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I want to pry her open. Peel b
ack her walls. Figure out why she's always frowning.
"I, um. I mostly just worked and went to school. There's nothing to talk about." She steps out of her sandals. Digs her toes into the sand.
She's drifting off someplace ugly.
It's something serious.
And serious…
Not my strong suit.
Even so. I want to know. I want to wipe the hurt from her expression. To hold her and promise it will be okay.
It's weird.
Really fucking weird.
I retreat to what I do best. "You fuck a lot too?"
"Huh?"
"You must have cleaned up at the Doc Marten store."
She turns to me. Throws her hand over her eyes to block out the sun. It's not enough. She squints. "Cleaned up?"
"You must have had punk guys leaving their phone numbers."
"No." Her laugh breaks up the tension in her jaw. "Punk guys are like other guys. They also want the blond cheerleaders."
"I don't believe you."
"You should." She turns to the water. "Where are we setting up?"
"Let's get closer."
She nods and steps forward. With every step, she scrunches her toes, feeling the rough warmth of the sand. Her expression twists with this mix of surprise and delight.
It's enthralling.
"I had a boyfriend most of the time I worked there," she says.
"Did he have a Mohawk?"
She laughs. "No. He was clean cut. Liked good girls."
"You're a good girl."
She drops her backpack on the sand. Drops to her knees next to it. She keeps her back to me, her gaze on the ocean. "How do you figure?"
I move next to her. "How many guys have you fucked?"
She flips me off, but it's good humored. She's smiling.
"That many or that few?"
"Shut up."
