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The drive is peaceful, the roads clear, and I spend most of my time watching Owen, hypnotised by the ease with which he handles the car and slides the wheel through his fingers.
His shorts have ridden up, showcasing his muscular thighs and tanned legs, and I want nothing more than for him to stop the car and to straddle him, but then I feel guilty because he’s grieving, and I’m in his passenger seat ogling him.
We talk about some random things, from how much clouds weigh to whether there are more grains of sand on the earth than there are stars in the sky, but we never mention death, dogs, pets, love, or weddings, which is probably for the best.
It takes us an hour and forty minutes to reach the coast. We park, argue about who’s paying for the ticket, then head to the beach.
There’d been a scattering of clouds when we left, but here the sky is a bright blue, the kind you only ever see in holiday brochures and laugh at, as you know it’s photoshopped because colours like that don’t really exist.
But today, apparently, they do.
“Do you like beaches?” I ask as we near the seafront, seagulls swooping near a toddler who’s dared to have ice cream in their vicinity while his parents flap their arms, trying to fend off the birds.
“I don’t mind being on the beach. It’s afterwards, when half of the beach decides to come with you in your shoes and in your bag,” Owen says, almost wincing.
“I’m surprised you don’t keep a handheld hoover in your car.” I chuckle, then look at him. “Oh my God, you do, don’t you?”
“It’s always in there, just to keep on top of the mess.”
“What mess?” I ask.
“Exactly.” Owen smiles triumphantly.
The beach is quiet. The few people here appear to be older, probably retired, or young couples with preschool-age children. Owen removes his footwear, and we make our way onto the sand, our feet sinking into the squidgy surface.
We find a secluded spot, and I throw open the picnic blanket, weighing it down with my bag so it won’t blow away. Owen stands with one hand shielding his eyes as he stares out to sea like a captain assessing the horizon before taking out the topper.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yeah. Just always wondered what you do when you get to the beach.”
I pause, assessing him carefully. “Have you never been to the beach before?”
“I’ve been to the beach, but as a kid, you build sandcastles and play games, paddle in the sea and all that. But as an adult, I’ve only ever been with Paul, and it’s always been about walking him, playing ball, and then getting some chips.”
“You mean to tell me you never came to the beach with your mates to chat up girls?”
“No. I must have missed that boat.” He lifts his eyebrows. “You, on the other hand?”
“Oh, yes,” I confirm. “Never worked, though. My friend Lori hates seagulls and never lasted more than about thirty minutes before she wafted them away, calling them devil birds.”
A thought occurs, and as always, the words are out before I can stop them.
“Hey, you could find a lady to chat up today, if you like?”
It comes out playfully, the happy-go-lucky Alice always willing to help someone snag the person of their dreams. But the second the words leave my mouth, so does a horrible twisting feeling in my stomach, like the one you have before you’re about to be sick.
I don’t want Owen with another woman. Hell, I don’t even want him looking at another woman, which is ridiculous because I’ve never felt this possessive over a man before.
He surveys the beachgoers: older couples strolling arm in arm and stressed-out parents trying to wrestle sun cream onto their kids who clearly just want to run headfirst into the sea.
“On second thought, maybe not. The beach is distinctly lacking in hot women today.” I laugh, mostly in relief that there’s no one to tempt Owen.
I wait for him to laugh with me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just stares at me, and for a second, I think he’s going to say something like “I wouldn’t say that” or “There’s only one beautiful woman here today.”
But he says nothing.
The moment disappears, leaving awkwardness behind.
