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6
The shell searchisn't fruitful, because the tide is in and most of the shore covered by seawater. We trudge through the sand and waves drag seaweed across my feet. Dylan laughs as I jump away from the slimy tendrils—seaweed has always grossed me out.
The beach is empty, apart from a solitary family camped out under windbreaks on the tiny part of available sand, the children squeal as they run in and out of the cold water.
We reach the rock outcrops blocking the end of the beach, and I suggest we come back later, when the tide is out and we can see the rock pools too. Dylan grins like a kid and suggests we find nets to catch crabs. I can’t tell if he’s serious, so I explain we have none. He informs me there may be one in the attic so we head back towards the house.
We’ve known each other twenty-four hours–less than–but I feel I already know Dylan. Even though I have no clue who he is, the absence of the outside world and the natural, easy-going atmosphere between us means as each minute ticks by, I want him to stay around.
"Where are you from?" I ask, as we stand ankle-deep in the foaming sea.
"Wales."
"You don't sound Welsh. I mean, you do a bit, but you also sound American."
"I left a while ago. I've been living overseas."
This I'm interested in. "Oh? Where?"
The amused smile I don't understand reappears. "In L.A., Sky."
"Why's that funny?"
"No reason." He walks away, sloshing through the breaking waves and I stride to catch up, aware the conversation is over.
We reach a part of the beach where the path leads through the low dunes towards roughly carved stone steps. Souvenir shops and cafes border the street at the top—is he looking for nets?
At the top, a metal ice cream sign in front of Mrs Hughes’s shop waves and squeaks in the breeze .
"How about you buy us ice creams?" asks Dylan.
"How aboutIbuy them?"
"I made breakfast," he says, biting away a smile.
His look knocks the breath from me for no other reason than I’m struck by how beautiful he is. I know beautiful isn’t a word used for guys but Dylan is. If I had any artistic skill, I'd draw the classic lines of his face but struggle to find a colour to match his eyes. They're blue but edging towards green and seem to change colour with his mood. Due to my lack of art skills, if I tried to draw him, he'd end up looking like a Muppet—his sensual mouth would definitely be lost in translation. I stare at that mouth and wonder what his lips would feel like on mine.
"Are you okay?" He frowns as if he knows what I'm thinking and isn't impressed.
A young couple head towards us, hand in hand, interrupting the charged atmosphere between Dylan and me. Dylan swears under his breath and turns towards the sea, his broad back to the passers-by. The young woman reins her long brown hair in and doubles her head back as she looks at Dylan. Yeah, a tattooed Adonis doesn't adorn Cornish beaches often, I guess.
The crunching footsteps on the sand fade as they move away, and Dylan turns back and glances at them. "I think I'll head back to the house. Are you okay to buy the ice creams?"
I dig my hands into my shorts pocket and study the coins I pull out. "I've only got enough money for small ones."
When I look up, Dylan's tall figure is retreating, back down the beach, towards the house.
* * *
The insideof Mrs Hughes's shop never changes. I swear tinned stew and butter beans on her shelves have been there since I was a child. The half-empty rack of postcards contains faded pictures of the town in the 1970s, along with postcard views of the beach that could lead to the creators being sued for misrepresentation. Colouring the sea blue will not make Broadbeach a tropical paradise.
I spend ten minutes in the small shop attempting to extricate myself from Mrs Hughes, who also never seems to age—stuck at sixty in appearance and clothes. The dog Dylan mentioned pants heavily as it lies at her feet.
Mrs Hughes bombards me with 101 questions about my life, followed by 101 memories of me as a child. Of course, she asks where Grant is, since the last few times I visited with him. Surprise cracks the foundation in her wrinkled face when I tell her we're over, and I pray she doesn’t start prying—or even worse—commiserating.
"Never liked him," she remarks, scooping vanilla ice cream from the ancient fridge and mashing it into cones. Well, that was unexpected.
When we came here, Grant never wanted to collect shells on the beach, or visit Mrs Hughes for ice cream. All he wanted to do was eat, watch TV, and have sex. Thinking about it, that's mostly what he wanted to do even when we weren't on holiday. You'd think with all the practice he'd be good at it, but he isn't. The sex I mean, he’s a master of the eating and TV watching.
