Eight Lucas
Eight
Lucas
Iwould have rather stayed at the hotel for the rest of the evening, but when Beck wakes up from her nap, she looks so disappointed about missing out on the museum and our dinner reservation, that I just don’t have it in me to let her down again.
Because I had let her down. I promised her a fun, touristy staycation, and instead we lost half a day all because I assumed she needed a nap more than a night out.
But before we go to the beach, we stop at Beck’s place, a downstairs unit in a small two-floor building.
When we arrive, I follow her to the living room, a Taco Bell bag in each arm.
Beck darts around the living room, flicking on lights.
A table lamp. A floor lamp. A lava lamp.
Another table lamp. She even plugs in a strand of string lights that hang over a small desk.
I’m not sure what I expected her place would look like, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a place that looks like this.
It isn’t just the lights. It’s . . . everything.
The sectional with oversize cushions. The large plush sea turtle hiding among the colorful couch pillows that don’t match but somehow do.
The stack of folded blankets that takes up an entire cushion.
A dog-eared romance novel with yellowed pages open on a tray.
Everywhere I look, I find little pieces of Beck.
Her hobbies spilling out of baskets—yarn and coloring books and board games.
Seashells lined up on a windowsill. A jar of colorful sea glass beside the TV.
The faces of her family and friends in the gallery of photographs that takes up the wall beside her desk.
Instead of potpourri, the decorative bowl on the coffee table is filled with small toys—a tin of thinking putty, tiny magnetic beads in a rainbow of colors, silicone shapes with soft spikes, and rings made of coiled wire.
And beneath the coffee table, a soft blue shag rug and the fluffiest pink slippers I have ever seen.
“I like your place,” I tell her.
She gazes around it and says, “It’s silly, but it’s mine. Well, it’s not technically mine. It’s my landlord’s.” She waves a hand. “You know what I mean. Where do you want to eat? Kitchen table or coffee table?”
“Where do you usually eat?” I ask.
She looks at me as if she’s revealing a terribly embarrassing secret. “Coffee table, mostly. I like sitting on the floor.”
“Coffee table it is, then.”
She lights up at that, and something about seeing her in her own space makes me even more intrigued by her than I already am.
I want to ask her why she likes sitting on the floor.
I want her to tell me about the yarn and what she makes with it.
I want to know how many times she’s read that book on the tray and what makes her keep coming back to it.
The more I get to know her, the more there is I want to know about her.
More than I could ever discover in a single weekend.
I’ll admit, the beach socks are funny. In a cute way, of course.
At the entrance to the beach, Beck clicks on the flashlight in her hand. “You ready, Mr. Worldwide? Let’s do this.”
“Isn’t that title already taken?”
Beck ignores the question. She points the flashlight down a narrow sandy path lined with large waxy-leafed shrubs and just says, “Beach!”
I walk beside her as we set off. The path leads out onto a wide, empty beach. The moon is low and full and casts the sand silver. It’s bright enough out that Beck clicks off the flashlight and lets it dangle from the strap on her wrist.
“Let’s go this way,” she says. I follow her down the sand.
We walk along the short, just beyond the reach of the waves.
Other than the ocean churning beside us, it’s quiet out here.
Beck mutters something about nesting season, and it doesn’t take me long to figure out she’s scanning the sand for any turtles who might come ashore to lay their eggs.
We drift closer to one another as we walk.
First her shoulder bumps against mine. Then my arm brushes against hers.
When her fingers graze the back of my hand, I take hold of them, and she doesn’t pull again.
She slips her fingers through mine, and it all feels so easy.
Her hand in mine. The rhythm of conversation and the quiet afterward.
The way she pulls me after her to check out every stick-marked turtle nest we find along the way.
Beck is right. The beach is better at night.
It’s different. It feels as if I’ve stepped outside of time.
Into a world completely removed from the business of everyday life.
And if I’m being honest, I’m tired of my everyday life.
I’m tired just thinking about getting on a plane and going somewhere new, when I’m only just starting to understand this place.
“I’ve been wondering something,” Beck says.
“And what would that be?”
“Well, I know you travel a lot, obviously. But where’s home? You haven’t said.”
I watch a wave travel up and down the sand. “I don’t know,” I tell her. “We moved a lot when I was growing up,” I say. “Army brat,” I explain at her questioning look.
“That is very different from Vacation Guy,” she says.
“My dad is a colonel. The apple fell pretty far from the tree.”
She’s quiet for a moment, and I think that the conversation is over. But then she says, “Do you think that’s what makes it all so easy for you?”
“Makes what easy?”
“All the traveling.”
“I don’t know. Maybe at first. It was exciting to decide for myself where I wanted to go. New people and new places—fun places, too, not another army base.”
“What changed?”
I sigh. “Nothing? I don’t know. I like traveling, but sometimes it feels more like drifting. I never go anywhere twice. Never get past the same ten stories about myself. Never get to say I’m going home. I guess I’m a little tired of being temporary, but being temporary is pretty much all I know.”
Once the words are out of my mouth, I worry that I’ve said too much. “Sorry, you didn’t ask for all that,” I say. “I’m not trying to be a downer. Really, I don’t have anything to complain about.”
She squeezes my hand. “Even novelty gets mundane if you do it enough,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“I kind of like the mundane,” she says. “Maybe that makes me sound boring, but . . . I don’t know. I like doing the same thing every day. Maybe I really am boring.”
I think of her cozy apartment, of Boris the sea turtle, of all the questions I haven’t had the chance to ask her. “I don’t think so,” I say.
It isn’t long before Beck yawns and suggests we head back, and I wonder if I’m the one boring her.
We walk in silence for most of the way back. “Can I be honest about something?” Beck says, once the narrow path that leads to the parking lot comes into view.
“Sure.”
She lets go of my hand, and the feeling that I’ve said too much surfaces again. Did I get too personal too soon? Forget that I’m supposed to be the fun, upbeat vacation guy?
“I don’t want to go out tomorrow,” Beck says. “I’m sorry.”
The words take me by surprise. I know our afternoon got all messed up, but I thought we were having fun. And besides, I’d been hoping to make up for things tomorrow.
“Oh,” I say, trying to keep the disappointment from my voice. “That’s okay. I get it.”
“You do?”
The thought of cutting things short and not seeing her again stings more than it should. But I can’t help it. I want her to feel like spending her weekend with me was worth it. I want to be someone who sticks around, even if only in memory.
I look away from her and keep my eyes on the water beyond. “Yeah, of course. I know this weekend hasn’t exactly lived up to what I promised you. So it sucks, but I get it. I’ve already taken up too much of your time, anyway.”
“Hold on,” Beck says. “What are you hearing me say?”
Now I’m confused. I look at her, trying to find where we’ve got our wires crossed. “I’m hearing you say that you don’t want to hang out tomorrow.”
Beck laughs, then shakes her head. “Oh, Lucas, I didn’t mean .
. . I worded that terribly. Sorry.” She takes my hand in hers again.
“I didn’t mean I don’t want to see you tomorrow.
I meant I don’t want to go anywhere tomorrow.
I know I just took a four-hour nap, but I’m exhausted.
All this running around is a lot for me.
I know we haven’t done much, but I really only have the energy in me for one big activity per weekend.
I’ve been trying because I like you, and you’re fun, and I want to be fun.
But the truth is, I just can’t keep up.”
“So you’re not upset that we haven’t done all the things I said we would?”
Beck laughs. “No way. Honestly, we’re doing too much as it is.”
“But you looked so disappointed when you found out we missed everything!”
“Yeah! Disappointed in myself for ruining your plans!”
“I only suggested a backup plan because you looked so disappointed we missed the regular plans! I thought you weren’t having fun. I thought you thought I was . . .”
“Boring,” she says.
“Right.”
“I don’t think you’re boring,” she says.
“I don’t think you’re boring either,” I say.
“Even though I have to bail on fun stuff tomorrow?”
“Even though you have to bail on fun stuff tomorrow,” I say. “Bailing on the fun stuff sounds like more fun anyway.”
“Do you want to bail on the fun stuff with me?” she asks.
“Absolutely. That was the backup plan, anyway.”
“I’m starting to think these aren’t real backup plans and you’re just making them up as you go along.”
“That’s exactly right,” I tell her.
For a moment, we just look at one another. Her hand is still in mine, so I pull her closer. I want to laugh when she rests her weight against me and I feel her beach-socked feet standing on my toes.
She looks up at me, her glasses a bit askew, and I think about how completely un-boring she is.
I like her humor, how she says things I don’t expect.
I like how much she loves her job and how she is somehow able to insert turtles into every conversation, no matter the topic.
I like how much fun it is to be around her, even if she’s just napping in my hotel room.
Hell, I just really like her.
When I finally kiss Beck, I find more things to like. Her mouth. The way it feels against mine. The feel of her in my arms. Her fingers in my hair.
The kiss is slow, and sweet, and searching, and the very opposite of boring.