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“Why do you do the work you do?” he asked.
“In college, I majored in journalism. I wanted to write, but I needed to make some money while I was doing it, and I didn’t want to wait tables or bartend like some of my friends from school. So I can write and sell ads for the little paper my father bought, and when I’m not working, I canwritewrite.”
“Like fiction write?”
“Yes. Fiction.”
“What are you writing now?” he asked, leaning forward.
Usually when she was asked about writing, she figured the person was just being polite. But his body language said he was sincerely interested. When she hesitated, he said more.
“I’m intrigued with the writer’s thought process because I read like a maniac. My one regret is that when I lost my home, all my books went with it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“When my house went into foreclosure, I was in rehab, and they took everything that was in it. Thankfully, I had my computer with me.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. That’s a tremendous loss. I’m a packrat. I hate the thought of anyone touching my stuff.”
He looked around her place, unadorned almost to the point of sterility. “This place doesn’t look like you’re a packrat.”
“I never moved my stuff out of my father’s garage or my room at their house. I guess I’m waiting to move in.”
“So tell me about your book.”
“Coincidently, I’m writing a story about loss,” she said, looking at him. “An older married couple finally is at the time of life where they could enjoy the fruits of their labor when their daughter and son-in-law are in a tragic accident, and now the grandparents have to raise the two kids they left behind.”
“Oh, that is sad,” he said, watching her. “The poor kids.”
“Thankfully, they have the grandparents though. And it’s fiction.”
Truth is stranger than fiction,he thought.
They were done eating. He sat back, fully satiated, watching her looking out over the water. She was beautiful. As calm as she purported to be on the outside, there was a sadness under the surface that she couldn’t hide, and the longer he spent with her, the more pronounced it became. He wasn’t the only one who’d suffered a great loss, evidently.
“Shall we walk the beach? The moon is so bright tonight. It’s good beach-walking weather, too, not too hot and not too cold. You can tell me more. You already know most of my dirt.”
“Yeah, I guess I can tell you about my history now. The stuff I didn’t want to go into before in case it ruined our dinner.”
“Now I’m intrigued. I’m ready to hear it. Let me help you clean up,” he said. “It feels good doing something domestic. You saw what I live in. Paper plates are the only way to go.”
After cleaning up the dinner mess, they dressed in hoodies and flip-flops and left for their beach walk.
They walked along in silence for a while, the moon casting a reflection on the calm water, and lurking behind them, the lighted pier. Sofia didn’t want to face the pier tonight, not with a new man, just in case Jake decided to make an appearance.
“I’m ready to hear more about you,” Ryan said. “Why is a beautiful young woman like you single?”
Thinking about what he was asking, if she blew it off or made up an excuse, if they saw each other again, she’d eventually have to tell him the truth.
“Thank you for the compliment. It’s a long story and sort of depressing. Are you sure you want to hear it?”
“I want to hear it,” he said.
“Well…” She told him the story of Jake and his death the week before their wedding. Deaf to the sound of her own voice after a while, Sofia realized she was rambling and ended the story. It was the first time she’d ever had to tell anyone about Jake’s death. The story seemed to shock Ryan, and he ran his hands through his hair, looking down at his feet, stumbling over his words.
“You poor thing,” he said, and then cringed.What a dumb thing to say to her.
Feeling confused, she shook her head, as if to clear the cobwebs. What had just happened?Chill. The story is upsetting,a familiar voice said.Let the dude express his condolences.
