Thunder rumbles in the distance. That’s my cue.
I grab the megaphone. “A weather hazard has been issued. Please exit the water immediately and vacate the beach.”
In response, I get nothing but groaning and eye-rolls. One guy shoots me a glare like I’m personally responsible for ruining his day, as ifImake the rules and not the National Weather Service.
I hop down from the tower and throw on my red jacket just as the sky cracks open. Rain falls hard and fast, turning the sand into mud. Lightning splinters across the sky, thunder shaking the air.
By the time I reach the parking lot, I’m soaked. I find Hunter struggling to pack his science gear into the trunk of his car. His wet clothes cling to his skin, hair plastered messily to his forehead.
“I got it,” I say, grabbing a heavy crate from his hands and lifting it into his trunk.
He looks at me, dripping and shivering. “Thanks.”
I shrug. “No problem. This storm’s wild.”
“I didn’t see anything on the radar this morning,” he mutters, frustrated. He pushes his wet hair back.
“I should get out of the rain,” I say, nodding toward my truck. “You should too. Don’t want to catch a cold.”
He frowns. “That’s a myth.”
I blink. “What?”
“Rain doesn’t make you sick. Bacteria and viruses do,” he says as if I just failed a science quiz. “Actually, you’re more likely to catch a cold by going indoors while it’s raining and surrounding yourself with sick people.”
I stare at him, biting back a response. He always makes me feel like a moron.
“Whatever, dude. Stay in the rain for all I care.”
I stomp off and slam my truck door a little too hard. As I pull out of the lot, my tire sloshes through a puddle, sending a spray of muddy water toward Hunter. He jumps out of the way and glares at me.
Oops.
On the drive home, I swing by Claremont Shore’s only grocery store. Our pantry has diminished to crumbs, and the fridge currently holds nothing but condiments and beer. I’m not much of a cook, but I always make sure that Maddie is fed, even if that means boiling noodles for boxed macaroni and cheese every night.
The bell chimes above the door as I walk into the small store. I listen to the music playing over the speakers as I browse the aisles. I pick up a package of Maddie’s favorite cereal, which is basically made of pure sugar and food dye.
As I walk down the aisle, a familiar voice calls my name.
“Mason!”
It’s Bella’s mother, Liz Owens. She’s the owner of Beachside Burgers where I wash dishes and deliver food during the lifeguard off-season. She’s a great boss.
She immediately envelops me in a tight hug. Her plump body squishes against mine, warm and comforting. Liz is a hugger. She hugs everyone, including customers and strangers. Despite working in a cramped greasy restaurant kitchen all day, she miraculously never smells like food. The familiar scent of her floral perfume fills my nose.
“Hi, Liz,” I say, smiling.
She pulls back from the hug and braces her hands on my shoulders. “Thanks for giving Bella a ride to the parade.”
“Anytime.”
“How’ve you been, sweetheart?”
“I’m good,” I lie, giving her a half-smile. “How’s the restaurant?”
“Busier than ever,” she admits. “Jim and I can hardly keep up! This weekend is going to be crazy with all the tourists in town for the holiday.”
Jim is her husband. He’s a soft-spoken man who always treats me with respect. He has three daughters, including Bella, and he once told me that I was the son he’d always wanted. I know he was joking, but it still felt nice to hear.
