Luca
No more whiskey.
I don’t know if it’s the bourbon or the salty air or the way Olivia looks in that colorful, backless boho dress, but it’s getting to my head.
Maybe it’s the jasmine that’s fucking with me.
I don’t know. But whatever it is, my lips are getting too loose.
I need to stiffen up. Remember why I am here. Why she is here.
But as I grow quiet, she brightens up even more. Music breaks through the night air, and she stands up, looking over the banister down at the beach.
“There’s a party down there,” she says.
“I’m sure it’s a private event,” I say, dabbing my mouth with my cloth napkin.
“No, it’s the Crab Crawl,” the waitress says, and my eyes dart with irritation over to her. I hate everything about that sentence. But Olivia’s eyes grow curious and wild.
“What’s the Crab Crawl?” she asks.
“Food. Vendors. Drinks. Music. A bonfire at dusk, they’re probably about to light it any minute,” she says.
God…
“Can we go?” Olivia asks, turning around to face me with the eagerness of a kid that just spotted one of those sketchy pop-up carnivals.
And because of that enthusiasm and what I am here to do, I pay the tab and we go.
Keep in mind, I am not really dressed for a beach party.
And I’m not a fan of sand. I know…it’s very Anakin of me, but it really does get on literally fucking everything.
As I trudge through it in my wingtip shoes, I know for a fact I am just going to have to trash them at the end of the night.
Date three shouldn’t put me out a thousand dollars, but I guess this is just where we are.
Olivia, of course, ditches her heels immediately, a full-blown grin on her rosy face as we head towards the chaos.
“I love festivals,” she says.
“Mm,” I hum indifferently.
“And bonfires. Look, they’re lighting the fire.”
Another “Mm.”
Olivia either doesn’t catch my tone or doesn’t care. Based on what I’ve learned about her personality, I’m thinking it’s the latter.
“Do you want a s’more?” she asks.
“A what?” I ask and she just looks at me.
“Oh, come on. You might be all suit and tie, but I know for a fact you know what a s’more is,” she says.
“I know what it is. It was just an odd question,” I say as she leads us in that direction.
“You’re right,” she agrees sarcastically. “There’s just a fire and marshmallows and sticks. Why the hell would we eat a s’more?”
“Come on,” I sigh, grabbing her hand and pulling her towards the stand.
As we spear our marshmallows onto the provided sticks and grab a couple of crackers and chocolate bars, Olivia is all smiles. So carefree.
“Alright, let’s get things set up,” she says, heading to the fire.
“Set up?” I ask, admittedly struggling to walk through the sand.
“Yes. There is a right way and a wrong way to make a s’more.”
“I didn’t know it was a culinary science,” I say.
“You? Didn’t know there was a formula to the perfectly toasted marshmallow?” she mocks. But it’s a cute mock. One I can’t be mad at. “Watch and learn.”
And I do. I watch intently as she opens the foil from the chocolate bar and places it on the rocks near the flames.
“What’s that for?” I ask.
“To melt the chocolate,” she says matter-of-factly.
Then she sticks her marshmallow in the fire, close to the wood, not above the flame. “If you hold it here and turn it slowly, kind of like you’re roasting a rotisserie chicken, you’ll get the perfect toast.”
“A rotisserie chicken,” I echo skeptically.
“For the perfect toast,” she says again. Then she hands me my stick. “Have at it.”
I take the stick and follow suit. Only because I don’t know what else I’m going to do. And, like she said, the marshmallow is coming out perfectly.
“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” she asks.
“Not the word I would use to describe a marshmallow, but if that’s what you want to call it, sure,” I answer.
Olivia just laughs and bumps her hip to mine. “Oh, come on. You’re having fun. Admit it.”
I keep turning my stick. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t fighting a hint of a smile.
Once both marshmallows are gorgeous, by her standards of course, we shove the sticks into the stand. “Alright, now grab your cracker. And then take the chocolate and pour it on.”
“I can’t believe it actually melted,” I grumble as I watch her.
“It’s crazy, right?” she asks. And there’s that sarcasm again. “Fire producing heat, and heat melting chocolate. It’s just wild. You know, for a factual guy, you really should branch out in your fields of science. Less study of the perfect love equation and more study of chocolate’s melting point.”
Geeze, she is on it tonight. All spice with a sugar glaze. I don’t know how to feel about it. But I don’t hate it. Not entirely.
“Alright, now place the marshmallow between the crackers. Pull the stick out. And voila,” she says.
“Voilà,” I echo. I watch her take a bite of hers before taking a bite of mine.
“Mmm,” she nods. “Mmhmm. Mmhmm. Tell me that’s not the best thing you’ve ever put in your mouth.”
“It’s not the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth,” I say, and she giggles.
Then I step closer and use my finger to tilt her chin upwards before kissing her softly.
“Now that’s the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth…”
I can literally feel her gasp, and my lips tug into the slightest smirk. Now that the ball is back in my court, I can enjoy my diabetes-inducing snack in peace. Momentarily anyways.
The music picks back up, and Olivia lights up, spinning around to face me. “We should dance,” she says, and with a mouth still full of sugar, I shake my head.
“Nope,” I tell her.
“Oh, come on. I bet you know how,” she says.
“You bet?” I ask. “Based on what?”
She leans in, a glimmer in her smile. “Based on all the other ways you continue to surprise me,” she says. And while something flickers in my chest, it’s still a hard no.
“Fine,” she says, finally giving up. “Suit yourself. But your grumpy disposition isn’t going to stop me from having fun.”
With that, she starts to dance, making her way to the open space in the sand next to the band.
It’s not a formal band by any means. It’s bongos, two acoustic guitars, and a guiro.
But Olivia doesn’t seem to need more than that.
She moves and sways, and within moments, other people start to join in.
Couples, single women, and kids. And there’s Olivia right in the middle of it all, dancing on her own, knowing everyone is watching and not caring at all.
“You need to dance with your girlfriend,” an older lady who is apparently standing next to me says with a nudge.
“It’s not really my thing,” I tell her, eyes still on Olivia.
“In those shoes? And that suit? I have my doubts,” she says.
“And she’s not my girlfriend,” I add, and the lady spits out a laugh.
“Okay, cowboy. You’re still smitten. Now get out there and dance. A girl like that should not be dancing alone.”
And while I deeply do not want to (I haven’t danced since I was a kid) the nosy woman is right about one thing. Olivia should not be dancing alone.
I take a step forward, and she notices. After that, she wastes no time, grabbing my hand and pulling me to the middle of the improv dance floor. But once we are there, I take the lead. Because I do know what I am doing.
I take her hand and spin her around before pulling her towards me in a loose, improvised west coast style swing. One that works with the music, but also requires a dominant dancer.
As we glide through the movements, Olivia’s smile grows and the others join in.
The musicians pick up the pace to keep up, and everyone is laughing and cheering.
But my eyes are locked on Olivia. Every part of me is locked in on every part of her.
The music comes to an end just as I pull her against me, our bodies colliding, my arms holding her tight.
And as everyone claps and cheers for the band, Olivia’s eyes meet mine, bright and alive, our panting breaths hanging in the air between us, sweet and thick.
Then I kiss her.
I couldn’t tell you why. Maybe the music.
Maybe the proximity. Maybe the energy around us, or the alcohol, or her dress, or the jasmine.
But whatever the reason, I kiss her. Because we’re here.
Because the ocean waves are growing wild and something in me is growing even wilder.
Or maybe because I just really fucking want to.