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"Anyway, what should we do today?" Dylan slaps his large hands on the table and smiles.
"We?"
"I thought we could revisit some childhood haunts and see if ours match?" he continues, as if we're best buddies.
"No, I mean...we? I thought one of us was leaving?"
"Hmm." He taps his fingers on the table. "Later? I'd like to spend some time with you."
No 'panty dropping' look accompanies these words, and a secret happiness this man wants to spend time with me sneaks in. Okay, so I came here to be alone and lick my wounds but I'm flattered—and intrigued.
"Spend time doing what?" I ask.
"Like I said, revisiting some of the places we chatted about last night."
I clench my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut. "I don't remember a lot about our chat last night."
A knowing smirk crosses his face. "Yeah, you do ramble on after a few glasses of wine. Mostly about your childhood though; I still don't know why you're here."
That's one good thing, I suppose. But the drool… that’s downright embarrassing.
"How about a walk to the beach?" he suggests.
"I smell. I need a shower," I say.
Dylan smiles the kind of smile I rarely see on anyone, happiness glowing on his face. "Take a shower, summer Sky. Then you can come with me to the beach and search for shells."
* * *
Pullingmy damp blonde hair into a ponytail, I head downstairs in my denim cut-off shorts and plain pink T-shirt. There’s no sign of Dylan in the kitchen or lounge and my stomach sinks a little. Did he leave?
The sea breeze blows through the open front door, the salty scent of the ocean pulling me back to childhood. The sun decided to shine today, and the breeze is warm; one of the rare and perfect English summer days to match my brighter mood. I stand in the doorway and close my eyes, letting the sound and smell wash over me.
A noise around the side of the whitewashed house alerts me, and I wander around. A pile of shells rests against one the house walls, a white and pink mix of flat and spiralled, some intact but mostly broken. Dylan crouches on the sandy ground, pushing through the mound, and spreading them across the ground. He's swapped his jeans for blue board shorts and the colourful mash of tattoos on his legs catch my eye.
"Why do you have so many tattoos?" I ask.
"Don't you like men with ink?" He straightens, holding a pink shell in his hand.
"Doesn't matter if I do or not. I'm curious."
"I like them." Offering no additional explanation, he returns to his digging.
The sound of shells scraping together as he digs around triggers another childhood memory. "I think I made this pile," I say
"Or you added to it. I thinkImade the pile," he says not looking round.
"No, I'm pretty sure it wasme. Look."
I crouch next to him and scoop to the bottom of the pile to find a small, rusty steel tin that once contained shortbread biscuits. I prise open the lid and inside are three spiral purple and white shells. These are intact and bigger than the others in the pile, with vibrant purple winding around the edges. These are perfect specimens I sought for days on the beach. My forgotten treasure.
"That's what I’m looking for," he remarks holding a hand out toward me.
I grip the box in a childish manner, like I did to stop my brother getting hold of my prized finds years ago. "Why?"
"I remembered finding the box one year. I thought I’d discovered someone's secret stash." He peers inside. "I left a shell in here too. There should be three."
I know where the shell went. I blamed my brother for stealing my secret treasure box and contaminating it with his inferior shell. Then I yelled at him never to touch my stuff again and, in a fit of anger, I stomped on the shell until it broke. Okay, so I was eight. That's normal, right?
"Oh?" I ask innocently.
Dylan picks one of the shells from the box, and I'm hyperaware of his proximity—freshly showered smell with a hint of Dylan. His toned arm is almost touching mine, and I picture myself licking him. I've no idea why. I'm not often overwhelmed by an urge to lick strange men's biceps.
"I was eleven and spent hours combing the beach for unbroken shells," he says. "Like these—the perfect ones you find in the souvenir shops. That summer my parents spent the whole holiday arguing, and was also our last summer we came as a family. My Dad left us later that year." He pauses and inhales. "Anyway, after a week of finding half-broken ones, I finally found a huge shell—as big as these, with the brightest purple on the spiral." He curls his hand around the one he picked out of the box. "I left the shell here, because it seemed right to leave mine with the other treasure."
Weirdly, I want to cry because I feel so guilty, as I picture the sad little boy searching the beach alone—for something I later destroyed.
"We can look for one now?" I suggest.
Gently placing the shell back in the box, he snaps the lid shut, fingers brushing mine. I jolt, his touch sparking something odd but not unpleasant when he lingers his fingers on mine. I stare back into those gorgeous blue eyes and I'm lost. Dylan is a part of my past that I never knew about, and now he's here. And I think I like him. Just a little.
