1
NATALIE
The vibrator buzzed in my hand, steady and efficient, like the world’s most boring personal assistant.
It got the job done—usually—but this Saturday morning, even that felt half-hearted. I pressed harder, changed the angle, letting my hips roll into the rhythm my body knew by muscle memory. Heat built, sharp at first, then soft and sluggish, like a wave that never quite crested.
When the orgasm finally came, it was small. A whisper where I wanted a roar.
Fuck.
I stared up at the ceiling fan, catching my breath, and laughed under it.
Low. Bitter.
No man had ever made me come. Not once.
Not in college, not in the handful of relationships since, not even in the one-night stands where I’d done all the work and left them smiling. Men liked to be taken care of. I was good at that. What I wasn’t good at was demanding anything for myself.
Maybe that was fine.
I had my toys, my own hands, and my schedule. I had work that swallowed me whole. I had Maybelle, my spoiled tabby who thought every sunbeam in the house was laid out just for her. It wasn’t like I needed more.
Except sometimes, after mornings like this, I caught myself thinking:God, there has to be more.
I set the vibrator on the nightstand, still warm from my skin, and rolled over to grab my phone.
Half my search history was floodplain data and drainage reports. The other half was a parade of brightly colored silicone. I scrolled through a site with sleek little icons promising “mind-blowing,” “earth-shattering,” “the one toy you’ll never need to replace.”
Sure. I’d heard that before.
My phone buzzed again—this time with a text from Owen:King tide + onshore wind. Isle of Palms just called. Can you be there in an hour?
Arousal gone. Reality rushing in.
Work first. Always.
On my way, I typed, then swung my legs out of bed.
Jeans. Field boots. Golden brown ponytail high and mean.
I slung my laptop into my bag, tucked the drone case under my arm, and grabbed the fluorescent survey flags and roll of orange tape that served as my portable baseline. A stack of printed maps—FEMA floodplains in jaundiced pastels, my own overlays in bruised blues and reds—waited by the door.
On the street, a tour cart rattled past on its way to the Battery, people pointing up at verandas that had outlasted wars and hurricanes, as if longevity were a moral virtue. If Charleston had a religion, it wasn’t Methodism, or even money—it was memory.
We worshiped what we could keep. We ignored what was coming.
The Ravenel Bridge lifted me into cloudy sky, the river below hammered pewter. By the time I crossed the Ben Sawyer Bridge, whitecaps were already nipping at the marsh grass, wolf-teeth flashing in the shallows. A pelican skimmed low, wings steady, unbothered.
At Isle of Palms, Owen stood in the far lot near the public access, long legs braced against the wind, his clipboard tucked to his chest. He lifted a hand when he saw me, the way men who live by data do—precise, like a vector.
“The Soundline’s volleyball court is a lake,” he said by way of hello. “We’ll get better coverage if we start east and sweep toward the inlet.”
The place was pure Isle of Palms. Salt-stained pilings. A long, splinter-smooth deck that spilled straight onto the sand. A low stage where covers and near-famous bands blew out summer nights. Rafters hung with old surfboards and sun-faded gig posters. Bar rails sticky with beer and sunscreen. A couple of battered pool tables listing like boats after a storm. On clear days, the beachside courts thumped with pickup games and laughter. Today, the nets sagged over brown water and the whole court had turned tidal pool, gulls standing in the end zone like referees who had given up.
“Understood.”
We climbed the dune walkover. The beach on the other side looked shaved—dune scarp bitten clean, the tide throwing itself at the line like it had a personal grudge.
