luxury SUVs filled every driveway. The sidewalks looked cleaner than my kitchen counter. I hated that I knew exactly where every pothole disappeared.
My Mustang growled through the gated entrance of Pelican Point, drawing more than a few sideways glances from neighbors unloading groceries out of Range Rovers. Bubblegum had never belonged here. Neither did I. The condo towers overlooked the ocean, all glass balconies and white stucco, like somethi
