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“La,” I answered, pulling him toward me.
“I think I need more there, in the middle,” he said when I had gotten around to putting the sunscreen on his back.
“No, I’m pretty sure you’re good, you’re all covered.”
“Maybe I just like the feel of your hands on my skin then.” I realized I had missed his meaning the first time and smiled. I squeezed a bit more lotion from the tube and redoubled my efforts.
Later, he fiddled with his camera, taking a few pictures of the seagulls bobbing and diving over the beach. One stopped to peck at something in the sand.
“They don’t stay still,” he complained, “I won’t waste any more film on birds.”
He trained his camera on the kids playing in the waves in front of us.
“Let’s walk out to the lighthouse,” I suggested. The little red lighthouse at the end of the pier, over which waves washed hour after hour, and year after year, was the dominant feature of the broad, sandy beach. No trip to Grand Haven was complete without ambling down the pier to that squat red tower and contemplating the fathoms of fresh water spreading south to Chicago and west to Milwaukee.
“Or we could sit here.”
“No, come on, it’ll be fine,” I said, thinking he was worried about leaving our things while we walked up the beach. Nao Kao sighed, but gamely let me take him by the hand and lead him down the pier to where the waves crashed and broke at the base of the lighthouse.
No sooner were we back than I asked, “Do you want ice cream? Let’s go get ice cream.”
“Didn’t you bring a picnic?”
I nodded. “What, we can’t eat ice cream before we eat lunch? It’s not like I’m suggesting sundaes for breakfast. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
Nao Kao laughed.
“Liss, just sit here with me. Let’s enjoy this. Please.” He kissed me gently, his fingers trailing along my collar bone, from shoulder to sternum, as when he had asked me to wear a bikini.
“Am I allowed to read a book?” I asked, maybe a little more sullenly than I intended.
“I’ve brought one as well.”
He fished his out of his backpack and settled in behind me, arranging his legs to either side of me. I leaned back against his chest, feeling the warmth of him against me. I snuggled in further. This made it almost impossible for him to see his book, which he set in the sand. He used his arms instead to brace us both on the beach, happy, I think, that at last I was still – and next to him.
He lifted a few fingers of sand and let it pass between his fingers.
“Time is like this, you know,” he said quietly, half to me, and half to himself. “It slides so effortlessly, like sand through an hourglass. Blink, and you’ve missed it.” I placed my hand over his and stilled his tawny fingers.
Late in the afternoon we walked the length of the broad beach, the golden sand warmed by the day’s rays, even now in September. We etched our names into the sand and stood back to wait for the waves to erase them. A piece of driftwood caught his attention and he took more pictures, using the last of his film.
“Thank you for inviting me,” he said, his tone suddenly solemn.
“Can you swim?” I asked suddenly. The lake was too cold, even for me, and the building waves suggested the warnings of undertow and rip current were not entirely for show.
“I can paddle around a bit,” he replied. “But not swim properly, like you.”
Nao Kao knew of my affinity for swimming, of the hours I had spent in the pool all through adolescence, and of the letdown I had felt in just missing the cut for the finals at the state meet my senior year of high school, the one goal, I told him, I had set for myself and failed to achieve. Torn between running cross country or swimming, I had chosen the latter on the basis of it not being the preferred hobby of my mother. Rachael Zick ran a good dozen miles daily, more when she was actively training for a marathon. By swimming, I freed myself of comparison to her – and fortunately I had been a mighty fine sprinter and an even better breaststroker. The lack of a state title still smarted.
“I saw the Gulf of Thailand a few times,” he continued, “and also the Singapore Strait. But I have never seen the real ocean. Maybe someday.” He sounded a bit wistful.
“Liar,” I teased, “you’ve seen the whole ocean.”
He turned toward me with eyebrows raised.
“You flew over it! You’ve seen it from edge to edge!”
“Incorrigible, Liss. That is what you are.” He laughed.
