“You’re a little bit prickly, you know that?”
“Better prickly than infected with a tapeworm.”
“I see your point. Still, one can’t discount the importance of new experiences.”
“Oh, god,” I say, picking up the spoon and holding on to it. “You’re not one of those people with carpe diem tattooed on your ass, are you?”
She lifts her brows. “No, but now I’m feeling inspired.”
We both laugh while she wipes away the last bit of salt from her cheeks. I watch her put all of her stuff into her messenger bag, sand and all. Her slender arms flex with lean muscle, her collarbone delicate under her skin. Both ears are lined with tiny hoops and studs. Every movement graceful and intentional.
It’s a good fifteen seconds before I realize she’s done packing up and is watching me, too. We’re pretty much staring at each other like dumbasses. I clear my throat and run both hands over my hair, which the wind has whipped into a fine frenzy. She follows my movements, then reaches out and catches one of my hands. I’m about to yank it back when her thumb smooths over the lacquered polish of my middle finger. Then my forefinger, followed by my ring finger and pinkie and thumb. Each nail is expertly painted a different shade of purple, from eggplant to lavender.
“Why different colors?” she asks, still gliding her fingers over mine.
I pull my hand back, swallowing hard. I run my own thumb over a few nails, assigning a wish to each one, before tucking my hands behind me, spoon still in my grip.
“Ah, a secret,” she says, offering a tiny lopsided smile. “I get it.”
“It’s not a secret.” I can’t keep the edge from slipping into my voice. “It’s just not your business.”
She nods, her expression unreadable. “Right. Weirdo stranger coloring intricate ocean scenes on the beach and eating sandy peanut butter doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.”
“It’s not that.”
“Okay, well, I’m Eva. Eva Brighton. Now I’m not a stranger anymore. Weirdo, maybe, but not a stranger.”
I inhale some briny air. I don’t want to talk about my nails or purple or anything remotely associated with my mother.
“I know who you are,” I say, tossing the focus back on her. “I’m Grace.”
Her eyes widen. “Well, isn’t that the icing on the proverbial cake.”
“Huh?”
She laughs, but it’s got an exhausted edge to it, and a few more tears trickle out of her eyes. She wipes them away, but not like she’s embarrassed by them. More like they’re simply in her way. “You’re Luca’s best friend. Great first impression, right? Unhinged new girl with her coloring books and sand fetish. Jesus.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
She nods but continues to look everywhere but at me. “You live here?”
I follow her gaze toward the lighthouse, my breath sticking in my chest. Such a loaded word—?live. It could simply mean existing. Heart pumping blood, lungs taking in air. Or it could mean settling into something. Being a part of what’s around you. Investing.
“For now,” I say.
“For now,” she echoes softly. Her gaze shifts toward me, and I find myself staring again. Her face warrants it, familiar and new all at once. Pretty. I force my eyes away.
“I should go,” I say.
“Me too.”
I hitch my bag higher up on my shoulder and start to tell her goodbye when she reaches out and swipes a finger down my cheek. Her touch scrapes my skin, both gentle and rough. I step away from her, ready to unleash a few colorful words about her scratching me, but she holds up her finger, smudged with a tiny dollop of wet sand.
Then she sticks her finger in her mouth. My eyes widen and laughter bursts out of both of us so hard, I feel the sting of tears under my eyelids.
“Oh my god,” I say, trying to breathe normally.
“Not bad, if I’m being honest,” she says, patting her flat stomach dramatically.
