“That’s what I said.”
“You said Shooter McGavin. He’s fromHappy Gilmore.”
He glances up at me in confusion, and I shake my head. “It went really well. The space is beautiful, and he asked me to send him photos of the pub when we finish.”
Marcus nods, then gives me a shy smile, and I honestly have no idea how to act right now because I’ve never seen him so . . . happy. “This reminds me of when we met.”
I shake my head. More nonsense. “How does making a sandcastle on the beach remind you of the gay club?”
Marcus gives me a sad look. “You don’t remember me.”
“I actually remember that night really well,” I say with a smirk.
“Not the night in the gay club, Jer. It was here.” He pats the sand. “On the beach.” He points at the rock in the distance. “Except I think we were closer to Haystack Rock, or maybe it’s because we were smaller.”
What the fuck?
“Sweetie,” I say softly, reaching out to tip his chin so that his gaze shifts back to me. “What’re you talking about?”
“Well, I mean, your sandcastle was much better than mine.” He stares at his mound of sand. “And you had sea glass for your windows, not shells.” He looks around for a moment. “I tried to find sea glass, but I guess it’s not sea glass season.”
“I don’t think sea glass has a season,” I murmur as my mind spins. Something about his words tickles my memories as I think back to my many visits to Cannon Beach over the years.
One in particular stands out.
A dark-haired older boy who told me about Spider-Man.
My mouth goes dry as I stare at him like I’m seeing him for the first time. I squint, and I can almost see the boy in him. He has a beard now and muscles and height, but somewhere under all thatman, in his warm brown eyes, is the boy I met that day.
“You don’t like ice cream!” I blurt, wide-eyed.
“It hurts my teeth.”
“Holy shit,” I whisper.
This new information is flooding my brain, ramping up my heart rate, but before I can ask more questions, Marcus jumps to his feet and grabs my hand, yanking me up so hard that I stumble into him. He catches me around the waist, and the air explodes from my lungs.
He leans close, his mouth millimeters from my ear, and whispers, “Come on.”
Goosebumps rise along my neck at the brush of his hot breath against my skin. With our hands still locked together, he tugs me forward. We run for a minute, and it feels like we’re children as water and sand splash our ankles and seagulls scatter from our path. My foot hurts a little, but I ignore the ache.
A giggle slips from my lips, and Marcus looks back at me, his eyes shining with mirth. Just when my lungs start to burn, he slows and yanks me to his side. Panting, I stare down at where our hands are connected; his fingers are warm, his calluses scraping against my palm.
I look back up at his profile, lit up by the afternoon sun. “Where are we going?”
He nods his head down the beach. “The tide pools.”
A family passes close to us, throwing a frisbee for their dog, and I instinctively try to let go of Marcus’s hand, but he grips me tighter. I look at him in surprise. He did the same thing when we got caught last night, but I figured it was a fluke.
“You—you’re okay with this?” I ask hesitantly.
“With what?”
“Us . . . touching? I know you’re not really out or anything.”
He shrugs. “I guess right now, in this place, it feels okay.”
I push my shoulder against his. “I’m pretty sure that’s the edible talking.”
