“I had all these grand plans for the summer, like growing tomatoes and knitting and binging shows, but… this has been enough so far.”
“Hobbies?” I scoff jokingly. “What are those?”
“What’d you used to do when you had the time?”
Is it bad that I really have to think about it? “I used to play basketball in one of those fun adult leagues with a bunch of friends. Explored all the good bars and restaurants in the city. Live music. I used to read a ton. Like, an ungodly amount. I’m lucky if I read one book a year now.” I think some more. “I used to run, too. I still run on lunch breaks, but not as much as before.”
“What music do you listen to while running?”
I smirk, thinking about the songs I crush during Flores karaoke. “I’m an older millennial who grew up not far from where Biggie grew up. R&B and hip hop and rap from the early 2000s and 2010s.”
She grins. “I, too, am a born and raised Brooklyn millennial. Same.”
We sit and watch the ocean and drink our wine, while an image pops up in my brain, distinct and specific and detailed—Lina at this year’s Flores Christmas, with me and her and Frankie belting out Mary J. Blige. I like this daydream a lot, so much,toomuch, so I force it away, along with all the nasty things rapped about in rap songs that I’d like to do to Lina.Out, damned spot.
NINE
Lina
I spendmost of the day hanging out with Frankie and the rest of the Flores family on the beach, only sneaking away to answer work emails for one (maybe two) hours.
I end up doing principal-specific work for the entire (okay, fine) two hours.
Frankie makes up for it today, though. She’s genuinely fun to hang out with, and turns out her brain has an encyclopedic knowledge of both World War IIandmarine life.
“Did you know that horseshoe crabs are older than dinosaurs?
“Did you know horseshoe crabs have blue blood?”
“That’s an Atlantic White-Sided Dolphin.”
“Those are from sand crabs, actually.”
She’s also a veritable sponge, though, absorbing all the knowledge I throw at her about bioluminescent plankton and blue whales. About Roald Dahl and Junie B. Jones and Amelia Bedelia and Ramona Quimby and R&B from the 2000s and Dominican culture and the few Spanish words I know.
This all distracts me from thinking about Dom. Dom at the Pirate Plunder. Dom the Active Listener. Because of course he was amazing at these things. He’s good at everything.
After a few hours, though, I’m about ready to collapse from exhaustion. I pass out on the beach, grateful for the four other adults here to tap in.
* * *
I jolt awake when I get a chill, shooting up when I realize I’m suddenly in the shadow of someone standing over me.
It’s a sea god, I think initially. Or a lifeguard fromBaywatch: Philippines, if there is such a thing.
No, it’s just Dom, God of Sweaty, Shirtless Men.
I eye-fuck the shit out of him, because I’m still a little confused from sleep. Or something.
I mean, I saw him yesterday, and while I did enjoy watching him wave his long tentacle arms around like a wacky inflatable tube man while sitting in knee deep water, gently flipping kids off their paddle boards—this is different. This second time, the two of us all alone, his family nowhere in sight, his sweaty body towering over me… I let myself gorge.
He’s not meathead jacked, but more lean, running muscle, the dips and divots of the planes of his chest and stomach and arms all places I want to run my tongue through. I try and rank the new things I’ve learned about his body, and I think my favorite discovery is that his tattoos extend up towards his torso and loop down over his pecs. Or actually, it’s that his skin is that deliciously smooth golden browneverywhere. Actually, no. It’s that Dominic in athletic shorts could very possibly be arrested for public lewdness, because ho-ly shit, there’s no hiding that thing.
My pussy spasms dramatically.
I finally meet his eyes, and I catch a flash of filthy heat before he smirks and his eyes grow gentle and serene again. He unconsciously wets his lips, and I track the movement of his tongue. He likes my eyes on him.
He is also apparently a man of strong conviction, because he only looks at my tits once, and I know they look fucking fantastic in this bikini.
