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Cora.
Although Micah’s connection to Cora is weak at best, his sister is best friends with her. So, if I had told Micah, he might have shared with his sister without thinking and so on. Things would have been much worse than they were today. And the potential for Cora backing out of the magazine shoot early on was higher. Although neither of us knew we would be working together, she would have put two and two together if Micah started talking.
“Yeah, I apologize. Things have been mad busy with work. Every time I thought to reach out to you, I was in the middle of something. By the time I was free, I’d forgotten. Time got away from me.” I give him a sheepish shrug.
“It’s all good. Just don’t do it again,” he teases.
For the next two hours, we sit on stools and drink beers and share chicken wings. We catch up on what has been happening outside our work lives. At all costs, we both do a damn fine job of avoiding the topic of Cora. And although it is still early, we both agree to leave. In the time since we have come in, the bar has gone from packed to overflowing and I am at my whit’s end.
Micah offers to drive me back to my hotel, rather than let me wait for an Uber. No doubt they are probably bombarded this time of year on the beach. On the short drive, we discuss getting together another few times before I leave. When he drops me at the hotel, we agree to go out night after tomorrow. And as Micah drives off, I vow to be a better friend to my best friend. Thousands of miles may divide our houses, but calls and texts and airplanes can solve those problems and I need to put in more effort.
The elevator ride is brief. Although I took a shower earlier, the sea of sweaty bodies from the bar has me jumping in the shower again.
The hot water hits my back and I brace my hands on the white tile wall in front of me and hang my head. My breath comes heavy and fast. My mind running overtime as it scans its memory bank for images of Cora. It doesn’t take long. Never has. One of my favorites pops up. An image I have plucked from my memory bank numerous times when shit has gotten bad.
Her onyx black hair hugged her face like an embrace. A smile lit up her lips and curved the corners of her pale green eyes. Eyes that stole my breath every time she looked at me. Every time she got serious and told me she loved me. That she would love me forever, no matter what.
That blip in time was the week before my mom received a promotion and was transferred from Florida to California. I had only been given two weeks before my life would become something polar opposite. And like an asshole, I waited until a week before we had to leave to tell Cora. It was selfish of me, but I didn’t want to ruin the last bit of time with her. I didn’t want to spend our last weeks together like one of us was on our death bed and trying to complete some bucket list.
Does that still hold true? Does she still love me? After the separation—the rift—is it possible there is still a part of her that loves me? Even if the tiniest of slivers, a micro-blip in the cosmos, I will accept whatever she offers.
Does that make me a fool? Desperate? Probably. Fuck if I care.
Her face flashes across the backs of my eyelids like a movie. The way she used to smile at me and press her lips to mine. Heat radiates in my chest and I press a hand against my breastbone, suppressing the ache that slowly builds every time I allow myself to fantasize about her. And after thirteen years, the ache burns fresh.
I remember the first time she laid beneath me, her bare flesh warm and trembling against mine. I had asked her why she was shaking and she had said because I love you so much. I clutch my chest harder as the backs of my eyes sting.
We were so many firsts for each other. Relationship. Kiss. Love. Sexual partner. And heartbreak.
And even though I broke her heart, even though I broke every promise I made her, I will kill any man who does the same.
Shoving back the curtains and sliding the balcony door open, I stare out at the beach and notice how quiet it is this time of the morning. The waves break at the shoreline. Salt and a hint of shea butter linger in the air, sticking to my skin. The horizon still somewhat dark with a tinge of peach skirting between the water and sky.
Silent. Peaceful. And the perfect start to my day.
Couples holding hands. Single people with their dog. Majority of the people walking through the sand at this hour are probably residents, enjoying the beach before it is littered with tourists.
I plan to do the same.
Slipping on a pair of board shorts and a plain T-shirt, I step into my flip-flops and head for the beach. The moment my feet hit the sand, I take off my shoes and wiggle the fine grains between my toes. Beaches in California are different than those in Florida. People flock to the beach in California, but not like they do in Florida. Out west, the sand is course and damp. The water cold, even during the hottest part of the year.
But not in West Florida. Here, the sand is fine like fairy dust and as warm as a lasting hug. I rake my toes in the grains before walking to the edge of the surf. Stare at the horizon and soak in the view. God, I have missed this place. The warmth and smells and sounds and vibrance.
I walk along the shoreline, lost in my own head for an hour, before heading back to my room and dressing in the beach gear for today’s shoot. Basically, I trade one pair of board shorts for another. The same with my shirt and shoes. Stupid, but it pays the bills.
As I walk out of my room, my phone chimes and I check to see a text from Alyson.
Alyson: Good morning. I won’t be at the shoot today. Think I caught something on the plane. In bed & not doing so well.
Gavin: Sorry you feel like shit. Need me to get you anything?
Alyson: No. I called room service and they’re bringing me the works. Thanks.
Gavin: Okay. Let me know if you need me to get you anything later.
Alyson: All I need is for you to take awesome photos & be on your best behavior.
Gavin: Aren’t I always?
