“We’re not swimming though, right?” I clarify, because while the jeans and T-shirt I’m wearing definitely aren’t suitable for it, the real issue here is that I can’t actually swim.
“Nah. We’re going to sit on the sand and relax. We’ll stop, get something easy to eat, and just chill.”
“Awesome.” I settle back in my seat, stretching my legs out as far as possible in the close confines of the vehicle.
We stop at the grocery store, raiding the cold section for a couple of pre-made sandwiches, before wandering the aisles for snacks. We agree on plain Lays potato chips, but differ on cookie preferences. I’m grinning the entire time, the stress of the day nearly forgotten thanks to Desmond’s easy company. He hasn’t asked about my meeting with Coach Mackenzie. Instead, we drive toward the beach in relative silence, nothing but the breeze from the open windows and the soft sounds of Ziggy Alberts coming through the speakers. His arm is resting on the door, fingers dangling in the open air through the window, curls blowing amok. I literally cannot look away.
When we get to the beach, Desmond pulls a blanket from the back seat and tucks a couple bottles of water under his arm. It’s not until he’s spreading the blanket out on the sand—shoes anchoring the corners—that I realize what Parker’sabsence here means. This is a date. I sit with that for a second, gazing around, and find that I’m not nearly as nervous about that realization as I usually would be.
A couple is walking along the water’s edge, stopping occasionally to reach for a shell. A dog barks, voice reaching us on the wind, before being whipped away. There’s a slight haze to the air, salty ocean fog blurring the view into something akin to a watercolor painting. Everything feels fresh and calm. No, for probably the first time in my life, I can’t find a single thing to be scared about.
“So, what do you think?” Desmond asks, sweeping his arm out to encompass it all. He grins at me, before directing the look toward the ocean, as though happy to see an old friend he’s been missing.
“It’s beautiful,” I answer softly, words carried away by the salty ocean breeze.
The water looks rough—waves rolling to shore in even sets, whitecaps foaming as they crash together. The temperature is colder than it was on campus, even though we aren’t that far away. Desmond, in his shorts, tank top, and bare feet, seems unaffected. He’s staring out at the water, hands on his hips, and looking every bit of the Aussie surfer I often fantasize him being. I wonder if he’s wishing wewereplanning to swim.
“Wishing you had a surfboard?” I ask him. He turns to me, that wide smile scrunching up the freckles under his eyes.
“Little bit,” he admits, sitting down on the blanket with his legs still stretched out onto the sand. As I take a seat next to him, he digs his toes in, creating a little gopher hole for his feet. The breeze sneaks through the deep arm holes in hisshirt, billowing it out and showing me a tummy that’s a couple shades lighter than his legs.
Because I’m pretty sure this is our first date, I sit a little closer to him on the blanket than I might have done any other time. Nervous energy fizzles in my stomach, but it’s not a wholly bad sort of anxiety. It feels nice, almost, like my toes are curled over the edge of a cliff, and even though I’m nervous about jumping, I know the landing will be soft.
“Surfing sounds scary as hell to me,” I admit, handing him one of the sandwiches; opening the chips and resting the bag between us.
“It is. But it’s also incredibly freeing and beautiful. There’s nothing quite like it.”
“Have you ever seen a shark?” I ask, making him laugh and lean into me a little bit. Our bare arms are touching, and I’m having a hard time focusing on anything but that point of contact.
“Couple times.”
“I’m pretty sure that would be the point where I quit surfing. Quit swimming in the ocean. Start admiring the water from a safe distance,” I ramble off, making him snort.
“I don’t know. I think I’d take sharks over humans any day.” Pulling his legs up, he rests his elbows on his knees, sandwich held between them. Sand is caught in the fine brown hair on his calves. I want to brush it off—use it as an excuse to touch him.
“True. I’d probably take a shark over Coach Mackenzie,” I admit. Desmond glances at me, chewing slowly. There’s a smudge of mustard at the corner of his mouth, which he catches with his thumb before sucking it off. I look away, blushing.
“Want to talk about the meeting?” he asks. “We don’t have to, if you’d rather not.”
“I mean, it wasn’t bad. I just get so fuckingnervous, and Coach Mackenzie is so…serious looking. I don’t know, he just reminds me of my dad a little bit, which isn’t fair at all.” I pick a tomato out of my sandwich and pop it into my mouth. Desmond waits, not saying anything, and looking out at the water. “My dad was so mean, and Coach isn’t at all, but he looks like hecouldbe and my brain can’t seem to separate the two.”
“I don’t have an M.D. behind my name, but that sounds like it makes sense to me,” Desmond says, shrugging. “I’ve had to talk to a lot of therapists about Parker, and the one thing they all agree on is how important those childhood years truly are. It’s like building blocks for your brain, and if your memories and experiences are built on a foundation of trauma, that’s going to carry over into your adult life.”
I flush, happy and a little embarrassed by his easy acceptance of what I’ve always considered to be my own personal brand of crazy.
“He wasn’t, though. Mean, that is. He just asked me some questions. A lot of questions about me quitting the team, actually,” I tell Desmond, thinking back to the meeting. Coach had spoken so cautiously, the way someone might try and calm down a spooked animal, probing gently with carefully worded questions. I’d been shaking with nerves, sweat sliding down my back and brain fuzzy with fear—the way someone being hunted for sport might feel, not someone doing something as simple as sitting in a meeting.
“I figured,” Desmond agrees. “He’s good at his job, and part of that job is making sure nobody is hurting the people he’s in charge of. Nico’s protective of you guys.”
“We didn’t do anything wrong, though,” I comment, trying to make it sound like a statement and not a question.
“Nope,” he confirms. “But that doesn’t always matter at first. Parker’s school called me the other day to tell me about an altercation with another student. My initial reaction was to protect Parker, no matter what actually went down. It obviously wasn’tmykid who did something wrong, right?”
He nudges me with his elbow, letting me know he’s kidding around. I catch his eye, smiling.
“Right,” I agree, because I’m on Parker’s side, too.
“Wrong,” Desmond corrects dryly, making me laugh. “My point is, Nico was pissed and worried. Now that he’s got all the information, I don’t think he’s going to stay that way.”
