I wake up when we hit a sign that says Conway, which I believe is somewhat close to Myrtle. After arranging for my neighbors to feed and walk Lucy, I intentionally stayed up most of the night so I’d be tired enough to sleep most of the drive—a strategic move to avoid small talk during a time of great anxiety.
I’ve never been to the ocean before. It’s something I’ve always dreamed about, but something my parents could never afford. They tried. One year, we got halfway there after they’d saved up for a two-day hotel stay when our radiator went out. Since I’ve had Grandma Gertrude’s money, I’ve simply been too preoccupied to worry myself with things like trips to the beach, but it has been on the list.
Speaking of Grandma Gertrude, I need a grandma. Quick. I never anticipated Brooks volunteering to drive me. I merely thought he’d be jealous, that it would eat him alive while I’d be “gone,” which would really have meant being holed up in my house, sharing random beach pix from the internet on Facebook.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” he smiles.
Man. Waking up to that face is a treat. “Conway?”
“About another half hour. You sleep okay last night?”
“I told you I fall asleep on long drives.” Lie. I haven’t been on a long drive since I was a kid.
“Right. You hungry?”
“Not yet. You canceled your flight, right?” But of course, he didn’t, because I doubt he ever even had one. I truly believe—or at least I want to believe—that he’s simply getting tangled in my ropey vines of love and unable to free himself.
“Yeah, last night.”
I turn my head, staring at the trees through the window. “I don’t know how you fly so much. I hate flying.”
“It’s not so bad.”
“The thought of flying over the ocean is the worst to me. I’d actually love to visit France or Italy one day, but I don’t know … I’d probably have a panic attack the entire flight.”
“If you can fly to California, you can fly across the ocean. Just get an aisle seat. And let me guess ...you want to go to France for Paris?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
We stop at a light, Brooks flicking his left blinker as we wait to turn. I’m starting to feel sick with anticipation. Will we swim? I’m an excellent swimmer, but not knowing what’s lurking in the water is a child-like fear. I’m afraid I’ll freak out.
“Paris was great for me. I was popular with the ladies, but I was only thirteen.” I cringe as he says those words, wanting to go back in time and slap all of those ladies in the face. “We moved, though. After moving to Paris, we moved again.”
“Where?” I didn’t know this. Why didn’t I know this?
“A little town in the countryside. God, there was nothing out there. I was home-schooled. Pretty miserable time. I was happy to come back.”
I change the subject, not wanting to hear any more details about his little French girls or his boring time segregated from the world. I’m not interested in negativity, in messing up the energy that surrounds us right now.
Soon, salt permeates the air of the car, and not long after, neon buildings advertising $5.99 beachwear start popping up everywhere until the road is flanked with palm trees, mini golf, and seafood restaurants. People walk the streets in bathing suits and no shoes. I try to hide my amazement. Keep a straight face. But I’ve never seen a place like this before—carefree and alive all at once.
We park underneath the beach bungalow we’ll be staying in. It’s small, but really nice, and in a great spot.
“Is a twin bed okay with you?” he asks as we unload our luggage. “We really just use this place as a rental during peak months, and there are only two bedrooms. Kind of hard for me to fit in a twin.” He laughs.
“It’s fine,” I shrug. Wince inwardly at the thought of us not sleeping together.
I linger at the window once we’re inside, staring out at the roll and crash of the waves as he makes a phone call. I’m in awe of God’s work. He’s created this massive infinity pool for us to enjoy—one that can provide entertainment, transport us from one corner of the world to another, and even feed us. Maybe even shield everyone from a couple of sex-starved people like Brooks and me having a good time. I could picture us out there between the waves, my legs wrapped around him, his arms locked around my back as we brace for another wave—all the while, his cock in my pussy.
It could happen.
“Would you be opposed to us going somewhere nice for dinner? I’m kind of over all the fast food.”
“Why, of course not, darling.” I flick my wrist and smile at him. Bat my eyelashes as I do. His cheeks flush in return, that boyish grin of his staying on his lips deliciously too long.
“Let’s get our suits on. We can catch some waves.”
My stomach drops to my toes as my eyes bounce between him and the water. “Looks like it might storm.” My finger points to some clouds in the distance. “We can go tomorrow.”
He steps alongside me, the smell of sunscreen painted into his skin that doesn’t need it. “Nah. It’ll be fine. I’ll wait for you outside.”
We walk shoulder-to-shoulder from the patio until the sand starts kicking up behind our flip-flops. It’s incredibly hard to walk in this shit. No wonder people who live on the water are in such great shape.
The combination of thrashing waves and strong wind whirrs in my ears, my hair whipping behind me as specks of sand pelt against my legs. I struggle to keep up with Brooks’s speed. Pick up my legs exaggeratedly as if weights are attached to each foot. He, however, moves fluidly, like he knows this place intimately. Like he belongs.
And others belong, too. It isn’t as crowded as I’d anticipated with all the annoying teens being out of school, but there are plenty of people around. Women splash with their babies at the water’s edge. Kids jump over waves in shallow water. Men crack open beers or brave the water too far from the shore.
None of them look scared, like they’re worried the water is going to swallow them up, a shark is going to bite off their leg, their kid is going to wander off. But my anxiety grows with every step toward the vast, dark water. It’s nothing like what I’ve seen in the movies. I expected it to be clear. I can’t get in some dark bath filled with predators!
But I don’t have a choice. Brooks can’t know I’ve never been to the ocean before. No rich Cali girl would be a stranger to the water.
The dry, flying sand transforms to wet mush just before Brooks abandons his flip-flops. I follow his lead as he also peels off his shirt, leaving nothing but his golden skin, blue swim trunks, and the ridges of his clit-wakening abs. He starts to head to the water, but stops and motions for me. I speed up, the soaked sand pleasantly springy beneath my feet—a mosaic of seashells flush with the dirt.
As the remainder of a wave washes up to tickle our toes, I tense and inhale a noisy breath.
He looks at me, and his eyes narrow before he laughs.
“A little cold,” I shriek. A lot fucking cold.
He grabs my hand. Closes his fingers around mine, and pulls me farther into that dark water. I follow uninhibitedly, feeling my worries fade away with every step. No matter what’s out there, there would be no better death than next to this man. Quickly, I do my best to compose myself. I can be anything I want. Right now, I will myself to be comfortable with the ocean. To forget that it could pull me under. Swallow me up without a trace.
Brooks’s grip tightens around my fingers as the cool water hits us at the waist.
I inhale sharply and loudly, simultaneously to his “Damn, it is cold!” We trek farther, deeper, until I’m chest deep and the water bobs just above his abs, keeping the cuts of his chest and upper arms exposed for my enjoyment.
He lets go of my hand, and we jump and swim with the waves, occasionally catching a big one that knocks me under and pushes me some feet toward the shore again. We come up from the water. Rub our eyes. Repeat.
It’s not so bad once you push the thoughts of sharks or drowning to the back of your mind, but I’d much rather swim in a pool if given the chance. I’m not sure who wouldn’t. But we can’t fuck in a pool without being noticed, can we?
After what must be an hour or two of riding waves, Brooks says, “Come on … let’s get changed for dinner.”
I follow him from the salty depths to the showers on the side of the house. Feel his eyes burning holes in my skin as I wash the sand out of my bikini.
His phone rang once, then a second time. I got out of the shower before he did. His phone lay on the counter, glowing with a random number not plugged into his contacts. At first I ignored it. Paid it no mind.
Until it rang again.
I stare at it this time, my mind ablaze with possibilities. His shower water still going, I decide to answer.
Quietly, I put the phone to my ear, my other ear listening for Brooks. I say nothing, hoping they’ll say something first.
“Hello?” A man’s voice.
Stupidly, impulsively, unbelievably, I respond, “Who’s this?”
“Deaconnn.” He drags the last syllable, a strand of amusement in his tone. “Who’s this?”
My hand flies to my mouth, clamping over it before I drop the phone on the counter. Press the end button with a ferocity that surprises me—as if the harder I hit it, the less likely Deacon will be to recognize it had been my voice on the other end.
Brooks appears in the doorway of his bedroom, water beading his hair. “Did you answer my phone?”
Wide-eyed, I confess. There’s no way around it. “Unfortunately … yes. I thought it was mine. It was Deacon.”
Quickly, he rushes to me and plucks it from the counter. “Fuck. I think that is his work number. Did he know it was you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, did you say your name?”
“No. I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have answered if I’d known.”
“Fuck. I gotta call him back.”
I sit on a bar stool, my face cradled in my hands, as he talks to him, wondering why he must treat Deacon like a little baby. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think they were gay. He paces as he explains he’s at the beach looking for a boat for them to use in Blue Ridge. When he’s obviously questioned as to what woman answered his phone, he lowers his voice and says, “We’ll talk about it later, man.”
When the call is over, Brooks shakes his head. “He sounded weird. Suspicious. I’m worried. You two dated. He knows your voice.” He blows out a long breath.
My lip pulls under my teeth, and I shrug. “I’m sorry.”
His nostrils flare, but then relax. “Let’s go eat.”
I attempt to swallow my disappointment, but I fail. Brooks is acting like a pussy, and it’s about time he realizes he’s in love with me before I start fighting dirty.