Welcome home! Hope you’ll like these. They’re popular with athletes at the shop.
I smiled and unwrapped one that promised strawberries in the mix.
Stepping out onto the balcony, I let the ocean air wash over me. I’d been here last for Simon’s daughter’s christening. My girlfriend at the time had insisted on coming.
When Walter heard her name, he looked at me like I’d grown two heads. “Bambi?” he repeated.
For the three nights we stayed, he kept addressing her as ‘Owen’s girlfriend.’
“Is there a point in me memorizing her name?” he asked. “At my age, it’s hard to learn new things, and she’ll be history by next month, right?”
I couldn’t argue with that.
“Besides, she can’t spell,” he added on our last morning there, dealing the final blow. “And she calls herselfEnglish.Shakespeare is rolling in his grave.” Then, with a flick of his hand, he turned off his hearing aid. Conversation over.
Not that there had been much of one. He was right. I had become a cliché—just another footballer with a model on his arm.
Back in England, I had become the version of myself I’d spent years crafting. Owen ‘Wonder’ Wheaton, the name, the image, the life—I built it all and wore it like a second skin. But in Blueshore, seeing myself through the eyes of my family and old friends, I saw a walking, breathing stereotype, playing a role I hadn’t realized I’d cast myself in. So I did my best to close my eyes to that.
I took another bite of the bar, strawberry mingling with the salt in the air. I thought about the softness in Rio’s eyes tonight—forgiveness and understanding shined there. Maybe I just hoped it was. With Walter pulling no punches, I needed that softness.
I knew that people weren’t always what they seemed. I’d learned that about Rio the night before her brother’s wedding, when she walked into my room at her parents’ house.
That night, the small flowery ‘infinity’ tattoo on her hip told me that Simon’s little sister wasn’t so little anymore. And though she was off-limits, what she asked of me was like depositing a sledgehammer into my hands and saying, ‘Go on, break through any limit.’
5
Rio
“HE’S PROBABLY JET-LAGGED,” I told Walter in the morning. “When he wakes up, ask him for a match, but let him have some coffee and food first.”
I was making his breakfast and mine as he sat at the table with the board ready. Usually, when I didn’t have a morning shift in the shop, I played with him. Scrabble helped keep his mind and memory active and sharp. I didn’t love the game as Walter did, but I loved him. He was so competitive, but I didn’t mind losing. Words were dear to me because they didn’t come easily for me. I had to pick mine, carefully choose, or dance around them.
I drove through Blueshore. The salty breeze carried the scent of the ocean that lay just beyond the rows of houses with sandy paths leading to its shore.
Less than an hour later, I entered Riviera View, where our shop sat among pastel-hued storefronts on Ocean Avenue, that stretched all the way to the cliff’s edge where the town perched above the water.
Pushing the shop’s door open, I turned the sign on it toOpenand switched the lights on. The familiar aromatic mixof spices, scented candles, herbal teas, and oils hit my nose. It never ceased to make me happy, and today it was calming too. With the place I called home now inhabiting a man who did the opposite to my heart and body, the shop was my escape.
Despite promising Owen I wouldn’t look for a place, a half-sleepless night I searched online for properties. Preferably ones with a spare room I could use as a workshop. I used to create my scented candles, lip balms, and oil blends in a space at the back of the shop, but that meant staying after hours. When I moved in with Walter, I used the garage. That way, I was home for him while still working on my products.
Angelo, June’s surprise-husband, used the shop’s back room now.
“You can complement this blend with the rosehip balm.” I went on to explain the aromatic benefits while wrapping the customer’s products. “It’s all handmade,” I replied to another lady who stood not far and questioned our variety. “They can’t fool us at the factory, because I’m the factory,” I added with a smile when she doubted my response.
Despite some annoying customers, I loved my job. I started here at twenty-five, after years of rejection in interviews that barely lasted ten minutes or ending up in back-office and storage jobs where talking to customers wasn’t required.
Ten years ago, I opened my interview with June with: “I have a stutter, as you can hear. I want to acknowledge it, so you won’t feel uncomfortable during our interview. You can ask me anything about it, including if I think that I can serve customers and answer the phone. But I have one request. IfI get stuck, please let me finish my own sentences without trying to complete them for me.”
She didn’t only hire me but soon let me run the shop alongside her. Recently, I began doing YouTube tutorials on my products. I opened every video with, “It’s not your internet connection getting stuck. It’s me. I stutter. Now let’s talk about cinnamon and why you want it in your skincare.”
I couldn’t have imagined doing that back in the days of cold sweat in introduction circles at school. The teachers who thought it’d be fun and inclusive to do those for icebreaking starred in my nightmares. I loved the boring teachers who immediately began teaching.
At noontime, June came in. The first quiet minute, she nudged my side. “So?”
“Good customer traffic this morning.”
“I’m not talking about sales, though that’s good to know too. Is Owen back?”
