5
The sun dips low over the Sorrento foreshore, painting the world in colors too soft and warm for someone like me. We pull
up to the beach car park, Beau’s classic navy MG convertible standing in contrast to the pastel sweep of sky and sea. The
top’s down, the breeze knotting his curls, salt settling on our skin.
I check my hair in the passenger mirror. Beau’s car keys jingle as he pockets them—the set he’s had forever, with the faded
Pooh Bear keychain that’s missing an ear but still somehow clings to joy. He does that: brings joy to everything.
Sand crunches under our feet as we walk along the shoreline. It’s like a scene from a sappy movie, but I’m not the romantic
type. My edges are too blunt and my scowl so perpetual it has carved downward wrinkles in my forty-two-year-old face.
Beau is chatting animatedly, something to do with his Year Nine trigonometry exam, his voice lilting and warm, but I’m barely
listening. My mind is stuck on the Tupperware container I hid in his backpack and the lemon tart it contains.
“You’re doing it again,” Beau says, bumping my shoulder.
“Doing what?”
“Brooding,” he teases.
I snort. “Not brooding. Thinking.”
“Are you upset the cafe ran out of chocolate croissant cake this morning? I know it’s your favorite.”
“No.” Today I only wanted his favorite foods.
“What is it then, Griffy? And what’s for lunch?”
I hesitate. I’m like a clam, not great at opening up. But Beau is my steam, making me feel like maybe it’s okay to let someone
in, that I’m not too much trouble to love.
“As a very wise man once said, ‘Life’s a box of chocolates,’” I say in my flawless Forrest Gump accent that always makes him
laugh. “You never—”
“Yes, yes, I never know what I’m going to get!” Beau grins as I tug him toward a small patch of sand near the Moonah trees.
He follows without protest, and I pull out two Tupperware bowls of the salad I made that morning: pearl couscous, charred
zucchini, crumbled goat’s cheese, toasted dukkah with an orange vinaigrette.
He removes the lid and grins. “I knew it would pay off, dating a chef!”
I give him a playful push, taking out two spoons and handing one to him.
We eat in a comfortable silence, until a small sound pulls my attention—a soft, shaky whimper. A small boy, who can’t be more
than three, stands near a half-built sandcastle. Bare feet. Messy auburn ringlets. Clutching the handle of a yellow spade
that’s just snapped. His mum’s nearby, digging through a beach bag with visibly rising panic. The little tyke is trying not
to cry and losing.
Beau’s eyes fill with sympathy.
I glance down at my spoon, wipe it clean with a serviette and haul myself up with a huff. Crouching beside the boy, I offer
it. “Trade you,” I say. “This one’s stronger than that plastic junk.”
He looks up, lashes clumped with tears, still holding the snapped handle. I’ve done this before—different face, same wobbly
lip.
“Really?” squeaks the kid.
“Looks like you’ve got some serious digging to do. I prefer yellow anyway.”
The tears stop, and we make the switch. The mum mouths “thank you,” I wave her off as I sit back down.
Beau watches me with a smile. “You’ll deny it until the day you die, Griffith Barlow, but you’ve got the softest heart of anyone I know buried under all that”—he gestures to me in a circular movement—“rough.”
I grunt. “It’s the spade I felt sorry for. You know I can’t bear to watch utensils suffer.”
He looks at my bowl. “What are you going to eat yours with now?”
I hold up the broken spade and shrug. It’s sandy and pathetic-looking, but vaguely spoon-shaped. I give it a rinse with my
water bottle, jab it into the couscous and take a mouthful. “There. Rustic.”
Beau bursts out laughing, it’s a tonic to my nerves.
“Let’s have dessert now,” I say, clearing the salads and pulling out the last of the containers like it’s nothing. Like my
heart isn’t on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
His eyes narrow playfully as I reveal a luscious individual lemon tart. “What are you up to?”
“Just eat the damn tart, Beau.”
“Yes, sir.” He chuckles and takes a big bite.
His teeth meet the ring with a sharp clink. His body tenses as he drops the tart and grabs his jaw.
My heart plummets. “Spit it out!” I stammer, panic rising.
He reaches into his mouth and retrieves not the ring but a large piece of tooth, smeared with curd and pastry crumbs.
“Oh no! Are you okay? Have you swallowed something?” I scan the grass, the sand, anywhere the ring might’ve gone.
“I hope not! Did you accidentally leave a baking weight in there?” He bares his teeth, now with a sizable gap at the front.
He groans, blinking through the pain.
That’s when I see the blood. “Oh my god! We need to get you to a dentist now!” I scramble to my feet, heart lurching as he
winces again, clearly in agony.
I stash the tart in the container and shove it into his backpack, mildly relieved to spot the flash of gold poking from the
yellow curd. At least he didn’t swallow the ring, and we’re spared the kind of search no one wants to make.
Later, at the emergency dentist in Mornington, I pace the waiting room. Why did I have to stuff it up? My stepfather was right: I am a failure.
Beau eventually emerges, the lingering effects of the anesthetic no match for the grin tugging at his lips. He pulls the ring
from his pocket, his voice slurred but delighted. “The dentist asked what I bit into. I said I didn’t know, then I found this
in my backpack!”
“I’m sorry,” I blurt. “It was meant to be romantic. You were supposed to find it like in the movies you love.”
“Is that why I caught you watching rom-coms the other week in secret?”
I feel myself blush. Normally I’m a Die Hard fan all the way. “I wanted it to be perfect. You deserve better, Beau.”
He steps close. “Griff, I don’t want better. I want you. You’re my best.”
For a moment, I can almost believe him.
He slips his cool hand into mine, steadying everything.
“I’m broken, you know,” I tell him. “I have baggage . . .”
“Baggage just means you’re ready to go somewhere new. I love you, Griff. For everywhere you’ve been and everything you’ve
come back from. I want to be wherever you go. The thing is—” He pauses, grimacing.
What now? He has to think about it? He finally sees how bad I really am?
“You haven’t actually proposed yet, you duffer.”
Relief floods me. “Beau,” I say, my voice rougher than the stubble on my jaw. “I’m grumpy, I mess things up, and I’ve got
all the subtlety of a freight train. But you, for some reason I’ll never quite understand, see something in me no one else
ever has. If you’ll let me, I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to live up to the man you already think I am. Whatever’s
ahead, I’m yours. Will you marry me?”
He nods, eyes glassy, and I slide the ring onto his finger.
“Always knew you’re a pain in the neck,” he says, grinning. “Now I know you are one in the tooth too.”
He folds me into his arms and, in that moment, I feel unbroken.