He nods. "True, and true."
"Your ego is still in full bloom, I see." I close the bottle and then finally muster the courage to ask. "Why did you come back if you miss New York?"
That throws him off a little. He presses his lips together and I study him, trying to catch a glimpse of anything that could give away he did move here for me because I doubt he'd say it, but he gives me nothing.
“Long story, actually,” he says finally, shooing a seagull away with an irritated flick, like the bird should know better.
"Thought we had time?"
"Not for this one." He shakes his head, firm. "Let's just enjoy the day."
I frown, hating that we can't share everything the way we used to.
He notices my downcast face and points at the horizon. "I missed this place, though. Came here to spill everything when no one else listened. Sometimes for hours."
"What? We were friends for a year, and you never mentioned this place? Rude," I say with my lips pursed.
"I found it after you left," he explains right away, then locks eyes with me. "And just so you know. I never brought anyone."
"Really?" My voice sounds stupidly hopeful.
He nods and his voice drops. "Really."
I swallow, unsure what to think about it, my mind stupidly blank.
When he catches the way my gaze holds on him, I look away and start fussing with the frills on my skirt, then deflect. "So this place knows all your secrets?"
"All of them," he says, too quickly. Then he lies back on his elbows, hair caught in the ocean wind, and slips his Vans off by the heel, like always. "Stuff you shouldn't want to know."
I tilt my head, watching him. "Maybe I do. For someone whom I once crowned the patron saint of brutal truths, you don't always share second-tier emotions."
"Patron saint of brutal truths," he echoes, with a laugh that makes his eyes crinkle. "I forgot that one. I should put it on my CV."
"I'm sure your colleagues already know that," I say, giving him a look.
My fingers dig in the sand until they catch a shell, palepink, like it's been waiting for me, and I lift it, cradle it. "Maybe she'll tell me all your secrets."
Ben hums indulgently. "Go on then. Ask nicely."
I press it to my ear, playing along, but there's nothing but the sea in my own body—blood rushing. Louder than I'd like.
"What's it saying?" he asks, studying me.
I wish I could make up some silly story. I should be able to, given I'm an author, but I'm also a terrible liar.
"Honestly? Nothing." I smirk, ready to put it back, but Ben takes it from my hand.
There's a beat in which he just listens, like he's deep in thought.
Then he presses it against my ear, warm from his hand, and his voice comes out rough. "It's saying a lot of things. You just have to listen better."
My eyes flick to his, catching up the multitude of unspoken hints.
"Okay," I mutter and slip the shell into my purse, careful, like it's a treasure. "I'll take it home. Try again."
He nods, face unreadable, and sits up, folding himself over his knees.
I mirror him, closing my eyes, and then we fall silent.
