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“Is that coffee?” my dad snatches a cup and takes it back to sit in the chair by the window. “Quite a view, isn’t it? I like this place. We should come back here sometime, Jill.”
“Sure, and we’ll put it on the list,” she says. “You realize we’re going to need a time machine to get to all these places you want to see.”
“Retirement by time machine,” I muse. “It’s the next big thing.”
Dad laughs.
“So how are you liking the Oh Bee Ex?” Mom asks.
“You can say Outer Banks, Mom. I’m pretty sure only the tourists call it OBX.”
She waves me off. “I like it. It’s gorgeous, of course. And I really like this resort.”
“It’s a rental house,” says Dad.
“It is not,” says Mom. “It’s a boutique hotel.”
I like that description; it fits perfectly.
“Worth getting on a plane for?” Mom asks, her expression telling me she’s teasing. I was not the most elegant traveler. Chalk it up to my first time on a plane.
“It was,” I say, because it’s true, and not just because I met Callie and West.
Callie and West. Like they’re a pair, a matched set. They could be, if he’d stop being chicken. Maybe Callie’s afraid, too. I bookmark the thought to come back to it later because thinking about last night’s threesome in front of my parents is weird.
Not that it was a threesome. Exactly. And not that I’m thinking about it. Damn it.
“I think I want to work with kids,” I say. My parents are surprised, which is understandable. I’m a little shocked, myself.
Maybe it was ranting at West this morning, about not being afraid, about going after what you want. Maybe it’s my own frustration at my past self, going through most of my life so far oblivious. Maybe it’s thinking about my old diving coach. Whatever the catalyst, this is not the first time I’ve considered it.
“You mean, like teaching?” Dad asks.
“Maybe,” I say. “Maybe more like coaching?” I still have enough of my diving team friends on social media; surely one of them could point me in the right direction if I can’t get ahold of Coach.
“That’s a nice thought, dear,” says my mom absently.
“I’m serious.”
“I’m sure you are,” she says.
“This just seems like it’s a bit out of left field,” says Dad. “You’ve never mentioned an interest before, not about working with kids, or coaching. Hell, far as I know you don’t even swim anymore.”
“Well, maybe there’s more to me than you know,” I say, feeling stubborn about this, and frankly surprised by their lack of support. “You don’t think I can do it?”
“You can do anything, Raleigh,” says Mom, but she says it automatically.
I pause long enough that my mother changes the subject to discussing our plans for the day. I nod and let it go, because I cannot for the life of me figure out where that resistance came from and why it matters enough that I got mad about it. As though I didn’t have enough to think about today.
I tag along with my parents on their touristy stops, thinking about Callahan, and coaching, thinking about West and the way he looked at me on that couch in the lobby, asking me what I want. And I think an awful lot about when I’d see them again.
11
West
Housekeeping hasn’t made it to my room yet. The room is dark, the blinds and curtains drawn, obscuring what I already know is an exceptional view. I leave them closed.
I haven’t slept yet. After leaving last night, I stayed on the beach, watching the waves rolling and crashing. My skin is sticky from the spray and the heavy night air, but for now I ignore it.
