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Seeing my expression, she makes a sound of exasperation. "Oh, come on," she whines, jostling my shoulder. "You keep dangling him in front of me, and I'm not even allowed to ask questions?!" Suddenly, a new expression sends her eyebrows raising. "Wait, he's not married, is he?"
I stiffen. "No, of course not."
"Because you can tell me if he is."
"I don't date married men, Brittany."
I purse my lips for a moment, thinking over her reaction. Maybe I'm just being paranoid, but I almost feel like somewhere behind her words, there's an admission that she's had experience with married men.
"Your real estate friend from the party last night," I say. "He isn't married, is he? You wouldn't actually do that. Right?"
She shrugs, then shakes her head. "Doesn't matter if he is. He seems to have changed his mind about me since last night. Been texting him this morning, but he's ghosting me, I think." Rolling her eyes, she shrugs again. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. Have fun on your date. Take notes! I want to heareverything."
When Brett and I get back to the car, I glance at the clock on the dashboard. It's still early enough in the day that we don't have to head to the beach right away.
Turning to glance at him, I ask, "Scenic route?"
Thankfully, he grins. "Whatever you want, Captain," he answers, nodding to the wheel. "You're the one piloting the ship."
We spend the rest of the morning driving around Barton Beach, taking in the sights together. And though I've lived here for a year, it's not until now that I finally allow myself a real look at the changes that have come to the place where I grew up.
Like I realized when Paul was driving me to The Silver Coop, I haven't taken the time to relearn the city since I moved back. I had just assumed that seeing the changes in plain view would make me too sad for all the things I had lost, and so I just focused on my little corner of the world and tried to forget about the rest.
But with Brett here, it's so easy to see everything anew. He makes the sunshine brighter, the ocean sparkle fiercer, and the buildings stand taller. With him by my side, my city has become a fun new adventure rather than a list of broken things.
Parking in the center of town, we see all the sights, new and old. We go to a gift shop in an old aquarium, where we peruse stacks of postcards and duck bobbleheads. On our way across a walking bridge, we look down to catch sight of a marine-themed playground full of kids as they ride the seahorse-shaped swings, and the curling slides the color of seaweed.
At the Barton Beach Theater where they hold the local film festival, Brett hands me his phone to snap a picture of him with the theater behind him, its infamous orange and pink statue of a crab waving from the slanted rooftop over his head.
I've become a tourist in my own home. It's almost like being a kid again, where the world around you is a big and colorful adventure.
We arrive at the beach around lunchtime to find it packed with people, a few thousand at least. They crowd around a series of banners and canopied fair stalls and, at the far end, a cluster of old carnival games. Ring tosses, duck shooters, and tests of strength, their flashing lights dazzlingly bright even beneath the hot Texas sun. Live music blares from an unseen stage, and smoke rises from many hot grills.
For a moment, a sense of nervousness swims through me as I wonder if I've made a mistake bringing Brett to this particular beach. With these crowds, any amount of privacy will be impossible to find.
And all at once, I want nothing more than to return to this place of my childhood. To revisit my past for the first time in decades. To begin to heal it.
With Brett by my side, I feel stronger. Impervious. With him here with me, maybe I can heal.
We grab some sandwiches at one of the stalls and a cup of hard lemonade to share as we walk around and take in the sights. I see a few of my regular customers, and as they eye Brett beside me, my nervousness about sharing him starts to slip away. I find that I like it when people see us together. When people see us as an item. He is beautiful, magnificent—and when people see me at his side, in their minds, he is mine.
I want him to be mine.
We arrive at the carnival games and play a few rounds. My old favorite as a kid was the ring toss, but I've gotten pretty rusty in the decades since I've last played. Brett beats my score by a lot and gets to choose one of the fuzzy plush prizes from the prize wall.
I sip our lemonade, expecting him to turn the prize down. This grown man doesn't want to carry a toy bear with him around the rest of the festival. But after he makes his choice and the game attendant hands him a large plush crab with a cowboy hat, Brett immediately turns to hand it to me.
My whole body goes warm at the gesture. I hold the silly crab close to my chest as I take it. For some reason, this simple gift is one of the best I've ever received.
Hopping up on my tiptoes, I plant a kiss on his lips.
"That was so cheesy," I say.
"Absolutely," he agrees.
"But I love it. Thank you."
He turns up his chin to plant a kiss on my forehead. "You're welcome."
