by Anne Marsh
“I need to ask the boss,” I tell the hovering sales guy, who does a not-so-discreet check of my ring finger. I ignore him.
Me: Which tie?
I stare at my phone but there are no bouncing dots. Huh. It’s as if she’s not waiting around for me to text her personal questions. I check the time—it’s 7:00 p.m. It’s Friday. I doubt she’s gone home yet—wherever that is—so maybe she has her phone turned off? Or the battery died. It would be simpler to buy all three ties.
My phone dings with Lola’s answer:
I’ve rank ordered—you’re welcome.
Orange cameras!
Do they have pineapples? Polka dots are boring.
Hermès?! You could buy a sofa for the price of that tie!
I slide the camera tie around my neck and take a selfie that I send to Lola while the salesclerk swipes my black AmEx.
Lola: Where are u?
Me: Why? Are u up for a bathroom quickie?
Lola: Ewww. No sex where people poop. Ever.
Me: Would you say no to sex on the beach?
Lola: Sand.
Me: Ocean waves, moonlight, stars.
Lola: Maybe, but not in Cali—too cold.
She has a point, but I go for the win.
Me: Birds poop on beaches. Crabs, dogs and people poop on beaches. So bathroom sex is okay by your criteria. It’s a Venn diagram.
Lola: Are you really texting me for wardrobe advice?
Me: Nice diversionary tactic. Communication skills are important. My boss says I need to practice them.
Lola: Your boss is a wise woman ;)
Me: So tell me something about yourself.
Lola: ???!!
Me: Are you refusing to communicate with me?
Lola: I’m busy, Dev.
Me: Then make a list. Lists are short.
Lola: You think an ordered collection of objects is communication? You definitely need help.
Me: Rule #1—our lists should have at least three bullets.
Lola: This is crazy but I agree with you. Otherwise it merits a semicolon and looks lonely.
Me: See? We have common ground after all. But no more than six bullets. After that, it’s an appendix.
The email app on my phone alerts me that I have mail. When I check, I discover Lola’s sent me a gift card.
Lola: I owe you a tie.
I’m trying to process how I feel about that when she sends me a picture. She’s wearing just a blue-and-white-striped men’s oxford shirt. Unbuttoned to her waist, it’s held together with the tie she stole from me yesterday and her long, bare legs are on full display. The picture starts at her throat—I can’t see her face. I’m not sure if that’s because she hates having her picture taken or if she’s still worried about our personal exchanges going public.
I save the picture to my Lola gallery.
Me: See you Monday?
Lola:
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Dev
I’VE SPENT SO much time with Lola that I see her everywhere, like the sunspots that light up the inside of your eyelids when you close your eyes after staring too long at the sun. The woman wandering along the shoreline is simply the right height and build, with the same ridiculous ice-cream twist hairdo and unfathomable love for yoga wear and pink. Fuck, she even squints the way Lola does when she misplaces her glasses and the world is a blur mere feet from her face. Whoever she is, she can’t see me. I’m too far out.
I arrived at the beach almost before the sun was up. It’s not the prettiest or most remarkable stretch of sand in Santa Cruz, but something about it calls to me. It also has parking—a miracle—and is inexplicably never crowded, even on weekends. I ride my last wave, watching the beach glide up to meet me as the wave peaks and propels me forward. Lola can’t be here. The odds are better that the California lottery will draw my six numbers on Tuesday.
But she totally is. She wanders down the beach toward me, leggings shoved above her knees, feet in the surf. Nellie’s padding along beside her, paws firmly on dry sand. The dog’s smart. Lola’s toes must be Popsicles; even during the summer, I wear a full wet suit. As always, her brown hair is twisted and looped above her sun-pinkened face in full defiance of gravity even as stray bits escape in the breeze. At some point, she’s shoved her sunglasses on top of the mess. She’s shed her usual flannel, although it’s tied around her waist within easy reach, the edges wet from the surf. She holds up her phone, snapping a picture of the ocean.
Her face lights up when she spots me. Since she has no glasses on, this means she’s all of four feet away. “Hey.”
Is she stalking me? We aren’t at the office—this beach is my space. My private world. “Why are you here?”
She looks around, clearly startled. “It’s a beach?”
“Why this beach?” I’m being an asshole, but too bad. She shouldn’t have crashed my beach and my space. Isn’t it enough that we see each other on weekdays?
“Because it’s a public beach?” She crosses her arms over her chest and levels The Glare at me. Nellie barks once, clearly agreeing with Lola. “Unless you’re some kind of secret billionaire hot boy and you bought it off the fine state of California when nobody was looking? In which case, you need to hire bouncers. Or put up a sign.”
“Jesus,” I growl. “Look, I just want to know why you’re here.”
“Because you’re the beach police now?”
“Answer the question.”
She narrows her eyes. “Answer mine first.”
“I realize we have a thing going at work, and it’s hot, but we don’t have a relationship. You don’t get to stalk me on the weekends and ask what I’m doing or why.”
“Wow.” She does not look happy. “I’m glad you clarified that for me. I might have mistaken our up-close-and-personal knowledge of each other’s bodies as an indicator of some kind of intimacy. Which it is—and the fact that you don’t know that or don’t want to recognize it or just have some massive stick up your gorgeous ass about letting anyone get close to you? That explains why you don’t have any relationships.”
“Excuse me?” I toss my board on the sand.
She smacks my chest. “I know you’re awesome and you’ve got your cranky on, but I actually didn’t come here to ogle you. My life does not revolve around you. I didn’t get up this morning thinking, Ooh, I wonder how I can insert myself into my intern’s life today!”
Okay. I may—just possibly—have overreacted.
“Lola?”
“Get lost.” She strides away from me, bare feet sinking into the sand. Equally indignant, Nellie prances along beside her person. I let them go. Short of groveling, there’s nothing to say. I was an ass. Lola called me on it. End of story. I peel my wet suit down to my waist while I assess the situation. I still kind of really want to know why she’s here.
My phone plays the Jaws theme song. Automatically, I pull it out. Lola has texted me a list of San Francisco/Bay Area attractions:
Presidio—check.
Golden Gate Park—check.
Line too long for cable car so rainchecking that.
Heads-up.
Checking out Santa Cruz next in case u need evac to higher ground or something.
She’s also attached a picture. It’s snapped from a guidebook, touting the “wonderful views” and “ample parking” of my beach. My assholery drills me worse than my last wipeout. I fire a test shot.
Me: Lola?
A phone dings somewhere on the other side of the enormous sand dune I face. I try again.
Me: I may have overreacted.
Another ding and a brief pause.
Lola: Delete two words from that sentence.
Okay. So I’m an ass. A colossal, jumbo, Trojan-horse-sized ass. There’s only one surefire way to atone. Ten minutes later, I’m b
ack on the beach after a pit stop at the snack shack.
Me: Marco.
Ding.
Me: Hint: you say POLO.
Another ding. I hike over the dune and slide carefully down beside Lola. She’s curled up, face turned toward the sun, eyes closed. I hold an ice cream cone in front of her face.
“Peace offering.”
Her eyes flicker open. The chocolate-and-vanilla twist is great—although the cone tastes like cardboard—and always reminds me of the beach. Lola takes my peace offering and transfers her attention to her phone. I pat Nellie on the head and she barks once before returning to her nap. I debated bringing ice cream for the dog, but Google said that was a no go.
I stopped by my car to strip and drop off my board; I also grabbed a towel and my favorite UCSC sweatshirt. The sweatshirt is officially on life support, the cuffs threatening to part company permanently from the rest of the sweatshirt.
I tap Send on my phone. Lola’s phone brays. Awesome. I’ve graduated from being a vanilla ding to full-on ass. She lets it hee-haw on purpose while she chases a drip of ice cream with her tongue. Lick me like that, I want to say. Instead, I text.
Apology Options (please rank order):
Flowers
The grovel
Skywriter with apology highlights
Diamonds
E: All of the above
I try to watch the waves while she reads my message, but the way she works her cone is indecent. Her tongue licks and curls, exploring the ice cream with short, teasing strokes. From the way her eyes laugh at me, she knows exactly what watching her eat does to me.
Eventually, I cave and concede this round. “Am I forgiven?”
“You think ice cream can be substituted for these other options?” She makes a raspberry sound. “Dream on because now I’m dreaming big.”
“Well, you’d have to come with me if you want diamonds.” I make a show of patting my swim trunks. “There are only two priceless jewels I keep on me and neither of them are diamonds. I’d be happy to show you, though, so you could check them out. See if you see anything you like.”
“Hmm.” She sucks on the last inch of her cone. That’s the best part, the place where the ice cream melts into the tiny cone squares at the bottom and the whole thing becomes a sweet, gooey mess. I reach over and snatch it. “Hey!”
“There’s a business lesson in there for you.” I bite down and devour half the cone stub before offering her the last bite. She eats it from my fingers, sucking on one, and I file the memory away for future appreciation. Right now, given the quantity of clouds and seagulls overheard, I’ll be lucky if Karma doesn’t rain or shit on me.
When I look back at Lola, she’s pinched my cone. She winks. “I learned from the best.”
“Do you have a status update for me on my apology?”
“You were an ass.” She sounds tired.
“I was.”
“The world doesn’t revolve around you.”
“Not always.”
She huffs out a breath. “So modest. Can you even do any of that stuff? Like flowers?”
Ha. She’s challenged a master. I whip the handful of verbena and dune primroses I picked by the parking lot out of my hoodie pocket.
“Impressive, Mr. King.”
“I’m sorry.”
There’s silence for a heartbeat, broken only by the ocean and Nellie’s snores. Finally, I take a chance, reaching out an arm. I’m oddly disappointed of games. Somehow, winning our argument no longer matters—but Lola does. So I wait.
Another heartbeat, this one harder, faster.
Thud-thud.
Thud-thud.
“Do you mean it?” She asks her question so quietly I almost don’t hear her over the sound of the waves breaking on the beach.
I think about it, arm out, feeling like an idiot. A hopeful idiot. “I want to mean it?”
She nods and scoots away, reaching for her bag. My stomach wipes out. But then she shifts again, and I feel her slide into the curve of my arm and tuck her body against my side. I pull her closer still, lifting her onto my lap.
We sit like this for a long time. I breathe her in. Exhale and find her again. Like a swing that goes up, comes down and somehow finds the perfect rhythm. Or maybe gravity and falling explains it, too.
“I almost didn’t recognize you without a tie,” she says a long time later.
I angle my head so I can see her face. She’s smiling. “You’ve seen me without a tie plenty of times.”
“Nine times,” she says. “And you were naked. It was distracting.”
I could make a joke, tease her for not looking at my face because she focused lower. But this peace between us feels fragile and we both understand we’ve crossed another line. Flowers, diamonds, a skywritten apology—those things aren’t enough. Not even getting lost in her skin, her scent, the wet, slick welcome of her body is enough anymore. I have to let her in, at least a little, or I’ll lose her.
“Did you bring a swimsuit?” I ask. “I’m hoping for an itty-bitty polka-dot bikini, although I’m also partial to red. And stripes. Ruffles. Pretty much anything minimalist works for me, too.”
“Did you mistake Santa Cruz for a Caribbean island?”
“Naked surfing is an option.” I shrug. “But you’ll fall off the board and flail about, and if you’re not wearing a suit, I can’t guarantee my good behavior.”
“You want to go surfing?” She leans away from me, incredulous. “Are you nuts?”
“Have you been? Because if you’re ticking off the tourist to-do list, surfing lessons are definitely a must.”
The corner of her mouth lifts. “Yes, I have a swimsuit.”
Changing is a logistical challenge. There’s no dressing room. The snack shack’s the only building and it’s actually a food cart the owner tows with his truck. If you need to pee, you use the ocean or pick out a sand dune. Or, in Lola’s case, the back seat of her car while I humor her and stand guard. My reward is Lola in a blue-and-white-striped bikini. It’s going to be hard to keep my mind on surfing lessons.
In the next hour, I almost get her up on my board. She falls off much more than she stays on, and her sense of balance is for shit. Still, there are lots of opportunities to get my hands all over her and I’m a business-minded guy—I convert my opportunities.
She’s laughing when we paddle out to the surf break (okay, I paddle, she rides) and ride back in. Not standing up because she’s afraid of falling off (and also of sharks, rocks and riptides), but sitting down like total rooks. I keep my arms wrapped around her, guiding us through the wave, and she laugh-shrieks the whole way, her nails digging into my forearms as if that’s enough to keep her from falling. As if I’d let her fall.
Anyway, eventually we have to head in. Not only is the sun going down, but Nellie needs company and Lola’s stomach is growling loud enough to be heard the next state over in Nevada. Or possibly in Japan. She topples me off the board, however, when I point it out, and then we spend a fun few minutes rolling around in the shallows as the waves break over us and we argue about who gets to be on top.
And somehow it turns in a little more. Lola’s on top, so I blame her. She leans down and cups my head with her hands and then her mouth follows and the rest of her and we’re kissing. It’s tricky not drowning, but I thrust up against her, undeterred by the cold water, and she giggles. I’m reaching for her bikini top when someone clears his throat. Lola freezes and I tilt my head back to see who I have to kill.
Upside-down Max grins at me, Nellie wagging her tail by his side. “I see you already have plans for tonight.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Dev
IT TAKES SOME sweet-talking to convince Lola to join the guys and me at T&T. She doesn’t want to intrude she tells me. And then she whispers to Max—in a voice they can he
ar at the other end of the beach—that Dev likes his space. She may also mention that I don’t take kindly to intruders on the beach and something else about having to storm the castle. I’m pretty sure Max is half in love with her before we ever reach the beach bar.
We convoy to T&T, sandwiching Lola between our cars as she hasn’t been there. I sneak a look at her when we reach the cars, wondering how she’ll react. She makes a face but says nothing. Lola’s smart. The only reason she hasn’t pegged me is that she’s far too trusting. She drives an ancient Jeep covered in dog hair that can barely stay ahead of Max’s Porsche although she seems to have no problem crowding my bumper even putting along at a grandmotherly pace of twenty-five miles an hour.
T&T is exactly what a beach bar should be, a rambling, open-air wooden palapa with a thatched roof, brightly painted wooden furniture and no pretensions. Tacos and tequila are served, with tequila available in two forms: the margarita or the Corona with a chaser. The outdoor tables mean Nellie can come, too, even if I suspect she’d rather hang out in the Porsche.
Jack’s waiting for us, along with Hazel. Jack’s wife is apparently out of town again. Lately, she seems to spend more time away than at home, but Jack’s life is his business. When I introduce Lola to Jack and Hazel, she hesitates briefly but then clearly decides to roll with it. Even with just a first-name introduction, it’s clear she knows who they are—and that she won’t bring it up unless they do. It makes it even funnier, though, that she’s clueless about Max and me. She’s so heads-down seeking venture capital and building her company that she doesn’t recognize Silicon Valley royalty.
It’s surprisingly easy, adding Lola to our group. We order tacos, margaritas and beers, while my friends fill her in on our college hijinks. Lola contributes, too. As she drains the remainder of her margarita, she waves her hands, describing yet another job that she’s held. For someone who’s only thirty-one, she’s worked her way through (or possibly out of) a long list of jobs. She and Hazel one-up each other, vying to see whose job was the dirtiest and most ill-paid. Jack checks his phone while Hazel leans against his arm. If we had one more girl, we’d look like we were on a date.