Chapter 10 Kenzie
Kenzie
We cross the sole two-lane road that runs the length of Wilks Beach onto a short residential street, ending in a beach access walkway.
Cozy seaside cottages line the street, each more adorable than the last. I should be reveling in the small-town cuteness all around me.
The blue house beside us has a flag that says Shellabrate Good Times with crabs dancing through raining confetti.
It’s absolutely delightful, but all I can focus on is the staticky sensation buzzing at the base of my skull.
It’s almost impossible to get my bearings after being tugged to Trevor’s firm chest. Because one: how did I not notice how muscled he is? My fingers definitely felt ab definition through the surprisingly thin fabric of his hoodie. And two: what did he mean by ‘I enjoy our quiet moments together’?
Is he talking about when he’s watching his sports recaps in the living room, and I sit on the other side of the couch with my laptop?
Or the times we both stumble into the kitchen for lunch before he heads off to home games, politely stepping around each other to make sandwiches?
Or when I’m working in the garden, and he’s in the adjacent grassy area, going through his stretching routine?
I shake my head. Trevor must mean it in a more literal sense.
He likes that I’m quiet because that makes me a good roommate.
It’d be annoying if I had a lot of people over, blasted music at all hours, or slammed doors when I got up before him.
Yeah, that’s it. He likes that I’m considerate.
After all, I always grind my coffee beans the night before, don’t wear shoes in the house, and I video call my parents at a reasonable volume.
Come to think of it, I’m an excellent roommate. I never leave dishes in the sink—the last six days notwithstanding. I pay my rent on time. I replenish the hazelnut creamer if I use it all before Trevor’s grocery delivery service brings us more.
I nod to myself, feeling less adrift as Trevor finishes his lunch and tosses his to-go box in the trash can beside the beach posting.
A green flag dances in the slight sea breeze, welcoming beachgoers.
The ocean looks relatively calm as we walk through the dunes, but my stomach does an involuntary flip seeing the waves.
Maybe Trevor is right about driving home.
“So what’s on this list of yours?” Trevor asks before tugging off his hoodie.
His white t-shirt pulls up a few inches.
When I catch a glimpse of the distinct muscular groove by his hip, heat blooms over my collarbones.
Averting my gaze toward the ocean, I count the pelicans soaring over the waves.
Once I reach eight, I start multiplying two-digit numbers to keep my mind occupied.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
I glance at my roommate, keeping my eyes securely on his face. “Oh no. I don’t mind.”
My wayward gaze flows to where Trevor’s short sleeve is bunched, the cuff turned up. I have the oddest impulse to fix it and then slide my fingertips down his toned forearm. My eyes drop to Trevor’s hand making the hoodie look like a scrap of fabric.
How have I never noticed how large Trevor’s hands are?
I mean, they should be, right? The better to catch with.
It’s just—
“Your face is flushed. Are you feeling sick again?”
I jolt back when Trevor steps forward, outstretching a shaky palm.
“I’m fine,” I say, gulping down air like I’ve just resurfaced from an unexpected dunk in the ocean.
“Just…um.” I clear my throat. “Just a little nervous. About the list,” I add in a rush. “Because the list is filled with listy things.”
Say something other than list, my brain screams at me.
I turn, marching toward the water’s edge like the answer to this weird burst of attraction resides within the frothy bubbles washed to shore. Trevor follows, keeping a respectful distance.
“I want to visit a lighthouse,” I tell him, the remnants of a wave threatening to wet my shoes.
Trevor doesn’t say anything. He just nods like he usually does when he’s listening to me talk about numbers or explaining the science behind baking.
“Go to a wedding. I’ve never been to one because…” I let the sentence drop off, not wanting Trevor to know about my social ineptitudes. If I’d had friends, maybe I’d have been invited to a wedding by now.
“I want to play pool or maybe golf. Both are laden with geometry, thereby giving me a higher probability of excelling. Angles, momentum, spin, and collision prediction for the former, and shot angles, and distance estimation following club selection for the latter.”
Hearing myself, I wince. Aaron often told me to ‘talk like a normal person’ and not use elevated vocabulary because it makes others feel dumb. But when I glance at Trevor, he’s grinning at me.
“What?”
“I like when you get all sciencey.” Trevor gives one of his easy-going shrugs, taking off his hat and running his fingers through his hair. “Most of it goes over my head, but I’m not exactly known for my intellect. I’m pretty sure sciencey isn’t even a word.”
I step forward, pushing into his space without thinking. “If I’m not allowed to call myself boring, then you’re not allowed to doubt your intelligence.”
It’s impossible to see Trevor’s eyes through his reflective sunglasses, so I drive the point home.
“Baseball is a very stat-heavy game, so much so that it has its own sports analytics term—sabermetrics. There’s a great deal of strategy behind each play,” I tell him, pushing my index finger against his sternum.
“You’re the one memorizing each player’s hot and cold zones, which pitches they chase, and how they handle breaking balls and off-speed pitches.
Then you’re adapting on the fly—reading each batter, seeing how they reacted to the last pitch, and recommending the next one.
Not to mention the necessary defensive awareness of the baserunner’s speed and stealing tendencies.
Managing all of that requires a great deal of intellect. ”
Trevor says nothing, but his chest heaves like he just hit a double. Realizing I’m still touching him, I step back, sliding my hands into the pockets of my jeans.
“But I’m sure you probably knew all of that.”
“I did,” he says, tone even.
I nod like the matter is settled and stride south.
Somewhere in the distance, beyond the large nature preserve and its sandy shores, lies Virginia Beach. This small town is idyllic and this beach pristine, but I ache for the oversized couch at home.
Because you know what happens when I relax in my favorite spot with Banks snoozing on the headrest, occasionally pawing at my hair?
I don’t tell a major league baseball player how to do the job he’s been crushing for well over a decade.
If said man wasn’t keeping step with me, I’d drop my face into my palm in embarrassment.
Last night, I had the first decent night of sleep since the breakup, but it’s clear my head is still a mess. I’m either insulting Trevor or having strange flares of attraction toward him. I wrap my arms around myself, but it does nothing against the emotional whiplash careening through my veins.