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“Maybe I do want to know what friend,” Carson says in curious awe. “Is this a male or female friend? Or someone I need to be concerned about either way?”
I laugh at the streak of jealousy. “Female, and absolutely worthy of worry. But not in the way you mean. She’s my best friend, and if ever there were a reason I’d end up needing bail money . . . it’s her. You talk about liking danger and risk, like motorcycles and gambling. Her version of a Tuesday is tequila, tacos, and taking a bitch down a peg or two.”
Carson chuckles, thinking I’m kidding, but Taya did once throw hands at a Mexican food taco truck with some woman who thought she was gonna do something. She didn’t realize that Taya stays ready and her ‘supposed life story of growing up rough’ was the fairytale version we told the press. The truth was worse, much worse, and Taya’s read of a situation and reflexes are always on point.
On the other side of the gate, I bend down and slip off my heels. Wiggling my toes in the soft sand, I sigh in relief. These shoes are my good luck heels, but they are not my most comfortable pair for sure. “I figured we could use a break, at least for a few minutes.”
“I didn’t exactly wear my clam-digging gear today,” Carson grunts as he gestures to his business attire. But he slips off his shoes and socks, tucking them carefully next to the fence beside mine. He left his jacket in the car, so it’s easy for him to roll his sleeves up a few turns too, showing off his ropey forearms. After a moment, he bends and does the same to his slacks. He looks ridiculous and sexy as hell at the same time.
Of course, I’m also wearing a silk blouse and a white skirt, not exactly a beach outfit either, but there’s only so much planning I could do. If I’d told Carson to bring a change of clothes, he would’ve thought it was for something else entirely.
“Now what?” he demands.
“Now, we walk. And breathe. And relax.” Carson’s eyes widen as though I suggested riding dolphins like water skis or something equally outrageous. “It’ll be good for you.”
“Sounds awful.” His grumble of disagreement is ruined by the smile that flashes immediately after, and I know how he really feels about it.
We hit the beach, walking slowly, hand in hand. The sand is soft and giving beneath our feet, and the waves run in, getting closer and closer. Wind whips through my hair, and after a moment of trying to wrangle it, I let it fly on the breeze. Knots be damned.
Staring at the water, I remember the first time I swam here. “I’ve always been a swimmer. I told you how competitive I was as a teen. So I’m comfortable in the water. But when I came here, I was drowning. Not literally in the water, but in my head. I had a client I couldn’t reach, but she really needed my help, and I couldn’t figure out how to get her to listen to me.” The desperate frustration of those days comes back to me as fresh as it was then.
Quietly, Carson asks, “What did you do?”
“I came out here to swim and bawled my eyes out,” I confess. “I figured the salt water and my tears would mix and no one would be the wiser. But she was smarter than I gave her credit for, and when I came back to the beach, she was sitting here waiting on me. She asked, ‘You done with me yet?’ and I wanted to say yes so fucking badly. I could go back to the office and have a new assignment by the next morning, someone who actually wanted my help. But she . . . needed it. So I said no.”
Carson smiles sadly, understanding my reasoning as well as I do. “You couldn’t admit defeat, least of all to yourself.”
“That day, we talked about everything and nothing. It started slow, with stupid stuff and silly stories, and then finally, she told me why she was sabotaging herself. She cuts people off before they can get close enough to hurt her, a response she developed from being disappointed in people time after time. That was when we started actually working together and when we became friends. More importantly, it’s when I became me. I learned a lot in school and had a fantastic mentor who trained me. But right here on this beach is where I left behind my could’a, should’a, would’a thoughts, expectations, and comparisons. I decided to be . . .”
“A badass?” he suggests when I search for the right word.
I grin. “A badass,” I repeat. I wouldn’t have put it that way, but it feels right. In helping Taya, she helped me find myself, and that was when I started doing my best work, though I’m still a work in progress. “I thought walking here might . . . I don’t know . . . maybe help you find yourself too.”
