Chapter 7
Marina
There’s something about Gil and the way he showed up exactly when I needed him that makes me worry my wild hallucinations of friendship are happening again.
And it’s not even that first initial of his name, though Gale and Gil are almost too coincidental to believe.
If this all turns out to be my mind playing tricks on me, at least this time it’s a little more grounded in reality.
I know what I think I saw in the glass-bottom boat.
I’m not about to ruin a good thing by summoning thoughts of my scaly imaginary friend.
This is the only place I was ever able to see him, and it was maddening. As a child, I could never understand: if he really wasn’t real, why couldn’t I imagine him back at home?
I spend the morning trying to summon that feeling into a song, but my heart flutters as the clock ticks on to what I hope will be a very real breakfast date.
When Gil didn’t ask for my number before leaving last night, resting anxious thoughts told me it was because he wouldn’t actually show for the date.
What if he turned out to be a fuckboy or worse: another figment of my imagination?
Though, neither fuckboy nor figment would have knocked on my door at 9 a.m. sharp with a bouquet of pink water lilies, glittering with morning dew in the bright morning light.
The flowers are nothing like I’ve ever seen before: bright and large, the exact shade of my hair.
Impressive.
Not having packed a collection of vases with me, the arrangement now lives in my reusable sticker-covered water bottle. Gil says the contrast is cute; he even helps me arrange them and offers an apology for not thinking ahead.
I decide not to tell him that this is my first time getting flowers, and I wouldn’t change a thing.
As we load into my car, I notice his looks are mismatched in the sunlight.
His arms are a little too long, veins a little too blue, but his smile is just as charming as it was under the moon.
He calmly gives me directions with his sweet Southern drawl, and suddenly, it’s more than the Florida heat that has me melting.
I don’t know Gil, not yet, but I think I might want to, which is something I need to be careful of.
I didn’t come here to find even more heartache, and the council of old ladies at my Grams’ community have already decided they have full voting rights over my next boyfriend.
Considering all I’ve had is a slew of low commitment situationships, their veto power is valid.
“You’re too young to be putting up with this! Move on and find another beau that will treat you right,” Gertrude, who has got to be like 100 years old, once told me. The sweet old lady was uncharacteristically angry when she heard me over-sharing to Grams one day over coffee in the common area.
It’s too soon to know if Gil will meet her requirements, but I think Gertude and Grams would approve of the way he races to open my car door once we’re parked.
The little diner is peppered with a few tourists with matching travel t-shirts and locals, all wearing the same “I need coffee now” expressions.
It’s a feeling I relate to; the adrenaline of the way Gil and I met and my misadventure in the springs made my heart pound out of my chest all night.
But, then again, I’ve never had an easy time falling asleep.
My phone vibrates, grabbing my attention for a moment—it’s Grams. Of course.
Grams: Mini viper brought more bozes today. Did she ask you about beginning all this?
Ugh, why is Jenna bothering Grams? I squint, trying to make out the rest of the typo-filled message. Grams may be fluent in distressed Marina, but I’m still learning to decipher “grandma with a cellphone.”
Grams: beginning.
Grams: BEGINNING
Grams: B R I N G I N G
I smirk at her irritation, wishing the woman would put on her damn glasses.
Marina: She didn’t tell me—sorry she’s intruding on you with all the bozes.
Grams: B O X ES.
I laugh to myself, then straighten up, realizing
1.
I’m being a terrible date.
Gil is staring at me, but the thing that’s strange is he doesn’t look annoyed. Instead, there’s a light in his eyes that dances.
I wish I could understand why.
Orders are placed, and while we wait, my anxious fingers drum across the table.
If Jenna brought boxes to Grams’ house, that means Aunt Andrea might actually be serious this time.
I’m going to have a lot of figuring things out to do when I get home.
Staying at Grams a night or two isn’t a problem, but it’s a strictly 55+ community.
Despite my boomer-level knowledge of technology, I don’t meet that particular requirement.
What am I going to do?
Gil gulps down three glasses of water before our food arrives—he doesn’t explain it, and I don’t ask.
I’ve had stranger dates, and some people are really serious about hydration before caffeine.
Finally, a plate of shrimp and cheese grits over medium eggs, paired with a biscuit and a mug of black coffee, is placed before him.
“My Grams—she’s the one I was texting—always said you can tell a lot about someone by their diner order.”
“And what does mine say about me?” Gil asks, suddenly frowning as if awaiting the result of a difficult midterm.
“Well, it’s her skill, not mine.” I hum, continuing to tap my fingers across the table, rather than scratch at my neck in public. “But maybe a cheesy Southern gentleman? Bold, too. I don’t know if I would have been brave enough to order seafood here.”
“I think the accent and the bad jokes might have been a better tip off,” he says. God, I do love that voice. “I haven’t heard any bad jokes yet.” I lean forward to meet his gaze, which he holds with such intensity it makes me squirm.
“Yet is the key word there.” He winks. Winks! And that’s all it takes for me to melt like the pat of butter sitting on top of his grits.
“Mind if I ask the expert?” I ask hopping out from my side of the table and sliding in beside him. “About your order, I mean. My Grams’ll be curious about you too,” I explain, snapping a quick selfie of the two of us and our respective breakfast orders.
Marina: Breakfast order analysis required. What do we think of this one?
It’s not until the heat of his body presses against mine that I realize how close to him I let myself become without even thinking about it.
“I’ll report back with the results,” I say, with every intention of moving back to my side of the table, but his hand is on my waist. An old Patsy Cline song plays in the background and God, does it feel good.
“I look forward to it,” he says casually with a gleam in his eyes. He pokes at my plate—a piece of chocolate peanut butter pie. “So, what does dessert for breakfast tell me?”
“That the pie behind the glass case looked too good to resist.” I shrug, forcing myself to inch away from him.
Truth is, breakfast pie means I’m impulsive—and it reflects in my dating history.
I have a bad habit of getting too close too fast when it comes to things like this.
After our meeting last night, the way he carried me in his arms, spoke so softly into my ear—I’m set up for disaster.
“And so do you,” he says, and I’m sure I must have heard him wrong.
“Did you just … flirt with me?” I say slowly, as if that’s such an outlandish thing to happen on a date. It’s been so long since anyone has been interested beyond a “hey, u up?” text from a rando, which doesn’t count as much of anything at all.
“This is a date, isn’t it? That alright?” He laughs.
Before I can answer, my phone chimes. I cast a glance down and see Grams has already weighed in with the results. I anticipate one of her long-winded essays breaking down each ingredient, but instead it simply reads:
Grams: I think you have a keeper.
Huh.
I smile to myself, holding in a laugh. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, considering her favorite “fancy restaurant” is Cracker Barrel.
I wonder if she ran this past the council of elderly ladies.
By the time I get back, they’re all going to have so many questions.
Regardless, when it comes to Grams, Gil’s classic order gaining her approval isn’t exactly surprising, but there’s a bigger question at play here. Should Gil stop flirting with me?
My cheeks flush as I meet his amber-hued eyes. He gulps, chugging down another glass of water, and yet I’m still enchanted.
“Unless … you already have someone waiting for you.” His voice is suddenly a low drawl, and he’s staring directly at my neck. Oh my God, does he think I have a hickey? I quickly cover my psoriasis with my hair and debate explaining.
“No, I’m… well, just trying to remember if I know how to flirt back.” I flush. “I think I might be bad at it.”
“I can be worse.”
“Oh yeah?” I say, bumping shoulders with him. “Try it.”
I watch as a wild grin spreads across his face; he’s accepted my challenge. “Hang on.” Gil grabs a packet of sweetener from the tray of condiments, handing it to me with urgency.
“What’s this for?” I ask, turning the small packet over in my hands. Considering the small stack of creamers I’ve already dumped in my coffee, I can’t imagine he thinks I’d want it any sweeter.
“You dropped your nametag, Sugar,” he says, and my stomach tightens while my lips curve into a smile.
I study the packet carefully, while trying—and failing—to keep a mostly straight face. “This is Splenda.”
But he throws his head back, the kind of laugh that makes you feel at ease, like you’re the funniest person in the world.
But I’m not; it’s not. Only the more he laughs, the more I laugh, and then I think it might be.
“Ah, yes, here’s yours,” I say, barely composing myself to retrieve a packet of Sweet ‘n Low. He gives me an approving nod, looking at me with such intensity it just feels right. My hands inch toward his and—
“That’s enough!” A voice shouts, and I jump, creating distance from Gil in the small booth, my hands clasped in my lap.