I drag down the zipper on my wetsuit and drop onto the sand between her mat and Lola’s black-and-white polka-dotted sheet, the corners held in place by a black leather purse and a pair of wedge heels.
Lola hasn’t moved since we arrived forty-five minutes ago, her curtain of dark hair still spread around her the way it was when I started my surf session.She’s either asleep or dead—hard to tell through the lenses of her giant black sunglasses.
I give her side a poke to make sure she’s still breathing, just in case.
Groaning, Lola swats my hand.“Does anyone know CPR?”she croaks.“I think I’m actually dying.”
Always so dramatic.One of the many things to love about her.“You’re not dying.You’re hungover.”That’s what body shots at two o’clock in the morning will do to you.Unless you’re Willow Clark.Then you could mainline an entire bottle of tequila and not have so much as a headache.
She may or may not be a witch.The jury is still out.
A grimacing Lola clutches her stomach.“I think that burger last night was tainted.”
“Excuse me.Imade that burger.”And it was glorious.As a matter of fact, if I had leftovers, I would’ve eaten them for breakfast.Instead, I had to make do with one of Willow’s nasty gluten-free, sugar-free “donuts.”If you could even call them that.
“I have ginger and ginseng in my bag if you want some,” Willow offers, tossing my lotion at my backpack.
Lola moans again.“No offense, but I’d rather eat a fistful of sand than take your hippie shit.”
I don’t know.Sometimes Willow’s “hippie shit” actually works.Another point in the witch column.
With a shake of her head, Willow drops back into a downward dog pose, her loose waves of hair dusting the sand.
I wiggle my toes a little deeper as I watch the waves toy with the shore.I’d love nothing more than to sit in this spot listening to the ocean and watching the sunlight dance on the water until lunch, but that’s not in the cards today.The ferry is bringing over a shipment of chai tea from this new supplier I found, and we’re getting some fresh merch for when tourist season kicks off.
Tourists love our T-shirts almost as much as they love our coffee.One of the best sellers is the one that says:Coffee first.Beach second.A motto I live by.
I glance over at Willow.“You coming in later?”
Her blue bangs fall into her eyes when she bobs her head.“Probably around eight, if that’s okay.I want to drop by my place and give Sebastian a kiss.Make sure he doesn’t need anything.”
“No problem at all.”The café isn’t super busy on Mondays.At least not until the season starts.
We have about four weeks to prepare for the Memorial Day rush.I’ve hired three high school kids to help with the influx, but they still need to be trained, and with Marci out on maternity leave, I’m down a barista.Which means I’ll be working overtime until the newbies are up to snuff.
Lucky for me, I have the best job in the world.
Lola kicks my foot, sending sand all over the bottom of her sheet.“So I totally forgot to tell you what David said last night.”
Working at the Sand Dollar—Inner Shores’ most popular bar—means Lola always gets the best late-night gossip.Usually about which local singles—or not-so-singles—are hooking up.
“Oliver finally sold the old Simpson place,” she goes on, giving my foot another nudge.
Willow and I let out a collective sigh at the mention of Oliver Miller—the most handsome guy in our graduating class, and the only man in town worth chasing after.Unfortunately, he’s been in love with his wife, Marci—the same Marci on maternity leave—since we were all in kindergarten.
So, the Simpson house finally sold.“That’s great.Did she say who bought it?”I ask.
Lola pushes her glasses onto her forehead and squints at the sky.“Some retired couple from up north, I think.”
That doesn’t surprise me.Over half the homes on the island are owned by transplants from up north.Until Ezra Simpson passed last year, only locals lived on my street.I would’ve jumped at the chance to buy the place, but it needs too much work and was way out of my budget.Which is fine; I’m perfectly happy in my cottage.It’s clean and cozy and there’s more than enough room for me and the ladies when it’s my turn to host girls’ night.
What more could I want?
Willow bends at the waist and grips her right ankle while her left leg lifts toward the puffy white clouds.“I can’t wait to meet them,” she says in her breathy voice.
Willow can’t wait to meet everyone.
“Not me.”Lola wrenches the cap off her water bottle and slugs a few gulps.“There are way too many tourists as it is.”
