Why I Love Singlehood: (20 page)

I chose a spot of sand and smoothed out a seat, attempting to pull my NCLA hoodie low enough over my sweatpants to shield me from the dampness, wondering if I should’ve worn a raincoat instead. I took a few deep breaths and closed my eyes, listening to the ocean beat out its slow rhythm: crash, rush…calm. Crash, rush…calm.

The scent of salt made me crave, of all things, dark chocolate. As I hypnotically watched the waves, images of chocolate almond bark overtook me. I’d make it this afternoon when I got to The Grounds, I thought. Pick up some almonds and roast them over the stove in sea salt and butter; melt some dark, bittersweet chocolate with just a touch of sugar and perhaps a taste of cream; I could also buy some lavender and add that to the mix…
oh, yes…

Crash, rush…calm. Crash, rush…calm.

I licked my lips. Pulling my knees close to my chest, I turned my head to scan the beach. A runner, still too far away for me to make out his features, beat out his own unheard rhythm on the flat part of the beach close to the surf as each sneaker connected tight legs below baggy shorts to the packed, damp earth. He looked big, broad shouldered, like he might fill up a room with his presence, and could make any color seem saturated. As he drew closer, he looked starkly brighter set against the steely tones of the sky; his inky hair, deep skin tone, heather gray hoodie, and Wolfpack red shorts stood out even through the haze of rain. I hated anyone who could run on a beach—the mere thought made my calves scream. I’d only ever tried it a few times, but I’d learned my lesson: stick to the roads and trails and treadmills and leave the beaches for the truly sporty and exceptionally masochistic. I didn’t realize that I’d been staring at his sneakers kicking up small clumps of sand as each foot lifted off, leaving craters for footprints, until he slowed down and waved.

It took me a good five seconds to realize it was Kenny.

I blinked, squinted, and tried again. Still Kenny.

I waved awkwardly as he passed, his stride restored, my hand hanging in the air as I watched him reach the other end of the beach, slow down and stop. He doubled over, hands on his knees, sides heaving, and checked his watch before loping back to the spot where I sat.

“Hey,” he said between breaths.

“Hey yourself,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

Stupid, stupid question.

“Getting some air,” he said, leaning his head back and forcing his breath to return to normal. His hair had darkened and slicked into thick chunks thanks to the rain and sweat. “Mind if I sit?”

I made a gesture of invitation over the sand; he plopped down and began stretching.

“I love running on the beach.” He reached for an outstretched leg, grabbing his toes only after bending the knee a bit.

“Nobody loves running on the beach,” I remarked. “Especially in a sweatshirt. Or the rain,” I tacked on after a beat.

He eyed his hoodie as if inspecting the way it hung loosely on his shoulders, the front of the neck cut into a V, and shrugged. “Never know when the rain will turn cold.”

I pulled the bottle of water from my tote bag and handed it to him. He opened and chugged half of it. “Maybe you shouldn’t be running in the rain,” I said. “I don’t.” I never ran in any weather that required more than shorts and a light tank, and I often wished I was daring enough to be one of those women who skipped the tank and ran in a sports bra.

He shook his head, switching to the other leg. “That’s the best time to run.”

“Suit yourself.”

He returned the cap to the bottle. “You run?”

“Not in the rain.”

He smiled and stared straight ahead.

The ocean raged. Our silence was neither awkward nor uncomfortable. Still, I wasn’t disappointed when he broke it.

“OK. So I don’t love running on the beach,” he confessed.

“I knew it,” I said. He grinned and switched to a butterfly stretch. “So why do it?” I asked.

“Why not,” he answered, using his elbows to try to force his knees toward the sand.

Another minute of silence passed.

“I nearly drowned when I was ten,” said Kenny.

I turned to him, shocked, but he kept his eyes on the water.

“We were on vacation at the ocean. There were storms coming in from the coast, and the waves were crazy,” he said as he glanced over his shoulder, “a little like today, actually. Anyway, I was swimming even though my mother told me not to, and the undertow got me. I wasn’t strong enough, and it had never occurred to me to be afraid of the ocean before. I’d never thought about the fact that if I washed out, I could swim forever and never find a shore. That my parents would never find me—not even my body. That my best hope might be being eaten alive.”

“Kenny!” I shuddered, trying to imagine a smaller, weaker version of him soaked and scared and lost between waves. “That’s awful!”

“Ever get salt water up your nose?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “Well it’s ten times worse to breathe it into your lungs. It hurt so bad I stopped fighting—I just, stopped. Couldn’t think. Next wave knocked me into a rock, and my last thought was that even if I could scream, no one would hear me through the waves.”

He stretched his legs out in front of him, crossed his ankles, and leaned back. “My dad had been running on the beach. He was a master athlete—marathons, triathlons, all that stuff. He said he saw a flash of color right before I went under. I woke up on the beach, just me and him. And you know what he said to me? ‘That was a stupid thing to do.’”

“That’s a bit harsh.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Kenny countered. “It was an honest, loving response. A way for him to lessen the trauma of it for me. He wasn’t mean, wasn’t afraid; he just called it like it was. And besides, he was kind of right. I mean, my mom told me not to go in. And maybe I should’ve been upset at him, but I wasn’t. I appreciated it. No one had ever spoken to me so bluntly before. I think it was the first time I ever felt like an adult.”

“No one’s ever spoken to me like that. Well, not till you, I guess.”

He acknowledged this with a crooked grin before resuming his story. “The next day my dad took me running on the beach. I think he knew how scared I was. Day after that we went kayaking. Then swimming. And when I told him I was scared he said, ‘You can be, if you want to. And sometimes you should be. But you never
have
to be afraid.’ I liked that. It meant I had a choice.”

“He sounds like a great guy,” I said.

“He is,” Kenny answered. “I think you’d like him. He’s funny, too. More blunt now than ever before. And if he thinks he’s got you, if you even think about blushing, he just goes in for the kill. Drives my mom crazy, but it’s all in good fun.”

“Any brothers or sisters?”

“Nah,” he said, “one was more than enough for my parents. I made sure of that.”

It was hard to imagine Kenny giving anyone trouble—even as an angsty teen—and I wondered what his family looked like, what they felt like, what they did on Christmas Eve, how many anniversaries and birthdays they’d spent together. I loved collecting images of other people’s families, piecing them together in my mind as if I could parse out what might have become of my own.

The mist blew back into our faces. I looked at him for only a second, and yet, in that second his aura magnetically pulled me into him, sweeping me away like one of the waves. I resisted the urge to brush his wet bangs aside, to wipe the moisture off his face with the back of my sleeve, to wrap my hand around his neck, pull him to me, and kiss him.

“I gotta get going,” Kenny said, standing, snapping me out of my split-second trance. “So I’ll leave you to your thoughts. What were you thinking about before I interrupted you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Dark chocolate bark with sea salt, almonds, and lavender.”

He smacked his lips. “Totally not what I expected to hear. But I’m glad I ran into you today.”

“Yeah, me too,” I said, feeling the cold dampness of the sand beneath me for the first time.

“Stay out of the water though, OK?” he teased. “I haven’t seen anyone else around.”

“I have to be at work soon anyway,” I said as he turned away. “See you soon!” I called out, watching his shoulders sway with each sandy step, and I found myself hoping I was right.

Later I was glad for the morning reprieve; it may have been the only thing that saved my sanity at The Grounds where the line never let up, the cookies burned, the supplies were running low, and I barely got to say more than hello to my customers.

For the past two weeks, Norman had been saving his wit for the clientele, his smiles for Samurai, and his business-related talk for me. Meanwhile, Scott and I continued to keep a low profile. I went out of my way to be as nonchalant as I had always been with him, not lingering at his table too long to talk to him, not looking in his direction, that sort of thing. He did the same, casually placing orders at the counter and sitting at a table near the front window rather than closer to the counter, as he used to do.

Taking a deep breath that morphed into a frustrated sigh, I was wiping the countertop for the hundredth time as Norman brushed past me with a tray of half-empty mugs and plates and muttered something about a mess of crumbs to no one in particular when the phone rang. He grabbed the cordless off the back counter on his way to the kitchen.

“Eva!”

“Why are you yelling?”

He extended the phone to me. “Would you please talk to the paper guy? I’ve had it with his attitude.”

I scowled and took the phone as Norman left the kitchen growling about why I didn’t dump their asses since the napkins were thinner than Kleenex.

When my shift-from-hell finally ended, I headed straight home, staring like a zombie at every red light and stop sign along the way. Once there, I dropped my keys, tossed my clothes on the bedroom floor and slipped on a T-shirt, ate a cup of yogurt for dinner, and willed myself to check my e-mails. Scanning through the inbox list consisting mostly of Facebook notifications and vendor advertisements, a message Minerva had sent earlier this afternoon caught my attention.

E-mail to: [email protected]

Subject: They’re on to you

Not sure what the world looks like from the other side of the counter, but it’s looking pretty grim from this side, Eva. I’ve been trying to catch a moment alone with you all day, but it’s just not working, so I’ve been forced to resort to undercover reporting, as it were.

They’re on to you. Hell, anyone with half a brain is on to you. It’s the way you’re so meticulously normal. The way you never look up when Scott enters, but wait till he’s already halfway to the counter—as if you’re not even interested. The polite smile, the professional hello, all the while your eyes are glittering like a maniac and I swear I can see the pheromones just pouring off you.

Oh yeah, it shows.

I was hoping it was just me, knowing what to look for, you know? But it’s not. Yesterday, when you weren’t here, Jan asked me if you were OK since the big, bad blowout scene. I said of course you were, but she insisted that something seemed different. Then, Tracy said that she was “sure” there was something “going on” between you and Scott. When they confronted me, I said something about how I wasn’t sure. ’Cause, you know, I’m not technically 100% sure what is going on, so it’s not a total lie, right? And you know how bad I am at lying. I figured trying for a half-truth was way safer than going for a full lie. And what was I supposed to say—“what makes you so sure?” OK, so that would have worked, but fishing for clues would’ve been obvious.

So Kenny came in yesterday and we started grilling him about where he’s been the past few days and blah, blah, blah. So Jan starts asking him to weigh in his own opinion.

Anyway, Kenny seemed most interested in how you went home with Scott. And no one saw Scott all weekend, and we all know he’s a big Saturday-morning-large-iced-coffee-kinda-guy. So then Spencer starts speculating (say that ten times fast!) and Tracy’s trying to get them to keep their voices down, and Jan’s pissed at Dean (he said Scott was a “lucky bastard,” and Jan got all upset). And all the while I’m doing my best to look busy so they don’t ask me point blank whether you’re sleeping with Scott (can you imagine what would’ve happened if they had asked me?? *shudders*), and poor Kenny’s about to get whiplash trying to follow the verbal volleys going back and forth, and Norman doesn’t butt in once.

And just so you know, yesterday the Topic of the Day was how Scott’s been coming in later than he used to and no one sees him leave. As in, he’s suddenly staying till closing. As in, he’s probably leaving with you. As in, he’s probably leaving with you to go have sex. And we both know it’s only a matter of time before “probably” becomes “obviously.” (And I can tell that Dean wants to ask me something—he keeps looking my way, shitshitshit!)

So, in conclusion, it’s out there, and it’s about to hit the fan.