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I don’t bother to reply. She’ll see that I’ve read the message, and I’m heading out the door now anyway. She’ll only be cross about having to wait for a few minutes, and if she’s parked where she always is — which she will be — I’ll know exactly where to find her.
As predictable as ever, when I head out the building door, there she is, the motor of the car idling as she waits in her parking spot. I wave and grin, and half-jog over to get in.
“So, where do you wanna go?” she asks as I buckle up my seatbelt.
I gape at her, suddenly blanking on any place I’ve ever been in my entire life. Not that I’d thought particularly hard about it anyway. So, I just say the first thing that pops into my head. “Let’s go to the beach.”
“Which beach?” she says with a raised eyebrow.
Panicking, I shrug. “Dunno. You pick. I’ll buy lunch.”
“Are you being nice to me because you want something? I’m not going to give you any special treatment for anything, no matter how nice you are to me.”
“You think that’s what this is about?” I say, guarding my tone so I don’t sound too wounded. There’s no point in pretending to myself. I am going to miss her. And hearing her be so flippant kind of hurts — like even now she can’t believe that I’d want to spend any time with her just for who she is. I guess that’s never who I was to her at all.
But I’m determined to have fun, so I brush the comment off. She doesn’t reply anyway, just grunts noncommittally, like she isn’t sure what she thinks at all.
She drives us to the same beach she drove us to on the first day. Nostalgia’s clearly getting to her too. I smile as we get out the car, and before I can think about it, I offer my hand for her to take. The second I realize, I snatch it back, shoving both hands in my pockets to pretend I never did that at all. To my relief, I don’t think she noticed.
It’s a gorgeous day again, the August sun beating down, hot but not too scorching. The palm trees sway gently in the light breeze, glorious green against the blue sky. I’m going to miss this vista, every day beautiful and warm and predictable, the sky and the sea always there to greet you. I might not be a romantic, but Miami has entranced me completely.
The city isn’t the only one I’ve been entranced by lately.
“You look good today,” I say as we walk, as sincerely as I possibly can, though I think I go too far and come out the other side still sounding sarcastic.
Olivia scoffs like she thinks I’m joking. “Miles, you really don’t have to butter me up to get me into bed, you know. You could just ask, like a normal person. The answer would probably be yes.”
What I really want is to see her here like this, her hair blowing gently in the sea breeze, her lips pink and shining, her eyes creased into a smile with that look she gives me when she’s teasing me. She’s dressed up, too, wearing a light summer dress in blue, the thin straps exposing her shoulders and inviting me to look at her cleavage. I don’t, though. Much as I enjoy her breasts, she’s more than a body to me. She’s a friend. I might even dare to call her a lover.
What I want to say is, “I don't want to go. I want to stay here with you.”
What I actually say is, “Right. So, if I ask, you’ll get into a bikini, then?”
She scoffs again and gestures to the beach. “Surely you can get your fill of fake-looking hot women in skimpy clothing just by walking along here, can’t you?”
“You do have a good body, though,” I say digging my hole even deeper to bury myself in it.
I don’t know why I can’t bring myself to say that I enjoy her company. That I wish we could be something more than what we are. That it twists my heart to think that this doesn’t mean that much to her at all. That I wish I could hold her hand and not have her recoil from me. That for the first time in my life, I think I might be in love.
But none of these words will come.
“Well, buy me lunch,” she says, a glint in her eye as she turns to look at me. “And maybe you can see how good my body looks again.”
“Believe me, I've got that picture firmly in mind.”
She huffs softly, like she can't quite think of a witty response, and we walk in silence for a while, my fingers still itching with the desire to reach out for her. It’s like my hands don’t know how to be whole without hers in them. It’s like an ache that I can’t turn off, and the more I try to ignore it, the worse it gets.
At last, I manage to say, “Do you remember the first time you brought me here?”
“How could I forget?” she says dryly.
“I had fun.”
“No, you didn’t,” she says. “You complained the whole time and tried to trick me dozens of times so you could sneak away and get up to no good.”
“No, I did,” I insist. She’s kind of right, but I remember being tired more than anything. I liked her. I just didn’t like being told what to do. “It was good to spend the day with you.”
“Miles,” she says softly, shaking her head, her step faltering. Again, I almost reach out to catch her. If she’d fallen, I would have. I wouldn’t let her fall. Not ever. “What's got into you? I thought you couldn't wait to get back to the UK. You know, fish and chips and drizzle or whatever. That’s what you British love, isn't it?”
