Chapter 4
Four
Beck
That night, I find myself seated across from Lucas in one of South Florida’s most popular dining establishments.
Our table is on a patio that leads into a lush green lawn with a tasteful arrangement of tropical plants.
Palm trees that sway gently in a warm breeze.
Vibrant-pink hibiscus flowers, their petals fat and open faced, shamelessly demand attention.
Sleek black tiki torches and flickering candlelight cast a soft, inviting glow.
And beyond it all lies the ocean. A solid wash of dark blue beneath a pastel sky.
The restaurant is elegant. Refined. Romantic.
I hate it.
I don’t want to hate it. In principle, I like it very much. But instead of feeling all the things I should feel—grateful, relaxed, awed—I just feel like an ungrateful jerk for how tense and uncomfortable I am.
My chair is too stiff. The scrape of silverware is too loud. The breeze is just a little too breezy and keeps blowing a strand of hair into my face, where it gets stuck in my lip gloss.
And to top it all off, my jeans are too tight.
That one might be on me, but it isn’t helping.
I don’t want to feel like this. I want to be fun!
I am here! At a gorgeous restaurant! With a gorgeous guy!
A guy who asks questions! Questions about me!
Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a guy who asks questions?
Let alone one who seems perfectly happy to let me ramble on about my research on sea turtles like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever heard?
So please, boring Beck, I’m begging you, take a night off and let me enjoy a night out for once.
“Let me make sure I have this right,” Lucas says. “The sex of the sea turtles is determined by the temperature of the nest. Microplastics in the sand are making the nests warmer. And warmer nests means more female sea turtles.”
“Correct,” I say.
“Damn,” Lucas says. “I want to make a joke about Boris being a ladies’ man, but I’m kind of bummed out about it.”
I’m trying my best to focus on what Lucas is saying, but it’s difficult.
The sound of his voice seems muffled and far away, even though he’s sitting right across from me.
It’s like his volume has been turned all the way down, while everything else—silverware, voices, chairs, birdsong—is blasting full volume. My eardrums are throbbing.
I will not let a little sensory overload ruin a fun night. I need to fix this.
I get to my feet. “I’ll be right back,” I say. Before he can respond, I grab my purse and head in the direction of the restroom.
Thankfully, I have it to myself. I set my purse on the counter and rummage through it until my fingers land on a small circular plastic case.
Earplugs. Thank god I have them. They don’t block out everything, but they take just enough of the edge off that it doesn’t hurt as much.
I put both in, and the sound of my breathing feels closer, more present.
It reminds me of breathing underwater with a snorkel.
Sometimes I can even hear my own heartbeat.
I am underwater, but I am breathing, I think. I’m underwater, but I’m okay.
I wipe off my lip gloss, gather my hair into a ponytail with a hair elastic from the bottom of my purse, then mentally prepare to get back out there, hopeful that if I can just fake being Fun Beck for long enough, I might actually become her.
“Everything okay?” Lucas asks as soon as I take my seat again. “You kind of ran off there.”
“I’m great!” I say. “Just a little bathroom break.”
I take a sip of wine. Lucas looks me over with concern. His gaze snags on one of my ears, where the little silver loop of an earplug just barely juts into view.
“It’s the restaurant,” he says.
I set my glass on the table. “What’s the restaurant?”
“You look really uncomfortable. And I thought maybe it was me. But it’s not me, is it? It’s the restaurant, right?”
My shoulders slump a little as the mask of Fun Beck slips away.
“I’m sorry. This place is gorgeous, and the wine is great!
” I tap the base of my glass with a finger.
“I just have a hard time in certain places. Not all the time, but a lot of the time. Some places feel too loud or bright or just . . . uncomfortable. But you’re right, I’m uncomfortable, and it’s not you.
I don’t want you to think I’m having a bad time or complaining about anything.
Really, it’s not the restaurant, it’s me. ”
“Did you just pull a classic It’s not you, it’s me on the restaurant?” Lucas says.
The joke makes me laugh, and laughing makes me feel a little lighter than before. “I guess I did. But I really do mean it. I know I can be difficult. I’m too picky about things. But I’m okay now.” I pick up the menu. “Did you decide what you’re ordering? The snapper sounds good.”
“Or . . .” Lucas says, and at the tone in his voice, I lower the menu slightly.
“Or what?”
“What if you’re not actually difficult or picky?”
I set the menu back on the table with a sigh. “I wear socks on the beach because I don’t like sand touching my feet. I cry if I have to wear anything silky for longer than two hours. And I refuse to be within three feet of an open ketchup packet. What would you call it?”
“You wear beach socks on the beach. Those are different from regular socks. I looked it up.”
I do not know how to respond to that, so I don’t.
“As I was saying,” he continues. “What if you’re not difficult or picky? What if you’re just an incredibly self-aware person who knows what she likes and what she doesn’t like and values her own comfort?”
“That is . . . one way of putting it that I have not heard articulated before,” I say.
Lucas leans back in his chair. “My whole job is about helping people figure out what fun looks like for them. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that fun looks different for everyone.
Some people want a vacation where they never have to leave their hotel.
Other people want planned activities from the time they wake up until they pass out.
And some people don’t have much of a preference outside of which brand of bottled water the hotel can fill their bathtub with. Now that is difficult and picky.”
“I’m sorry . . . what?”
“Evian,” Lucas says. “It was Evian.”
“You’re joking.”
“One hundred percent serious. It’s a thing. You should try it sometime.”
He looks so serious about it that it makes me laugh, and then he’s laughing, and I’m certain we’re going to get kicked out of this restaurant, which I’m kind of okay with, to be honest.
“What I’m doing a terrible job of trying to say,” Lucas continues, “is that you’re not difficult because you won’t be within three feet of an open ketchup packet. Being within three feet of an open ketchup packet is difficult for you.”
I look across the table at him. Where did this guy come from? “That is the strangest, sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me,” I say. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Lucas nods, then snaps up the napkin from his lap and sets it on the table. “So, where should we go instead? If this place isn’t your vibe, what is?”
“You’re here for work. We already ordered wine and appetizers. I can sit through a meal, really.”
“I build vacations for everyone, Beck. And everyone includes people like you. I’ve been to a million places like this. I’m not missing anything. So go on, help me out. Imagine you’re really having a staycation. What’s the ideal dinner place for someone like you?”
I know just the place. “Fine. We can go there. But you’re going to wish Boris had agreed to come to dinner tonight instead of me.”
“Try me.”