I clutch, squeeze…why is it soft? I think I was expecting a male body—a certain, specific male body. I’d been dreaming, but the dreams are hazy and mostly forgotten already. What—who—am I spooning? I’m starting to wake up even more, gradually becoming more aware of my surroundings.
“Audra?” The voice is soft, quiet, puzzled, and female.
“Mmmm.” Mine is scratchy and vaguely irritated at being spoken to, at having to think.
“That’s my boob.”
I squeeze again, exploring, and realize I’ve got a big handful of Imogen’s breast. I laugh, not letting go; instead, I spoon closer up behind her and squeeze harder. “I see why guys like them so much. They make great handholds for spooning.”
Imogen is cackling, wiggling her butt against me. “At least neither of us is waking up with a sausage between our buns.”
I let go, rolling away as I snort in laughter. “Hey, I personally don’t mind waking up like that.”
“Oh, like you’ve ever spent the entire night with a guy,” Imogen says, sitting up.
“I have too…once…by accident.” I sit up, as well.
We’d both fallen asleep fully clothed, and Imogen is scratching and tugging at her bra straps and underwire.
She glances at me, holding up a finger. “Quick interruption—if I don’t get this bra off right the hell now, I’m going to lose my mind. Just fair warning, I’m letting the girls loose, and I might even give them a good rub down.”
I laugh, already ripping my shirt off and fumbling with my own bra strap. “Last one topless buys the first round at the beach.”
Within seconds, we’re both bare from the waist up, sighing in relief as we rub at the itchy, achy points of compression and friction where our bras had been.
Imogen flops back to the bed with a sigh, still massaging herself. “So. You once woke up with a sausage between your buns. What’d you do?”
I lie beside her, glancing past her at the doorway, marveling at the view from the balcony: sparkling, glittering azure water, white sand beaches, not a cloud in the sky, seagulls wheeling and cawing. “What do you think I did? I grabbed the condom we’d opened and never used, woke him up, told him to put it on, and we fucked, laying down on our sides, still drunk enough that that was about all we could manage. And then we passed out again and I woke up, snuck out, and met you for breakfast.” I laugh. “I never knew his name, and never even looked at his face. When I woke up and snuck out, he was turned away and had the blanket over his head. He could have looked like a cave troll for all I know. He had a nice dick, though, I can tell you that much.”
Imogen is laughing and shaking her head at me. “You’re terrible. You never even saw his face?”
I shrug. “I mean, at the bar, but I was honestly so wasted I barely remember that night. I remember the next morning just fine, though,” I say, laughing.
“I bet you do.” She shakes her head. “I just can’t fathom having sex with someone whose name I don’t know, and someone I have never even seen naked.”
“It was a hell of a thrill, actually. Kind of…naughty, in a way.”
“Don’t you ever just want…something a little deeper?”
I wink at her lasciviously. “I always want something a little deeper.”
She groans, laughing. “Oh my god, you slut. That’s not what I meant and you know it.”
I leave the bed, going to the doorway, clad in yoga pants and nothing else. There are probably people down there who could see me if they wanted, as the beach is mere yards away, but it’s kind of fun taking that risk. “Anyway, I thought we weren’t having this kind of conversation?”
“Don’t you care that anyone could look up here and see you topless?” Imogen asks.
“Yeah, I do care a little, but it’s also fun. Plus, I’ll probably make some old rich guy’s day.” I shoot a glance at her. “Come over and try it.”
She yanks the sheet up to cover herself. “NO!”
“Why? You worried about what Jesse would say?”
She snorts. “No!” A hesitation. “Well, yeah. I wouldn’t want him wagging his dick at the entire beach, so I’m not going to shake my tits at the entire beach.”
“I have no such impediments,” I say, propping the girls up in both hands and shaking them at the window. Far down the beach, near the water, I see a male silhouette turn this way, glance up as he’s walking, do a double-take, and trip over someone lying on the beach on a towel. I turn away, laughing, spluttering, and covering myself with both hands.
“I just made some guy trip over another person,” I say, backing away from the window out of sight.
Imogen wraps the towel around herself and tiptoes to the edge of the door, peeking out. “Oh my god! They’re arguing! Like, they’re going to start punching each other in a second. The guy is gesturing at the window—now they’re both looking this way.”
“Should I give them a show?” I say, tiptoeing closer.
Imogen snaps the blinds closed and pushes me backward. “No! You definitely should not give random guys on the beach a free boob show. Bad plan.”
“Why?” I ask. “It’s not like they can see details of what I look like, and it’s not like I’ll ever see them again.”
She stands in front of me, resolute. “You’re compensating, Audra.”
I sigh, blowing her a raspberry. “Fine, spoilsport.” I head for the bathroom. “I’m gonna take a shower, and then we should go get breakfast and hit the beach.”
“Sounds good to me,” Imogen says, watching me carefully.
I stop in the doorway to the bathroom. “I’m not compensating, by the way. I have nothing to compensate for.”
“This is about relaxing and having fun, so I’m not going to argue with you,” Imogen says, after a moment, “but no more boob shows at open windows, okay? I don’t want gaggles of horny tourist dudes lining up over there with binoculars hoping for another peep at the hot older lady who likes to flash people.”
I flip her the bird. “I’m not an older lady.”
“Yeah, but you’re not twenty-five anymore, and this isn’t Mardi Gras.”
“No, but my tits look almost as good now as they did then, so that’s a win.”
“Can we stop talking about your tits?” Imogen says, grabbing her suitcase and opening it on the bed.
We both shower, change into bikinis and cover-up dresses and find a place within walking distance to eat some food—it’s well past lunch, but we have omelets and bacon and sausage and a bowl of berries and endless cups of coffee.
Eventually, I look at the time and toss down enough cash to cover the meal. I stand up and announce, “Time to find a cabana, and a cute cabana boy.”
She nods, adds cash for a tip, and we head out for a few hours of lying in the sun, swimming, and drinking way too many gin-and-soda-waters.
And that is how we spend the week. One day drifts into the next, pleasantly, slowly, but also way too quickly. We shop, go to fancy dinners in the evenings and linger over extended breakfasts in the morning, and order food to our cabana in the afternoons. We collect shells and tease the guys on the beach around us with elaborate shows of rubbing sunscreen on each other, laughing as they all but trip over themselves trying to get a better look.
I leave my phone turned off and stuffed in a pocket in my purse, forgotten. I don’t think about anyone, or anyone in particular. I don’t work out. I eat food I haven’t eaten in years—and while I know I’ll have gained a bunch of weight when I return to reality, I honestly don’t care. I know I can strip it away again, and the sense of peace and relaxation is totally worth it.
I can’t shake the lingering weight of sadness, though. It’s not overbearing, it’s not a crushing cloud of depression, its just…sadness. Like I’m missing something.
Someone.
I don’t let it bog me down, and I don’t let it show, but it’s there.
As the week wears on, though, and we get closer and closer to having to go back home,
the heavier the sadness gets, and the harder it is to push it away. True to her word, Imogen never pushes the conversation to anything heavy, and I’m grateful for it.
It’s early evening on Saturday, the last full day of our trip. We’ve been at the beach most of the day, and I’m trying to pull myself out of the funk of sadness, trying desperately to convince myself it’s just end-of-vacation melancholy that’s not about anyone in particular.
Imogen is beside me, on her belly on the cabana mattress, sunglasses pushed up on top of her head to hold her hair back, texting Jesse. Abruptly, she pops her head up and swivels it around as if looking for someone, and then casually lowers it back down again, a strange expression on her face.
I eye her. “What was that about?”
She tugs her glasses back down over her eyes. “Nothing.” She’s not good at lying, and worse at pretending she’s not. “Thought I saw someone I knew, but it was just a lookalike.”
I frown at her, rolling to my side and tugging my top up so I’m not spilling out of it. “Imogen, you suck at lying. What’s going on?”
She clicks her phone to sleep and clutches it in her fist, staring at me through her bug-eye sunglasses. “You know I love you, right?”
All my suspicions are on high alert. “Yes?” I say, drawling the word into a question.
She glances past me, lets out a breath, and then moves to a sitting position, gathering her purse and cover-up. “So…you’re here through Tuesday. I changed your flight and stole your phone while you were sleeping to reschedule your Monday and Tuesday appointments.”
“Why would you do that?” I frown harder. “What do you mean, I’m here till Tuesday? Just me? Where will you be?”
“In St. Pete’s with Jesse.”
“You’re ditching me here, alone, to spend time with Jesse?” I sigh, shrugging. “Okay, I get it. We’ve had a great week and I’m super thankful we’ve had this time together. I really needed it.”
She’s smirking, sort of, but hiding it. “This is where you just need to trust me.”
“Trust you?”
She leans over me, and I sit up to hug her. “Yes, Audra. Trust me. I have my reasons for doing this beyond wanting time alone with Jesse on a beach.”
I stare at her, examining her—she’s up to something. “And you’re leaving right now?”
She nods. “Yup. I need to pack and catch my flight.”
“Just like that?” I frown. “This is really weird, Imogen. And what am I supposed to do alone for two days? It’s not the same being on a beach by yourself.”
She just shakes her head. “It’ll make sense eventually.”
I sigh, throwing my hands in the air and then hug her again. “Fine, fine. I’ll just trust you—but it’s hard, I hope you realize that.” I pull away, holding her arms and blinking away sudden tears. “For real, though—thank you, Imogen. I needed this more than you’ll ever know.”
She kisses my forehead. “I love you, Audra. And…” She bites her lip. “Open mind, open heart. Okay?”
Oh dear—I really don’t like the sound of that. “Imogen? What did you do?”
She just pats me on the cheek as she stands up and backs away. “Open mind, open heart. Just remember that, okay?”
I roll my eyes and wave her off. “Okay, Yoda.” I blow her a kiss. “Love you. Say hi to Jesse for me.”
“Oh, I’ll do more than say hi.”
I laugh as she walks away across the beach back to the condo, already texting Jesse again. I stay in the cabana for a while longer, and then decide to go for one last swim before heading in to find some kind of dinner.
I toss my sunglasses into my purse, tighten the knots on my halter-top bikini, and head for the water. The sun is starting to set, a giant bright orange-red ball just barely touching the horizon, setting the whole ocean on fire. The waves are gentle and noisy, tugging at my ankles and then my calves as I wade in. The seagulls dart and wheel on wingtips and caw at each other. There are other beachgoers all around, but I feel totally alone, like I’m in a bubble of solitude.
Finally, I let the sadness bubble up, let it breathe.
I wade in up to my waist, and then to my chest, letting the waves crash up against my breastbone and chin, and then dunk under, taking a few long strokes under the water and surface, spluttering as I come up for air. I scrape my hair back and wipe my face.
Let the sadness rise, let it percolate through me.
And finally, finally, I let myself admit what it’s really about—the sadness is about Franco.
I miss Franco.
I want Franco.
Not just the sex, not just his body, but him. His laugh, his blue eyes. His humor, his deep, smooth voice. His soothing presence. The way he can turn me on with a look, a glance.
The sadness is about my missed opportunity with him.
“Did…did you want there to be something? I mean, did you want there to be a now-what?”
I should have said yes. I should have told him yes, I wanted a now-what. I wanted more. I should have admitted that feeling him bare inside me was the scariest thing I’ve ever experienced, not because of the risk of pregnancy, but because of the intimacy of it. The realness of it. The rightness of it. It terrified me because it had been so right. So perfect. It had been…home.
He had taken the risk—he’d asked if I wanted something else. I’d known what he meant, but I was scared and stubborn, and I shut him down. Blew my one chance at…whatever could have been between us.
I suck down a sob.
I should have said yes.
I hear splashing around me, but it doesn’t register—nothing can penetrate my bubble of solitude.
And then…
I feel it.
A tingle.
It’s ephemeral at first, but it’s a familiar feeling.
An awareness of something…someone.
A knowledge, in my bones and blood and soul.
I splash water on my face, scrape my dripping wet hair back over my scalp, and then I slowly turn around.
He’s ten feet away, up to his waist in the water behind me. He’s shirtless and gloriously beautiful. Breathtaking. His hair is down, loose around his broad, hard shoulders. He has on a pair of cheap airport-kiosk plastic sunglasses instead of his usual Oakleys.
He’s just standing there, waiting. Staring at me.
I choke. “Franco?”
He closes the space between us, until mere inches separate us. He stares down at me, his chest rising and falling deeply, rapidly. The water laps at us, licks between us; the sun sets beyond us, bathing everything in a red-orange glowing fire, staining the sea and our skin and his eyes.
His hands wrap around my waist, and he pulls me up against him. “I decided you were lying.”
“Lying?” I whisper. “About what?”
“About not wanting a now-what.”
I laugh, or sob, or some tangled mix of the two. “I was,” I manage, trying furiously to catch my breath, which has mysteriously disappeared. “I was lying. I admit it.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m scared of getting hurt again. Of being hurt worse than before, because you—you could…” I shrug, unable to finish the thought coherently.
“I’m scared, too,” he says. “I’ve spent the last month trying to convince myself otherwise, but…I couldn’t do it.”
“Ask me again,” I say, my voice a murmur as I run my hands up his chest to clutch his shoulders.
He knows what I mean. “Audra…do you want there to be a now-what with us?”
I rest my ear against his chest, listen to his heartbeat and his breathing. I nod, my chin brushing his pec. “Yes, Franco. I want a now-what between us.”
His arms encircle me, and I feel safe and protected and the weight of sadness is gone.
“Me too,” he says, relief in his voice.
Chapter 14
Neither of us say it, but we’re both tempted to hide in the condo for the next two days, doing y
ou know what until the last possible moment. Instead, we do something neither of us is quite ready for, but know is the most responsible thing: we just…talk.
We stay in the water as the sun sets, and we hold hands, rest palms on waists, steal sensual touches, exchange small, secret smiles. And we talk. I tell him more about my childhood, my eternal sense of loneliness, how I always felt more at home in the gym with the football guys and wrestlers than with other girls, and how that often translated into assumptions about my gender identity or sexual preference, especially since I’ve hated how I look with long hair since I was six, and have insisted on short hair ever since. And how those assumptions and rumors probably fueled the way I approach sexuality.
He tells me about his grandfather, about his carpentry apprenticeship, about his first girlfriend—who was, in his words, the most stereotypical Catholic schoolgirl there’s ever been, down to the pleated skirt hiked a bit too high and the white button-down unbuttoned a bit too far, and the behaviors and predilections that were anything but Catholic.
We talk about everything. Movies, sports, cars, music. We talk as the sunset disappears at the approach of nightfall; we transition back to the cabana long after the rest of the beach is deserted. When the cabana boys start closing down, I gather my purse and cover-up, and Franco collects his phone and wallet from where he had them rolled up into his shirt, tucks the T-shirt in the back pocket of now-dry board shorts, and we walk hand in hand along the beach, letting the moon-tinged surf lick at our ankles.
We talk about our exes, and our parents, and trade horror stories of growing up in our respective familial disasters. We talk about run-ins with disgruntled ex-hookups, awkward morning-afters, comical bedroom mishaps, close calls with crazy almost-lovers whom we realized were crazy in the nick of time. We talk about sex in an almost clinical way—discussing favorite positions and least favorite positions, foreplay tactics, exit strategies; this is a strange part of the conversation, because you’d think talking sex would lead to doing it, but somehow, it’s intimate and informational and personal rather than erotic or sensual.