Page 86 of Beachside Kisses With My Enemy

“Heads up!”

I see the shadow of a volleyball overhead and duck instinctively, dropping the box of hamburger buns on the boardwalk at my feet. Thankfully, the ball hits the sand instead of me, and April jogs up to retrieve it. “Sorry about that, cuz. You okay?”

“Yeah, of course. What are you doing?” I stare at her red, white, and blue tie-dyed shirt, where a white number badge is pinned. “You hate volleyball.”

“Ugh, I know, but Scarlett loves it. She begged me to do the parent-kid game.”

Aw, April. “You’re a good mama.”

“It’s just volleyball.”

I squeeze her elbow. “It’s more than that.” Because moms should sacrifice for their kids. They should stick it out, even if something isn’t their favorite.

And the next time I talk to mine, I’m going to have a very honest conversation with her about the fact that she didn’t do those things—and how it hurt. Not looking forward to that, honestly. But maybe it’ll mend something in our relationship. And even if it doesn’t make us closer, I think it’ll heal something inside of me. It’s a way to clear away the dead things, to make room for something new.

It’s a place to start chopping, anyway.

Sticking out her tongue like she doesn’t believe me, April leans in and whispers loudly. “We are not doing well. But at least Scar is having fun.”

Then she grabs the ball and runs off, leaving me shaking my head as I pick up the box and resume my trek to the massive food tent. There’s a line wrapped around it and clear down the beach toward The Purple Seashell, where a small musical stage has been constructed and currently a band of college students are rocking out to a fast-paced version of “God Bless America.” The sound carries across the whole beach, combining with the cacophony of other beach noises—gulls crying, waves churning, people laughing. Meanwhile, four different volleyball games are going on, stretching to the southern part of the beach.

Every square inch of sand seems to be taken up by people—those I know, and those I don’t. But not one of them is the guy I’m aching to see.

“Lucy, hey!” Someone calls to me from the open white tent, and I shift the box up with my knee and wind my way through the crowd until I find an empty spot on the table.

Thomas approaches me, disposable serving gloves on his hands, an apron around his waist. “Thanks for bringing those. I can go get the next round of supplies so you’re not having to hoof it back and forth.”

Behind him, there’s a string of older women that we recruited to help serve the burgers, chips, sodas, and other snacks, including the mountain of espresso brownies Thomas cooked up. In the end, we decided to make food easy on ourselves by creating a combo deal—ten bucks for the whole meal.

Despite the ocean breeze and the fact it’s not even eighty degrees in summer, it feels oppressive under the canvas tent. “Oh, I don’t mind.” I remove the rubber band from my hair and fluff the tangled strands out, combing my fingers through them. “It’s been good to move around a bit. Get my exercise in and all that.” And have a chance to look for Blake…

Thomas nods. “Gotcha. It’s just that I know Blake was supposed to be helping us, but with having to go back to Los Angeles yesterday?—”

“Wait, what?” My hand jerks, and the rubber band snaps, broken.

“Yeah, he called me and Tiny yesterday and asked if we’d be okay without him. We both found a few extra people to volunteer, so it wasn’t a big deal.” He squints at me. “I thought you knew. Aren’t you guys…”

I let my hair fall around my shoulders, and now it’s like I’m walking on fire coals in here. “Oh, right. Los Angeles. Yeah, I knew he was leaving.”

Just not yet.

And before he can say anything else, I turn on my heel and race out of there, my chest heaving with the exertion and the news I just heard.

Because he didn’t even say good-bye.

But can I blame him, after the way I walked out at the first sign of conflict? He wanted to make things work between us. Wanted to show me that he wasn’t like my mom. That he did want me.

And I doubted him. I doubted us.

What do I do now?

I have to go find him. Track him down in Los Angeles—even though I’ve never driven there, wouldn’t even know where to look. Tell him I’m sorry. That I want a new adventure, and it’s with him.

Wherever he is.

“Lucy, help!”

I turn this time to find Chloe racing toward me with a walkie talkie. The woman is in honest-to-goodness heeled sandals, white linen pants, and a red tank top that ties at the collarbone. Somehow she’s missing the same sheen of sweat I feel coating my brow. And she’s a woman on a mission. “Right now, I have to deal with the boatmen who were hired to launch our fireworks tonight, but there’s also an issue with the sound equipment on the stage, and I can’t seem to locate Dallas Loveland, who owns all of it.” Her voice miraculously remains calm. If I were her, I’d be screaming, but Chloe is a professional. Still, I’m guessing under that royal exterior, she’s stressed, so I raise my hand and salute her.

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