Chapter 2
Two
Beck
Turtle latte, no whip, and an iced coffee, black, for Susan!”
The barista sets two drinks on the counter. The man who bought my coffee smiles at the woman who bought his—Susan, presumably—then passes her the turtle latte, no whip.
He keeps the iced coffee for himself, and I choke back a snort. I like him already. A part of me wishes I knew his name, but he’s been in conversation with Susan since making his way to the counter where we’re waiting for our drinks, so I haven’t had the chance to ask.
Not that I would. He only bought my coffee.
It’s not like he wants to be best friends or anything.
I already have a best friend, anyway. His name is Boris.
We are both turning thirty this year and have very similar personalities.
We prefer quiet, calm spaces. We love the ocean.
We hate bright lights and people touching us.
In a lot of ways, I think of Boris as my twin.
Also, he is a sea turtle.
But that is beside the point, which I seem to have lost track of, because the barista has just turned on the blender, and the noise is so grating that it makes the muscles in my neck and shoulders physically hurt.
Whatever train of thought I was on has left the station and been derailed.
Fortunately, the assault of sound doesn’t last for long, and when the blender shuts off, I let out a sigh of relief, still jumbled, but less on edge.
When Susan leaves, I expect the man who bought my coffee to leave, too, but instead he lingers. He watches her go, then leans over to me and says, “Seems kind of weird to serve something called a turtle latte at a turtle hospital, don’t you think?”
Even though I know he’s joking, I find myself saying, “It’s caramel and chocolate, like chocolate turtles, not real turtles.
” Then I remember that most people don’t like a matter-of-fact response to a joke.
They think I didn’t get the joke, or worse, that I think they’re stupid.
Really, I just don’t know how to respond to jokes sometimes and end up saying the first thing that comes to mind.
It’s better, I have learned, to laugh or say good one!
Even a groan or an eye roll is acceptable when the joke is silly enough.
But the best response? Keep the joke going.
So I rush to add, “At least that’s what they want you to think. I’ve never had it, so I can’t say.”
The man laughs, and I feel a sliver of relief. Another social interaction navigated successfully.
“Coconut coffee frappé, Lucas!” the barista says, setting my chosen monstrosity on the counter.
Lucas. I like it. I look him over and decide I like it all. The name. The golden curls and ocean eyes. Even the outfit—linen pants and a breezy white button-down with the sleeves rolled up. His whole vibe is sophisticated surfer-boy chic.
Perhaps there are some things I like about summer after all.
Lucas hands me my drink, which, topped with whipped cream and coconut flakes and a little tropical umbrella, looks more like dessert or a frozen cocktail than coffee.
“And now that you know my name, can I ask what yours is?” he says.
“Beck Penrose,” I say.
“Beck Penrose.” He says my name like he’s feeling it out. When he looks me over again, I feel my face flush. He looks at me like he’s assessing me—not in a judgmental or crude way. His gaze is soft, open, like he’s trying to see what Beck Penrose is all about.
Which is a ridiculous thing to think. How hard did that blender scramble my brain?
“Lucas Holiday,” he says. “It’s only fair you know my last name when I know yours.”
I feel like I should say something, but I’m not sure what. My train of thought is still off track, apparently.
Lucas makes no motion to leave, and I don’t know how to exit this conversation gracefully, and even though I would very much like to exit this café, there is something about Lucas that makes me sad that we’re strangers.
That something is probably just his looks, but a girl needs a little romantic fantasy to indulge in now and then.
I could say something clever, something innocent on the surface but flirty too.
He’d pick up on it right away. A little back-and-forth would ensue.
Next thing you know, we’d be making out in a supply closet.
Instead, all I come up with is “It’s brutal today, huh?” Because unfortunately for me, the seductive skills I have in my fantasies are just that—fantasy.
“Perfect beach day, though,” he says.
“I hate beach days,” I say. And then I remember that Lucas probably doesn’t care about my actual opinion on beach days.
“Why’s that?” he asks.
I don’t want to seem too negative, but how am I supposed to avoid it when I feel negative about so many things?
I don’t understand it, but sometimes people think I’m being negative about them, when I’m not even talking about them.
I don’t know how to answer his question without seeming like a total grump, because even though I am feeling a little grumpy—thank you, blender—I am not grumpy with him. Best keep it simple.
“Sand,” I say.
Lucas looks like he wants to laugh but isn’t sure he should. “Sand?”
“It’s very . . . sandy.”
“I can’t argue with you there.” He actually does laugh then, and it’s the first sound I’ve heard in the last fifteen minutes that doesn’t make me want to cover my ears.
“It’s not that I hate sand,” I say, because now I feel like I’m not making any sense.
“I just don’t like it enough to have it stuck to me forever.
Not literally forever, of course, but it isn’t easy to get off.
Going for a walk on the beach sounds all fun and relaxing until you have to rinse the sand off after.
Rinsing it off is hard enough, and once you’ve done it, you just end up with wet feet, and then you’ve got to put your wet feet into your shoes, and now your shoes are damp, and you probably picked up more sand on them anyway. It’s a whole . . . thing.”
Lucas looks at me, wide eyed. “Well, when you put it that way, it sure sounds like it.”
“Are you making fun of me?” I ask.
“No. But I do think you’re very funny.”
The way he says it seems sincere. Really, he hasn’t said all that much since we started talking, nothing particularly unique or interesting, but there’s something about the way he says things that interests me. Something different. Real. Like he just says what he means.
Most of the time, conversations feel like a game I didn’t even know I was playing.
Everyone else seems to know about it. They even love it.
To them, the rules are second nature. Every conversation is a battle to win, and every battle needs a strategy.
Because of this, people’s words never seem to match their intentions.
Me? I hate this game. Maybe that’s because I never got the rule book that everyone else seems to have had from birth.
I’ve managed to figure out most of the rules as I go.
I’m even good at the game if I have to be.
But no matter how much I figure out, I still don’t really get it.
I still don’t know what the whole point is, or why people enjoy it in the first place.
It all seems so unnecessarily complicated.
I probably sound like some holier-than-thou introvert, but don’t get me wrong.
I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with games.
Everyone plays them, even me. It’s just that I prefer different games.
Simpler, more cooperative ones. When someone invites me to a game like that?
I notice. Sometimes, I even want to play.
But as much as I would like to continue playing this game with Lucas, I unfortunately have new datasets on microplastics in unviable sea turtle eggs in my inbox, and those datasets aren’t going to analyze themselves.
“I better get to work,” I say. “Thanks for the coffee. Though I’m not sure I could scientifically classify this drink as a coffee.”
“Maybe not,” Lucas says, “but you’re welcome either way.”
When I make my way to the door, Lucas turns and walks alongside me.
“So, you work here,” he says. “What do you do?”
“I’m a marine biologist,” I tell him.
“A marine biologist who hates the beach?”
Lucas holds the door to the café open, and I step through it into the hall.
“I never said I hate the beach,” I tell him when the door to the café swings shut after him. “I said I hate beach days. The beach is much better at night. That’s when the turtles come out.”
Now that we’ve exited the café, I expect that Lucas and I will part ways.
The main exhibits for tourists are to the left, while my office is a little ways down this hall to the right.
Lucas doesn’t move to go. I don’t know what to say, so I just start in the direction of my office. When I do, Lucas goes along with me.
“From what I remember, the beach is just as sandy at night as it is during the day,” he says. “But what do I know? You’re the expert.”
I lower my voice, as if I’m sharing a coveted secret. “At night no one looks at you funny for wearing beach socks.”
When Lucas speaks, he is whispering too. “Beach socks?”
“Beach socks,” I say, which he seems to accept as a complete explanation.
We arrive in front of my office door. “I’d love to stay and chat,” I say. “But I have datasets on unviable sea turtle eggs that aren’t going to analyze themselves.” When he laughs at the joke, I am grateful to my previous self for thinking it up ahead of time.
“Can you tell I don’t get out much?” I nod to the office door. “Sometimes I feel like I live here. I really need to take a vacation soon.”
Lucas looks at the door as if he’s uncertain as to how he ended up here. “Wow, sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
I shrug. “You didn’t. Though I might change my mind if you try to follow me in there.”
“Boundaries,” he says. “I can respect that.”
There’s a pause. I’m trying to think of something to say that isn’t thanking him for the drink again when he breaks the silence.
“I won’t keep you any longer,” he says. “It was nice meeting you, Beck.”
“It was nice meeting you, too, Lucas,” I say.
When Lucas turns away, I slip into my office, feeling both a little buzzy and totally out of it.
I take the first sip of my coconut coffee frappé.
It’s terrible.
So much for switching things up.