Take Me To The Beach

by K. L. Grayson, Karina Halle, A. L. Jackson, Marni Mann, Monica Murphy, Devney Perry, Kristen Proby, Rachel Van Dyken

  “I’m afraid if I tell you what I want, you might not want the same thing.”

  “Try me.”

  I nod, swallow. “Okay.” I pause, absently watching an egret fly past because it’s easier to focus on that and tell the truth than look at him. “I just want you, Laz. I have…feelings for you. Big ones. And I can’t go back to just being your friend again. I’m sorry, really sorry, if that’s not what you were wanting from me and that I’ve ruined it all but I just…I want more of you. I want more sex. I want this, us walking together, you holding my hand. I want to date you, for real this time. Be with you. Be in a full-on romantic and physical and exclusive relationship with you.” I let out a burst of air, shake my shoulders and prepare to get my heart broken.

  He grins at me, a big beautiful smile that melts me into a puddle.

  “You sweet, sweet girl,” he murmurs, leaning down.

  I tilt my head back, smile against his lips as they press against mine.

  “So?” I ask him softly as he pulls back.

  “I can’t do the friend thing anymore either,” he says, “even though you’re still my best one. And I don’t want to just fuck you, though I have to say, I love fucking you. I want you to be mine, through and through. Mine and only mine.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Never been so sure of something in all my life,” he says to me. “And it feels bloody good.”

  Bliss. This is pure bliss. This is sunshine in my veins, sunbursts in my heart. This is everything I’ve wanted to hear.

  Almost. But I have no doubt, we’ll get there.

  Won’t we?

  “What are you doing later?” he asks me. “I’d invite you over to the apartment right now but it’s like Venice Beach up in there.”

  “Why?”

  “Scooby has a bunch of buskers over. I told him it was fine, as long as the fire breather stayed away from the curtains. I double-checked that we had a fire extinguisher just in case.”

  “Well…” I say slowly. “Actually, I have plans and I was kind of hoping you’d come with me.”

  “Where?”

  I wince. “Out for lunch with my father and my aunt.”

  “I’m glad to hear he’s doing better.”

  “Yeah, supposedly. And I know I can do it on my own and it’s not just about the moral support, I just really want you to see him, meet him, when he’s sober.”

  “I’ve met your father before, Marina. Sober. I know he’s a good man, you don’t have to try and prove anything to me.”

  “I know but…” I trail off.

  He squeezes my hand. “I’ll come. For sure.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Did you know that bees, ants and ravens are the only species, other than humans, that can communicate time and distance to each other?”

  Laz’s brows twitch. “You’re nervous.”

  “Because I’m talking about bees?”

  “Yes. It’s a tell of yours. Like, if I was a detective interrogating you, that would be one of your tells. I’d ask you if it was you that robbed the bank and you’d tell me that when the worker bees kill the queen, they basically cuddle her to death.”

  “It’s also called a murder ball,” I tell him, impressed that he remembered that fact. We’re sitting in his car, waiting outside P.F. Changs in a mall parking lot. We’re early to meet my father and Margaret, which, yes, has given me plenty of time to be nervous. “Do I have any other tells?”

  “Well I know the ones when you’re nervous. Not sure if that always means you’re lying.”

  “I never lie.”

  “Bullshit.” His mouth curves into a bemused smile. “You lied just then. I saw your tell.”

  “Which is?”

  “You press your lips together afterward. Like you’re trying not to smile.”

  He’s probably right. When I do lie, I often feel like laughing, like I never think I’ll pull it off.

  “So, what’s my tell?” he asks.

  I study him for a moment. His strong jaw, those lips that bring me to another place, those dark, arched expressive brows that tell me everything and the moody, intense eyes underneath.

  I smile.

  “What?” he asks, frowning.

  “I just like looking at your face,” I say, feeling a rush of love for him flow through me. “It’s a good face. The best face. But I can’t tell your tell, you have to lie about something.”

  “Okay,” he says slowly, thinking it over. “I absolutely do not want to fuck you right here in this car in this parking lot.’

  I laugh. “Fine. I guess that works. I’d say then that your tell is that you don’t blink when you lie. Your gaze intensifies.”

  He mulls that over, tapping his fingers on his chin as he eyes himself in the rearview mirror. “Hmmm.”

  “By the way, I’m totally down for some car fucking right now,” I tell him, putting my hand behind his neck and pulling him toward me, marveling that holy shit, I can do this. I can touch him and kiss him and fuck him in his car because he’s mine. “Or anytime really.”

  He raises a brow. “Is that so?”

  “Mmm hmmm,” I say as he leans in and kisses me.

  My heart trips, picks itself up, soars. Like the mere act of his lips pressing against mine can jolt my heart, bring me back to life.

  “Isn’t that your dad?” he asks against my mouth.

  Not the words I want to hear right now.

  I open my eyes to see his eyes focused in the distance then turn in my seat and see my father and my Aunt Margaret walking into the restaurant.

  “Guess we better go,” I say, though my throat feels like it’s closing up.

  It’s been just over two weeks since I last saw my father. After Laz and I went to Lancaster and had to deal with him, I ended up putting on the brakes. I ignored my aunt’s phone calls, I ignored his too. I didn’t know what I was going to hear when I finally picked up.

  But guilt finds me easily and it wasn’t long before I started feeling horrible for shunning him when he needs the most help. He’s not my problem, I know this but…I can’t seem to separate that from my life. It just is what it is and I’m always going to feel like I need to do something.

  So, my father called last night when I got home and I answered and now we’re meeting him and my aunt at a P.F. Changs in Irvine. He’s been staying with her for the last week and when I talked to him on the phone, he sounded completely sober.

  But who knows. Going to restaurants where alcohol is offered is always a dicey move and though none of us will have anything stronger than coffee, it’s a temptation that’s staring him in the face.

  “It’s going to be fine,” Laz says. “Come on.”

  We get out of the car and head into the restaurant, the tangy smell of the food wafting over us.

  My father and Aunt Margaret are at the hostess desk waiting for a table. There’s a split second before they’ll see us so I use it to scope out their posture, their faces, their mannerisms.

  My dad’s back is straight, carrying himself stiffly. In a way, that’s good. He’s probably sober, probably nervous too. I told him last night that I might bring Laz and he must have some idea that Laz took care of him that night. Or maybe he doesn’t know at all. Maybe he’s nervous for the same reason I’m nervous.

  My aunt is a skinny, frail-looking woman with a mess of frizzy, brown curls and thick glasses, but her tongue is sharp and she’s stronger than she looks. She’s smiling at my father though, as if they were talking about something amusing and she seems relaxed.

  That’s good. Maybe this will be okay.

  Then my father sees us. His face breaks into a toothy grin, the exact same smile I inherited from him. It’s not forced at all, I know he’s happy to see me, and it immediately dissolves the hardness around my heart. This is the problem, this has always been the problem. When he’s sober, he’s my father. He even looks like a different person than the one we saw the other night.


  “Marina!” he exclaims with open arms.

  He envelopes me in a hug and without hesitation I hug him back. If anything I hug him harder, as if I’m trying to hold onto the person I know he can be.

  “Hi Dad,” I tell him, smiling against him, and for a quick but weighted moment I’m ten years old, running through the house to him after he comes home from work, my mother cooking dinner in the kitchen. It’s bittersweet.

  “Dad,” I tell him as I pull away. “You remember Laz?”

  I watch him carefully as he looks to Laz. There’s a faint hesitation in his smile and when it comes, it’s slightly forced. Not in an unfriendly way, but in an embarrassed one. I think he remembers that night, maybe not in detail and that’s for the best, but he remembers Laz was there.

  But Laz, bless his heart, he just sticks out his hand, shakes my father’s and gives him a big smile and hearty slap on the back. “Good to see you Mr. Owens,” Laz says.

  “Nick,” he says. “Please call me Nick.”

  “And this is my Aunt Margaret,” I say, flashing her a smile.

  Margaret shakes Laz’s hand firmly. “Nice to meet you.”

  She’s a tough nut to crack, but this is good enough for now.

  The hostess seats us at the table and small talk ensues.

  A lot of it is focused on Laz. They’re interested in his poetry, in his music, in England. Aunt Margaret spent a lot of time in England and Scotland when she was younger, so she likes to talk about Manchester and the Mancunian accent, how it differs from so many of the other ones.

  Laz talks to them with ease. He’s not always the most sociable guy, I suppose the stereotype of the quiet, broody, and introverted is quite suited to him. But when he does talk to people, he has this way of giving them his utmost attention and keeps the conversation going when it lulls.

  Eventually though, the reason for the meeting comes up.

  “Marina,” my father says after we’ve polished off Kung Pao’s chicken. “I’ve decided to sell the house.”

  House is a bit of an exaggeration but I’m surprised. “What? Why?”

  He and my aunt exchange a look. “It’s, uh…I need help, little girl. More help than you or Margaret can give me. It isn’t fair to both of you that I can’t take care of myself, especially you. After everything I’ve put you through—I can’t stand to put you through anymore.”

  “So what does this mean?”

  “It means that I’m going to sell the house, I’m going to go to a detox and rehab center for as long as I can. There’s one in the hills, by our old place in Ramona. Then after that, maybe a group home.”

  “And then we’ll see what happens,” Margaret says. “The treatment center is very expensive, so unfortunately selling the house is a must. What’s left over, we were thinking about getting him a condo near me.”

  “What about Pickles?” I ask.

  My dad chuckles. “Pickles doesn’t need to go to rehab. His catnip problem isn’t that bad.”

  “I can take him in,” Margaret says. “Unless you want to. Do you think he’d be okay with your bees?”

  I nod. “He’d be fine. I’d have to ask Barbara but I don’t think it would be a problem. I’d love to have that fat cat.”

  After that, it’s back to small talk again and I’m trying not to let the hope shine out of my chest. The fact that my father is taking this step means he’s actually serious for once. It’s one thing to go because a court orders you or because you had a change of heart. It’s another thing to sell your house so you can afford to stay in a treatment center.

  This is a huge step. This huge for everyone.

  And like usual, I want to get my hopes up because that’s what I do. I open myself up to believing everything will be okay, which is why my heart is always getting stomped on when I’m eventually let down.

  Marina

  “I Am You”

  * * *

  “So, that was some big news,” Laz says later after we’ve said goodbye to my father and Aunt Margaret and are driving away from Irvine toward the coast.

  “I know,” I say softly.

  “Good news,” he adds, as if he wasn’t clear. “I’m guessing a treatment center is a step above rehab.”

  “Yeah, it’s like going to the Betty Ford clinic. He can stay for months. Sometimes they go to group homes after, where a bunch of recovering addicts live together. He’s never taken it this seriously before, even after Mom died.”

  “It’s never too late to make things right.” He pauses. “Not that this will bring your mum back but…”

  “I know,” I say just as we come out of the canyon near Laguna. “Nothing will. But it can’t hurt.”

  “And for you, to not have to deal with this, to go back to being his daughter instead of his caregiver. To not carry this weight and worry in your heart.” He reaches over and takes my hand. “I see it in you, you know. Behind your beautiful smile and kind eyes, you have this darkness within you. I wish more than anything I could banish it.”

  I give him a gracious smile. “You do, Laz. Being with you gives me light.”

  We pull into the parking lot right across the beach at Crystal Cove State Park and Laz parks the car far away from the only other car in the lot, a truck where rap music blares and clouds of pot waft out of the barely cracked windows.

  “Now this is nice,” I tell him, rolling down the window to let the ocean breeze wash over us. The ocean itself is dark as sin, the waves rolling in slowly, their crests catching glints of lights off of Highway 1. I breathe in the salt air and feel my muscles immediately loosen.

  “I often wonder why we don’t live by the beach,” he says. “What’s the point of living in California if you always forget that this is here.”

  “Why don’t we?” I repeat. “I can tell you why I don’t, because I don’t have several millions of dollars. And, so far, neither do you.”

  “You are such a dream crusher,” he says, making a tsking sound as he shakes his head. “You’re supposed to aim for something in life, aren’t you?”

  I give him a tiny, one-shouldered shrug. “Yeah. But my goals aren’t fancy beach houses.”

  “I didn’t say it needed to be fancy,” he says. “It could be a daggy, old shack and I’d be happy with it. Just as long as I can see the ocean.”

  Am I in these dreams with you? I wonder. He did say “we” after all.

  He lightly pokes my arm with his finger. “What are your goals then?”

  “Life goals? I guess just being successful at what I do. Educate the world about bees. Make a difference in the environment, in the ecosystem, in people’s lives. Make the world a better happier place.”

  He scoffs, rolling his eyes as his head goes back against the seat rest. “How can I compete with bloody Leonardo DiCrappio.”

  “Did you just call Leonardo Dicaprio, Leonardo DiCrappio?”

  “I did.”

  “And why am I Leo?”

  “Because he’s trying to save the planet. As are you.”

  “Oh.” I pause. “I’m just trying to make a difference. Even if I save one bee. It’s small but the smallest changes can lead to the biggest results.”

  “You are unbelievable, you know that.” His rests his head on the side so he’s staring right at me, eyes focused in amazement.

  “There’s nothing wrong with wanting a beach house, Laz. I’m sure when you first moved to California, that’s where you thought everyone lived—on the beach.”

  He nods slowly. “You’re right,” he says thoughtfully. “I thought that everyone lived on the beach, drove convertibles, listened to rap, wore bikinis all day long. I was especially looking forward to that last one.”

  I reach over and give his knee a violent squeeze so he yelps. “Actually, half of those are true.”

  “I also thought they’d all look like you, the quintessential California girl,” he says, his hand drifting down to grab mine. “Blonde hair, blue eyes, gorgeous tanned, soft skin. And it tu
rns out, only you look like you, Marina. Only you are you. Thank god I found you.”

  I swallow hard, his words tenderizing me.

  I smile. “I’m glad I found you, too.”

  That’s the understatement of the year but it’s all I can manage for now. I’m still reeling at the stark simplicity of what he just said. I could feel his heart in it, like he just handed it to me for safekeeping.

  And yet, I have no idea if he feels the same way about me as I do with him. No idea if he loves me like I love him. And I love him, so, so much. Like there’s this endless reservoir deep inside me that I’ve accidently tapped and now I’m not sure how to stop it, or even if I want to.

  There is so much love in me.

  And…this is a risk. A recipe for pain if things go wrong. There’s a chance I could lose Laz forever, a chance I could get severely hurt if my love is a one-way street.

  But I don’t even get to decide anymore whether to indulge the feeling or not, I don’t get to decide whether I love him or not. I just do.

  I just do.

  “You know,” he says, his focus down on his fingers as they lace with mine. He trails off, rubs his lips together. “I have a secret.”

  Oh god.

  “The night we met?” he says. “It wasn’t an accident.”

  I blink at him. “Huh? You mean, at the show?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “I told Jane to invite you.”

  “Wha…?” I shake my head. “But you didn’t know me.”

  “I saw your picture on her Facebook and that was it. I just...I wanted to meet you.”

  I can’t believe this. This is nuts.

  “You told Jane to invite me? She never told me that.”

  “I can’t remember what I said. Probably along the lines of, bring that hot blonde friend of yours and then she probably told me to shut up.”

  Huh. To think that he was looking for me when I first showed up at The Mint.

  “But you had a girlfriend,” I point out.

  “That doesn’t mean anything.”

  Whoa. My eyes narrow at him. I’m his girlfriend now, so what does that mean?

  “The truth is,” he goes on, “that night, I consulted the 8 Ball and asked it if I should break up with my girlfriend and go for you instead.” He laughs to himself. “It told me Outlook Not So Good.”