Chapter 34
I glance at the new deck over the garage as I head down to the beach.
It looks spectacular. Mike finished it last week, and I barely recognize it without the piles of power tools and construction flotsam.
I stood on that deck before Mike ripped it up a few months ago.
If demo hadn’t been imminent, I would have moved my Bali bed down from my patio.
I wanted to sleep out here. The sound of the waves is palliative, and seeing the ocean enhances the sound.
You’d think I would have spent more time at the beach when I lived in Del Mar, but life got busy.
Here, on the other hand… The ocean is my unavoidable neighbor.
I take the stairs down to the gate, double-check that it locks behind me, and cross Neptune to take the wood steps down to Windansea.
I should have brought my headphones. Exercise is boring without a book to listen to.
I last ten minutes before my run turns into a walk.
Mom says that the beach is one of the few places on this planet where it’s possible to align all your chakras at once.
I’m this side of desperate enough to try.
Because I can’t shake my feelings for Mike or my hopes for a future with him.
I peel off my shoes and stuff them with my keys, phone, and socks, then sit on a rock.
I place my feet on the earth—well, sand—and let the rhythm of the waves unblock my energy.
It’s not working, but the sunset is pretty.
I think I like best how the waves still glow orange and pink even after the sun dips below the horizon.
There are couples out here. Cuddled close, using each other as windbreakers against the relentless ocean breeze.
I am no couple. Even when I had a boyfriend in law school, we never reached that level of comfort or compatibility.
And now I know why. People do not cuddle with cacti.
I could advertise free hugs for the rest of my life, and I’d still be on this beach alone.
No matter.
I shake out my socks, dump my keys and phone on the rock next to me, and put my shoes back on. Other people come to beaches and do stuff. There’s the gentleman with the stick slapping the waves. There are people running. Always running. There are surfers. There are meditators.
Do they all wish that they weren’t alone right now as desperately as I do?
I don’t want to be alone. This vibing thing and quitting law started because I lost myself.
I was actively dreading living my life, staying up as late as I possibly could with whatever book I could find because I knew as soon as sleep claimed me, the misery would start fresh.
Mind-numbing, tedious, inconsequential work of corporate liability this and restructuring that.
Hours of work, piles of contracts. All destined to be shredded in the next merger or settlement.
What did I care? I was supposed to be a shark, a gun for hire.
I had feelings to the tune of so many hundreds of dollars an hour.
It didn’t matter if a lawsuit was frivolous, so long as it was winnable.
Our job was to get our clients money, more money, as much money as possible.
Because money will solve the problem. That’s what money is for, to quote my dear old dad. Money is for solving problems.
But money solved none of my problems. It just created more—exhaustion, loneliness, despair. I’ve been more than happy watching the money drain out of my bank account since moving out of my parents’ house.
Maybe Mike is on to something. Maybe finding something you love is more important.
Except I love Mike, and I’m still on this beach alone.
I don’t realize the tide is coming in, and I’m definitely not prepared for the big wave that breaks against my rock.
I’m not just splashed. I’m drenched. I wipe my eyes in time to see my keys and phone drifting out to sea with the receding wave.
I run after them—not easy to do in the choppy ankle-deep water, but another wave breaks.
I’m even wetter than I was before, and my keys and phone are gone. The ocean claimed them—another trinket for her collection of curiosities.
It’s dark when I pound on Mike’s back door. I hear shuffles before it swings open. And there he is in gray sweats and a T-shirt that hangs from his shoulders but grips his biceps and…oh.
I’m terrified by how much I love the sight of him. If I could stumble backward into the dark and spend the night on my Bali bed, I would. But I’m sopping wet, and no one tells you how cold it gets near the ocean. It’s the damp that makes it feel so chilly.
“My dear Lady Disdain.” Mike’s brow furrows. “What happened?”
“I’m locked out.”
“And you’re wet.”
“Do you have a spare key?”
“I do.” Mike pads over to the pantry cabinet with the row of hooks on the inside. “Huh,” he says as his fingers hover above an empty hook. “Did you borrow my spare set of keys?”
“I borrowed a set of cottage keys the other week when I couldn’t find mine and needed to lock up.” My teeth are chattering. “But those weren’t your spare.”
“Really? Because this is where I keep my spares.”
“No one keeps their spare keys neatly labeled on hooks in their pantry. They keep them under a flowerpot or doormat, in their medicine cabinet or junk drawer.”
“You’re right. This is just where I keep a row of keys exclusively for the convenience of my friend Beatrice.”
Oh no. “Are you saying I’m locked out?”
“No, I have another set.”
Relief eases over my freezing limbs. “Thank goodness.” I stretch out my hand, shaking palm turned up.
“It’s in a safe-deposit box at my bank.”
“What kind of villain keeps his spare keys at his bank?”
“I don’t know, Bea. Where do you keep your spare keys?”
I start frantically checking under the doormat and flowerpots near the back door.
“If there’s a spare key to your cottage out here, we’ve got bigger problems,” Mike says.
My teeth chatter. “I’d take bigger problems right now if it meant a hot shower and my fuzzy socks.”
He props open the door and steps aside. “Come in. Turnabout is fair play.”
I step into his warm kitchen and almost instantly drip a puddle’s worth of salt water on his wood floor.
He swears. “Do I even want to ask?”
“I went for a run.”
“Since when do you run?” He hands me the kitchen towel that was draped over the oven.
“Seriously?” I toss the towel back at him before kicking off my soaked sneakers.
He throws the towel on the floor at my feet and toes up the puddle.
“It’s just I’ve never seen you run…ever.” His dark hair is hanging in his face, and the stubble on his jaw is making me acutely aware of the beads of water sliding down my back.
“Well, I decided to go for a run tonight, and…after ten minutes, I thought a walk on the beach might be better. I wasn’t paying attention…” But I’m paying attention now to his eyes, which flick up to mine, and the curl of his lips as a subtle smile forms on them.
“Big wave?”
“Yes.” I follow him down the narrow hallway. He opens the built-in hutch at the end of the hall and hands me towels.
“I haven’t finished grouting the tile. But the shower is working fine. Go. Before you make any more puddles on my hardwoods.”
I roll my eyes.
He reaches past me and pushes open the door. “Don’t use up all of my shampoo.”
I shower, rinse out my clothes, and wash my hair.
I’m tempted to open Mike’s shampoo and conditioner and pour them both down the drain.
In the absence of requited love, any strong emotion is better than none.
But that much thyme and tea tree oil this close to the ocean could have an environmental impact—poison a sea cucumber at the very least. So I abstain.
I do grab his razor and shave my legs, not that I’m especially hairy, but to spite him.
I towel off and marvel that the last time I saw this bathroom it was a terrifying, dilapidated horror.
Now it’s absolutely charming. The tile is a mix of blush and sandy pinks and feels delightfully vintage.
It’s a fun contrast to the modern vanity and clean lines of the other fixtures. I’m impressed.
“Mike!” I yell after I wrap a towel around my torso. “Mike!”
“Yeah?” he yells from somewhere in the little house.
I open the door a crack. “I need pj’s.”
“What?” he says from outside the door.
“Clothes, Mike. Tell me you have some clean ones.”
He groans but promptly returns with a SDSU T-shirt and gym shorts.
“Do you have a spare pair of sweatpants?”
“Unbelievable,” he mutters before opening and slamming his bedroom door.
He returns and thrusts a pair of black sweats into the steaming bathroom. “Anything else?”
“I don’t suppose you have a pair of fuzzy socks.”
The door slowly creaks open. I don’t squeal. I don’t squirm. But I do clutch the fluffy white towel a little closer to my chest.
Mike flashes me a smile. “Of course. And would you like a face mask, maybe a foot massage? I think I have some cucumber water in the fridge.”
“This some kind of twisted fantasy of yours?”
He barks out a laugh and turns on his heel, leaving me dripping and sockless.
His clothes smell like him—thyme and eucalyptus. I have to roll the waistband of the sweats, and his shirt swallows me up, but I also know I look adorable. “I’m ready for my cucumber water. Mike?”
He’s in the living room on his hands and knees by the fireplace. “What are you doing?”
“I’m prepping baseboards. What does it look like I’m doing?” He looks up at me and does a double take.
“What?” I reach a hand up to my wet hair. “I couldn’t find your hair dryer.”
“I don’t own a hair dryer.”
I snort. “And you call yourself an actor.”
“Hilarious, Bea.” He spackles over a nail hole.
I admire his arms. He really does have nice arms.
“Can I borrow your phone?”
“What for?” More spackle.
“To call a locksmith.”
He pounds a nail in before adding more spackle.
“Do you have to do that now?”
“I’m almost done.” He crawls down the length of the board until he’s right below me. “Do you mind?”