“And that you might need someone to show you around,” he adds. “Hence the Tickled Tea.”
“Wow, so you pulled out the big guns.”
His tongue bulges out from the inside of his cheek. “Is there something you’d like to see? Somewhere you haven’t had the chance to visit yet?”
I consider his question, wiping the remaining bits of condensation off my cup. “I haven’t been to the beach.”
Disapproval twists his face. “You haven’t been?”
I shake my head. It isn’t on purpose. I don’t have some personal strife with salt water and palm trees. In fact, I particularly enjoy beachside activities such as volleyball or building sandcastles. Especially reading a good book with an umbrella hovering over me. I just haven’t really had an occasion to bring me to the beach. A part of me is thinking maybe James is going to make that kind of occasion happen for me.
“How long have you been here?”
“About a month. Give or take a few days.”
“You spent the hottest parts of the summer in San Diego, and you haven’t been to the beach.”
“No willing tour guide to show me.” I smile and almost wink but stop myself. That’s a risky step into flirting territory.
The sound of metal grating across concrete cuts into the air and leaves me speechless. James stands from his seat and walks both of our empty cups to the trash. “Let’s go.”
Cold, rough water flows between my toes and bits of grainy sand sprinkle over my feet. The edge of the foamy water hits the hem of my skirt, and the sopping fabric slaps against my calves inwet whips. It’s cold, and a smattering of goose bumps scatter over my arms. Though I don’t know if it’s because of the cold or just James’s mere presence. His intense, profound presence. My hair, wind-swept with salt air, blows out of control at the same time James brushes a lock off my cheek. More goose bumps, but this time, they ripple up my spine.
“What do you think?”
“About what?” I ask, my words breathy and light. I don’t know where it comes from, this sudden weightlessness. Especially after I’ve attempted to tie two sacks of figurative sandbags to my ankles, but it’s there. A helium balloon with James’s smile stretching the latex wide and thin, ready to pop at any given second.
“The beach,” he elaborates. His knuckles brush down my arm. “Everything you hoped for and more?”
“We have beaches back home.”
His fingertips explore my palm. “In Tacoma.”
My eyes narrow.
“Sylvia likes to talk,” he reminds me.
“And you like to listen.”
He nods. He’s not wearing his sunglasses anymore. He ditched them in his car. I can see his eyes, bits of honey mixing with the chocolaty brown. Smile lines fan his eyes, and I can see the small smattering of freckles sprinkled over the bridge of his nose. A by-product of living in a city that gets sun about eighty percent of the year, I assume.
If I were to look back on this moment, most likely when we’re telling our kids the story of how we met, I’m sure I’ll blend the truth with small white lies. Like who made the first move. I’ll tell them Daddy, like a gentleman, asked Mommy if he could kiss her, and he did so with a small peck. Swift and innocent. We won’t mention that it was in fact Mommy who made the first move, my hand fisting at his collar with urgencyand desperation. And we definitely won’t talk about how it was more than just a half-second kiss. It was hips and tongues and moans. It was incessant and lacking at the same time. Too much and not enough.
Pop.I’m left a pliant, rubbery mess.
“Welcome to the neighborhood.”
A half-chuckle, half-eye roll turns my face. He forces me back to him, a hand curled around my neck. Andthis. His lips and hands, warm and soft and perfectly forceful, will never be enough.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Kendall
THEN
“What kindof underwear are you wearing?”
My tonguetsks against the roof of my mouth. “What?”
