You nod. “It is. I would love to go for a walk along the shoreline with you. Let me just text my cousin so she knows where I am when she gets back to the towels.”
You walk over to your bag, grab your phone, and text Tasha:
Working on your flirting challenge.
Be back soon.
Then Marco crooks his elbow and says, “May I escort you to the ocean?”
You bite your lip to keep from laughing and hook your elbow around his. “Of course you may,” you answer. You can see that Marco is fighting laughter, too.
“So,” you say, as the two of you make your way to the water’s edge, “do you know what you’re going to major in at college?”
“At Columbia you can’t really declare until second semester sophomore year,” he says. “But I’m pretty sure I want to be a philosophy major.”
“Why philosophy?” you ask.
You’re not even exactly sure what you study when you’re a philosophy major. You have a feeling it involves reading a lot of books by old Greek people, maybe old French people, too. Or maybe you’re totally off.
“Well, philosophy, if you dissect the word,” Marco says, “means love of wisdom. I like the idea of debating the big questions, looking for the wisdom in sweeping ideas like truth and beauty and knowledge and reason.”
You reach far back into your brain for a line of poetry your English teacher had written on a banner above the whiteboard. “Like, ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty’?” you ask.
“‘That is all ye know on earth, and all ye need know,’” Marco finishes for you. “Keats. ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn.’ The enigmatic ending. That’s probably more an English major thing to study, but the connection between truth and beauty is interesting to debate. There could definitely be a philosophical discussion about that.”
“The truth is sometimes ugly,” you say, thinking about doctors having to tell people that they’re dying, teachers having to tell parents that there’s something wrong with their kids.
“But can there be beauty in ugliness?” Marco asks. “People still find beauty during wartime.”
Your brain is working overtime to keep up with Marco, but you like it. It’s the most interesting conversation you’ve had maybe ever.
“Aren’t beauty and ugliness opposites, though?” you ask. “How can you find something in its opposite?”
You’ve turned and are walking parallel to the water, the waves lapping cold against your toes.
“This guy I know,” Marco says, “photographs rust-covered Dumpsters and corroded pipes, but he zooms in really tight, so you can’t tell what you’re looking at. And it’s kind of gorgeous. It looks like modern art, all color and emotion.”
“So you’re saying ugly can be beautiful.” You look over at him.
“And beautiful can be ugly,” he says. “But some-times, beautiful is just beautiful and ugly is just ugly.”
You laugh. “Nothing is everything, but sometimes everything is everything and nothing is nothing.”
“Pretty much.” His dimple is back, and you fight the urge to poke your finger into it.
“Did you have a final destination in mind?” you ask him.
He points to the rocks about a dozen feet in front of you. “The jetty,” he says.
“I used to climb on those rocks with my cousin,” you tell him.
“I did, too—well, not with my cousin. Or your cousin. By myself,” he answers. “Maybe we used to see each other.”
You try to remember seeing a smaller, younger version of Marco on the rocks, but you can’t. “I wasn’t here that often,” you say. “Usually just for a few days each summer.”
You’ve made it to the jetty, and Marco starts to climb. You follow, until you’re both balancing on top of the closest rock.
“How daring are you?” he asks.
The truth is usually you’re not very daring at all, but something’s different now. You decide to be as daring as Marco wants you to be.
“Very,” you answer.
His dimple comes back for another visit, and he steps from your rock to the one in front. “Follow me then.”
You do, and carefully put your feet wherever he’s put his, as you move farther and farther out into the ocean, balancing on the slippery black boulders. When you’ve reached the farthest point on the jetty, Marco stops. You stop next to him.
“This is my favorite spot on the whole beach,” he says. “The waves, the wind, the height up here. It’s beautiful beautiful, not ugly beautiful.”
He closes his eyes and tips his face up toward the sun. You close your eyes, too, and feel your hair whipping behind you in the wind.
“You look beautiful beautiful, too,” Marco says. “Like you could command the ocean. Like you’re its queen.”
You open your eyes and look at him. His face looks so open that you can tell it’s not a line. He’s being honest. What was that about truth and beauty again?
Something in you melts a little.
“If I’m a queen,” you say, “I think that means I need a king. You interested in the job?”
Marco slides his arm over your shoulder. “It would be an honor,” he says. You lean your head against his and look out at the ocean. A queen with her king, ready to command the waves.
Even without a kiss, this moment is perfect, and you wouldn’t trade it for anything.
CONGRATULATIONS!
YOU’VE FOUND YOUR HAPPY ENDING!
Click here to go back to talking books with Marco.
- - - - -
Click here to go back to the beginning and start over.
YOU wave good-bye to Frisbee Guy, and even though the lifeguard makes you wonder if perhaps Boy Scouts could make good boyfriends after all, you decide you’d probably turn him off pretty quickly with your un–Girl Scout ways, and you would rather spare yourself the rejection. Also, you realize that Tasha has been gone for a big chunk of the afternoon. You decide to go look for her. But just as you start to scan the ocean for her bright yellow bikini, you see her walking out of the ocean, making a beeline for you and the towels.
Click here to continue.
Click here to go back to talking to Frisbee Guy.
- - - - -
Click here to go back to the beginning and start over.
YOU get to the house, jump out of the car, and grab your bag from the trunk.
“Yellow room or blue room?” Tasha asks you. Her parents’ house has four bedrooms: the master, which is off limits, Tasha’s room, and two guest rooms.
“Yellow,” you say. “I want the king bed.”
“Of course you do.” Tasha wiggles her eyebrows at you.
You ignore her and walk into the house. The downstairs, which is one of those huge rooms that is part kitchen, part dining room, and part living room, looks pretty much the same as it did last summer, with its distressed wood furniture, blue and gray accents, seascapes hanging on the walls, and huge windows looking out over the deck and the pool.
“Lemonade?” Tasha asks. “My mom said she ordered the summer essentials for us, and Linda the House Sitter unpacked them.”
“Oh, that was nice,” you say, dropping your bag on the floor and heading into the kitchen area. “I’ll get us some.” Once you fill two glasses, you stop under the skylight and look up at the blue, cloudless sky. Tasha comes to stand next to you and takes her lemonade.
“Gorgeous, huh?” she asks, after she swallows her first sip.
“Gorgeous,” you repeat.
“Just like us,” Tasha says, throwing her arm across your shoulder and laughing.
You smile and give her a little shove. “You are so ridiculous!” you tell her.
“Perhaps,” she answers, draining the rest of her glass. “So, are we going to be gorgeous here by the pool, or would you rather be gorgeous at the
beach?”
Click here if you decide to be gorgeous by the pool.
- - - - -
Click here if you decide to be gorgeous at the beach.
Click here to go back to driving to the house with Tasha and Jade.
- - - - -
Click here to go back to the beginning and start over.
INSTEAD of waving back to the second fisherman, you turn to Tasha and say, “What would you think about heading home?”
“No cute fisherman?” she asks.
You shake your head. “I think I’d rather have some lemonade and a dip in the pool.”
“That does sound pretty good,” Tasha answers.
The two of you get up, toss the trash from your lobster rolls, and go back to where you left your towels so you can pick up all your stuff from the beach. Then you head back to Tasha’s house.
Once you get there, Tasha says, “So we’re gonna be gorgeous by the pool?”
“Gorgeous by the pool,” you say. “At least for now.”
Click here to continue.
Click here to go back to eating a lobster roll with Tasha.
- - - - -
Click here to go back to the beginning and start over.
THERE are only a couple more people who have to order before you and Tasha.
“Are you getting something?” Tasha asks. “I think I want the No Frills.”
You look at the menu. The No Frills is just lobster and mayo on a toasted hot-dog bun.
You weren’t feeling that hungry when you started the trip over to the food trucks, but now with the smell of toasting bread and lobster, you’re starting to change your mind. You read the rest of the options. There’s the Hot Stuff, which involves chili powder. You’re not so much interested in that. There’s the Garden Variety, which has some lettuce and celery and cabbage worked in there. You figure that’ll probably just dilute the flavor of lobster. Then there’s Drawn and Quartered—chunks of lobster, drawn butter, a toasted bun, and a squeeze of lemon. That looks pretty good to you. And it has been a while since you ate.
“I’m going for the Drawn and Quartered,” you say.
“Mmm,” Tasha answers. “Then your lips will be all salty for when you kiss the lobster-roll guy.”
“Tash!” you say.
The two people in front of you get their lobster rolls, and you and Tasha step forward. You’re in front of the ordering window now, and the lobster-roll guy leans out his little window.
He smiles at you, and his grin takes over his face. It looks like the kind that could be in a toothpaste commercial.
“I was waiting for you to get to the head of the line,” he says. “What can I get for you?”
You swallow. You can’t believe he noticed you—like, really noticed you, out of all of the people in line.
“Um,” you say.
Tasha gently nudges you.
You clear you throat and smile. You need to get it together here!
“One Drawn and Quartered for me, and a No Frills for my cousin,” you say, indicating Tasha. Then you add, “please.”
“Pretty and polite!” Lobster Roll Guy says. He winks at you as he prepares your order.
“Oh, she’s more than that,” Tasha tells him.
Lobster Roll Guy smiles again, but this time he only uses half of his mouth, not his whole toothpaste grin. “I bet she is.”
Then he turns to you. “What are your favorite chips?” he asks.
Chips? You look at the display of potato chips running along one side of his food truck.
“Salt and vinegar,” you say, “but I don’t need any chips.”
“Those are my favorite, too!” he says, as he hands you Tasha’s roll. You pass it over to her and wonder if he would’ve said that no matter what you’d answered.
“What about you?” he asks Tasha.
“Jalapeño,” she answers.
“Spicy,” he replies, handing you your own roll.
“Don’t you know it,” Tasha says, taking a bite of hers. “Mmm, this is delicious.”
You and Tasha pay, and Tasha says, “Want to go eat these by the wharf?”
You do, but you also want to keep talking to Lobster Roll Guy.
“There’s a great bench that’s kind of hidden by the enormous trawler at the edge of the pier,” he tells you, as he hands you two bags of potato chips—one salt and vinegar and one jalapeño. “These are on the house.”
“Thank you!” you say. You were kind of hoping he’d invite you to . . . well . . . to do something. But since he hasn’t, you wonder if you should invite him. He has made it kind of clear that he likes you . . . at least, you think he has.
Click here if you invite him to meet up with you after he gets off work.
- - - - -
Click here if you don’t say anything more and go to watch the fishermen unload their catch at the wharf.
Click here to go back to chatting with Tasha at the beach.
- - - - -
Click here to go back to deciding to grab a lobster roll.
- - - - -
Click here to go back to the beginning and start over.
“SO,” Tasha says. “Lobsterman or Surfman? Jean Paul sounds sexy. I think you should try it out.”
“And leave Lobsterman to you?” you tease.
“We’ll see,” she says. “But this weekend is about you! Your birthday, your kiss—excuse me, your flirt-and-maybe-a-kiss-if-you-feel-like-it.”
You nod your head. “I’m glad you got it right this time.”
You think about it. It could be cool to learn to surf. But you’re not so sure how good you’d be.
“What if I stink at it?” you ask Tasha.
“So you’ll need some extra help. That means more time with sexy Jean Paul.”
You consider that.
“What if he’s, like, forty?” you ask. “And gross?”
“Then you chalk it up to taking a chance, and you’ll see if you like surfing. And if that happens, I promise we’ll find a party somewhere tonight where you can find some other cute guys.”
You’re getting close to the front of the line, so you have to decide pretty quickly.
“Yolo,” Tasha says. “I mean, seriously, yolo.”
You do only live once. Which means, time for a surf lesson.
“Good luck with Lobsterman,” you tell Tasha. And you follow the arrow on the sign toward the surf lessons.
When you get there, an impossibly tall guy with impossibly sharp cheekbones and long wavy sun-bleached hair is zipping up a bag of stuff. He’s wearing a wetsuit unzipped and hanging down around his waist. His chest is bare and hairless. His face is close to hairless, too—just a few patches of prickles—which makes you realize that he’s probably closer to your age than you initially thought.
“May I help you?” he asks in French-accented English.
This must be Jean Paul.
“I think so?” you say, cursing yourself for turning the declaration into a question. “I saw the sign for surf lessons. Are you closed for the day?”
Jean Paul sweeps his eyes over you from your ponytail down to your toe polish. “I was going to close,” he tells you, “but perhaps I can stay open for one more lesson. One half hour is forty dollars.”
You’d brought your wallet with you to the lobster- roll truck, and you know you have forty dollars in cash in there.
“Okay,” you say. “A half hour sounds good. I’ve never done this before.”
“A virgin!” Jean Paul says, and laughs. “I’ll call you Mary.”
You feel your cheeks turn pink. You know that he was just talking about this being your first time surfing, but that word made your mind go somewhere else, and you’re pretty sure it made his go to that same place. And once the image of Jean Paul naked is i
n your head, it’s hard to get it out.
“Mary’s fine with me,” you say, “but what should I call you?”
He shrugs. “You can call me Jean Paul,” he says. “That’s my name.”
“Nope,” you tell him. “Not fair. If you give me a fake name, I get to give you one.” You try to think of something clever, something slightly risqué, but nothing is coming to you. “How about Poseidon?” you finally say.
“You have made me a god!” Jean Paul responds. “Poséidon, le dieu de la mer à la mythologie grecque. I studied him at the university last year. It was a required class for all who were—I forget the word in English—freshman?”
You feel yourself blush even more as you nod. You were just trying to think of something having to do with the ocean. Also, it sounds extra sexy when he speaks French. Nothing like the way your French teacher sounds at school.
“If I’m Poseidon, then I’m changing your name,” he says. “You’re Amphitrite.”
“Poseidon’s wife?” you say.
“Absolument,” he answers. “Now, Amphitrite, I will teach you to surf!”
Jean Paul gives you a wetsuit to zip over your bikini—the kind with short sleeves that comes to your knees—and locks your stuff up in a little set of lockers under the surf school tent. He zips his wetsuit up, too, which is really too bad because now his chest is covered. Then he pulls a longboard off the rack and hands it to you.
“Okay,” he says, “put the board under your arm and follow me.”
It’s a little awkward and ungainly, but you do what he says and follow him closer to the water. He puts his board down on the sand, and you put yours down next to him.
“First,” he says, “we practice getting up on the board. You are right-handed, yes?”
You nod.
“Bon,” he says. He lies down on the board and tells you to watch him. “It’s a four count. Un, you push up with your arms. Deux, you move your right leg forward. Trois, you bring your left leg in front of your right. Quatre, you stand up! Then use your arms to balance. Let’s do it together.”
Summer Love Page 5