“Sure, we’re pretty slow,” Dad says, organizing the wetsuits by size. “You have somewhere important to be?”
“Kind of,” I say, not wanting to give away the real reason I’m leaving. “I need to talk to one of the shop owners before they close.”
“Well get on out of here,” Dad says, waving me away with his hand. “Make sure you clock out early, though, punk. I’m not paying for that extra half hour.”
I thank him and dash into the back room, clock out, and grab my phone off the charger. A lot of shops on the strip close at six p.m. on weekdays, and I want to make sure I have time to find her.
I can’t just assume she’ll be walking on the beach today like she was yesterday. After being hit with a football, she might even be traumatized from the beach for a while.
My heart speeds up as I step outside, using the customer door that faces the strip.
Bess hadn’t said where she works, just that it’s here. I’m going to find her by starting with the first shop and working my way down. In the logical part of my brain, I know I should come up with a reason for walking into her store, pretend like I’m there for something else and it’s just a coincidence that I happened to run into her.
But the lovesick part of my brain doesn’t have the time to come up with excuses.
I just want to see her.
