He looks down at himself, then at the sand, then back at me with a sheepish expression. “I was going to change. Then I got your text about where you’d be. Then I...forgot.”
“You forgot how to dress for the beach?”
“I forgot everything except wanting to see you.”
My heart does an inconvenient flutter. “That’s either very romantic or deeply concerning.”
“Can’t it be both?”
I sigh and reach into my bag, pulling out the emergency sunscreen I always carry. “Sit down before you burst into flames. You’re so pale you’re practically reflective.”
“I’m not that?—”
“You’re a walking lighthouse. The ships at sea are using you for navigation.”
He accepts the sunscreen with what might be a smile. “I have a beach chair in my car.”
“Then go get it.”
He returns five minutes later with a folding beach chair that still has the tags on it. It’s clearly never been used. I watch with increasing delight as he attempts to set it up.
The chair wins the first round, snapping shut on his fingers.
“Ow.”
“Need help?”
“No. I’ve got it.”
He does not have it. The chair collapses again, this time tangling with his legs and nearly taking him down to the sand.
I eat a grape. “This is very entertaining.”
“I’m glad my suffering amuses you.”
“Immensely.”
On the third attempt, he gets it partially open, but one leg won’t lock. He sits anyway, very carefully, and the whole thing immediately folds sideways, depositing him onto the sand in a heap of khaki and wounded pride.
I eat another grape.
“Not a word,” he says from the ground.
“I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“You’re smirking.”
“I would never.”
He finally wrestles the chair into submission, gets it locked, and sits with exaggerated caution. When the chair holds, he looks triumphant.
“Now,” I say, “about those pants.”
“What about them?”
“Roll them up. You look like someone’s accountant on a forced vacation.”
He rolls them up to mid-calf, revealing ankles that are, predictably, just as pale as the rest of him. “Better?”
