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“As a heart attack.” I reach for my glass. “I don’t think you understand how much I love beaches.”
“Clearly, I don’t.”
“I grew up in Nebraska. We didn’t have beaches—we had lakes and ponds with this thick brown clay for sand. And leeches. So many leeches. Anytime my mom would take me to Florida to visit my grandparents, I would basically live on the beach the entire time. Building sandcastles. Finding seashells. Getting tan. That teal water and soft white sand was heaven on earth. Now that I’m older, I associate beaches with a simpler time in my life.”
“I see.”
“Where’d you grow up?”
“New York, mostly.”
Two couples at the table across from us are all nose deep in their phones. One takes a picture of their drinks before nudging her partner to take a selfie with her. The flash lights up the entire bar, sending a painful zing to my eyes. After that, she insists on taking another selfie with the other woman before politely pleading with a nearby stranger to take a group photo.
As soon as the photo shoot is over, all four of them are back on their phones.
“How do they have service and we don’t?” I ask. “I even added an international plan before I left.”
“How much do you want to bet they’re not going to remember anything from this trip,” he says. “All they’ll have are some shitty selfies.”
“I hate how right you are.” I watch the foursome for another few beats, waiting and hoping that he’s wrong. “I used to be just like that.”
“What, taking a million selfies and drink pics everywhere you go?”
“No,” I say. “Romanticizing my life online. It’s sad when I think about it. If I look back at my old posts, I don’t remember half of those moments as vividly as I should. I was never present.”
“If only there were more people like you.”
“Ew. A bunch of me’s walking around? No thank you,” I say.
He bristles. “That’s a horrible thing to say about yourself.”
“As opposed to thinking I’m the most amazing thing that’s ever walked the face of the earth, and everyone should be like me? C’mon,” I say. “Plus if everyone was like me, no one would get married, and bachelor-bachelorette parties would cease to exist, and I can’t do that to people. I can’t take away their party buses and inclusive resorts and penis straws.”
Dorian almost chokes on his water. “Fair enough.”
I’m word vomiting, which means the two martinis and double shot are kicking in.
I work on finishing my water and try not to think about the fact that I called him sexy a few minutes ago—or the fact that the Red Sox are still losing and it’s not looking good.
We’re in the bottom of the ninth. Down by three. Two outs.
“You want to get out of here?” he asks.
“You don’t want to stick around and watch your team win?”
“Nah,” he says, studying me. “I told you—we had that game in the bag the second we stepped out. Anyway, I’m craving a change of scenery. You?”
His words are neutral at surface level. Innocent enough. But the thrill running down my spine as I think about what lies ahead tonight sends me reeling.
“It’s not so bad being here, is it?” I ask later when we’re meandering down some palm tree–lined sidewalk, passing row after row of late-night hot spots. “Don’t you love being a world away from all your problems?”
“Sure. My problems aren’t much different from anyone else’s, and I tend not to let them take up real estate in my head if I can help it.”
“Where are we headed, by the way?” Our arms brush as we walk, and his cologne mixes with the humid night breeze that encircles us. “I feel like we’re just walking aimlessly.”
“Ever seen the ocean at midnight?”
“No, but that sounds exactly like something you’d be into.” I chuckle, elbowing him in the rib as an excuse to touch him once more. “I can picture you under a moonless sky, the ocean roaring in the distance as you enjoy your own company, lost in your thoughts, not another soul in sight . . .”
“Someone’s got jokes . . .”
“Am I wrong, though?”
A slow smile slips up the side of his mouth. “Not at all.”
CHAPTER TEN
BRIAR
Present Day
“Burke?” I poke my head into our suite after breakfast only to find him passed out, phone in hand. An hour ago, he was awake, rattling off his meal request—which was a little too ambitious given the stomach situation that developed overnight.
When I was thinking we needed to foster a deeper connection last night, I didn’t know that would come in the form of Burke getting a horrible gastrointestinal bug at one o’clock in the morning.
Be careful what you wish for . . .
Naturally, Burke didn’t want me to help him, but I insisted—it’s not like I could sleep with all that going on anyway. I stayed out of the bathroom, of course, but for hours, I refreshed and replaced cool washcloths on his forehead and tiptoed downstairs for ginger ale and crackers.
