Ross Lynch Imagines

Florida

The rhythmic, peaceful background noise of the whirring ceiling fan and the sound of waves crashing along the shoreline exuding from the cracked bedroom window is disrupted by deafening, emphatic music blaring from the kitchenette and furnished living room of the vacation condo. Your eyes dart open, disturbed from a deep slumber. You sit up in the bed your sleeping on, glancing over at the other queen bed on the other side of the room, the beds separated by a nightstand with a starfish designed lamp on it. In the other bed, Ross and Rocky are asleep, puffs of air inhaling and exhaling in and from their agape mouths, completely undisturbed from the booming music playing out in the rest of the condo. Surely if there is other people still sleeping in other condos nearby, they must hear it. You peel the sheet and duvet off your body, swinging your legs over the side of your bed and hoist yourself up. You amble across the tile floor, your bare feet padding against the floor, extending your hand out for the doorknob as you rub your tired eyes. As you open the door, you find Ellington, Savannah Latimer, and Riker sitting at the large, circular glass table with a porcelain ceramic bowl holding seashells in the middle as a centerpiece. They're each holding mugs of steaming coffee in their hands, while in the kitchenette you can see Rydel over the granite counter, standing adjacent to the stovetop and pouring black coffee from a french press in her aqua blue mug. Your eyes languidly trail over to the living room, where the sofa, love-seat, TV, and coffee table in the corner by the wide-open windows, overlooking the pristine white Florida beach. The sliding glass doors leading out to the balcony are cracked open, the see-through white curtains lightly blowing from the ocean breeze. And on the stand holding the television is big, black speakers emitting the song, "Despacito" featuring Justin Bieber at an ear-piercing volume.

"She's awake!" Rydel exclaims ecstatically with a pearly grin plastered on her face. She places the glass French press down on the counter, weaving around the granite counter separating the kitchenette to the lounging room. Everybody sitting at the table looks over at you, hollering cheerful "good morning's" over the music.

"Uh yeah, I'm awake—" you laugh, pointing to the speakers. "—because of that."

"It worked!" Ellington thrusts a fist in the air, earning a chorus of laughs. "See, I told you it'd work. Nobody can resist the Biebs singing in Spanish."

"It's not that," you shuffle into the kitchenette, fetching an aqua mug from the cupboard. "It's kind of hard to sleep when there is blaring music playing at eight in the morning."

"Eh, still," Ellington shrugs, sipping his coffee.

"You tried, babe," Rydel touches her boyfriend's shoulder.

"Did the boys wake up?" Riker asks, referring to Ross and Rocky that you're sharing a room with for a week (Riker and Savannah are sharing a room and Ellington and Rydel in the other).

"No," you shake your head, claiming a seat at the end of the table. "They can sleep through anything."

"Isn't that the truth," Rydel scoffs. After she says this, the bedroom door opens revealing Ross. Wisps of beach blonde hair are sticking up in several directions, his white T-shirt and grey sweatpants are matted from rolling around, and his cheeks are imprinted with pink lines from his pillow.

"Rydel, why the fuck are you playing music so damn loud so early?" Ross groans loudly over the music, which has now changed song.

"Well good morning to you, sunshine!" Ellington hollers with a chuckle.

"This wasn't my idea!" Rydel shrieks defensively.

"It was mine!" Ellington announces proudly. Ross rolls his eyes, shuffling his neon socked feet across the tile floor and slumping into a chair beside you.