Page 13 of Whispers on the Water

If he’s disappointed, he doesn’t let on. We hurry across the hot pavement to get back to the surf shop. I hurry inside, finding Tilly at the bar.

“Hey Sammy,” she greets me, but her attention snaps to Greg when he follows me in. She nearly chokes on her snack. “Hot bar guy?”

Greg gives her a narrowed look. “Have we met? Or is that just what you say to everyone?”

“Tilly, this is Greg from the other night. Greg, meet my best and most annoying friend, Tilly,” I introduce them, a smile playing on my lips.

He offers a sheepish wave, and I’m already pointing towards the back. “You’ve got a surf lesson in ten. I’m gonna change real quick.” Tilly’s struck speechless, it seems, but she manages to nod. I hurry to the back of the store, my nerves a jumbled mess. Already, I’m bracing for her inevitable interrogation, trying to figure out how I’m going to dodge her questions. But who the hell am I kidding? I’m no politician. She’ll get the truth out of me easily. So instead, I’ll just avoid her.

Once inside the first stall, I begin peeling off my wet swimsuit, but my thoughts are miles away, back on Greg’s couch, drowning in a sea of longing. It’s almost impossible not to touch myself right there in the changing room, especially with the way he looked at me earlier. But I resist the urge, telling myself it will be far better and safer to do something about the throbbing in my own body later when I’m actually alone.

As I towel off, a soft knock, barely audible above the store’s ambient noise, catches my attention. Spinning around, I crack open the door and peek out.

Greg stands there, his eyes and smirk suggesting he’s on the same wavelength as me.

“You sure you don’t want lunch?” Damn him and his strategic use of personal space. He backed off just long enough for me to miss the weird magnetic pull he has on me. Yes, I want lunch—and maybe dinner, breakfast, and a snack. Not necessarily in that order and not all of it food.

I nod, and like fucking magic, his grin goes full supernova—so bright, I’m actually concerned about my retinas. “Let’s go then. My treat,” he says.

Closing the door again, I hurriedly throw my clothes on. As I shimmy into my shorts, I try to downplay what’s happening. “Just lunch, not a marriage proposal” I whisper to myself. But as soon as I step out and see him, hands in his pockets, hair wet on his forehead, wearing the biggest most adorable smile, I know I’m lying to myself. Still, that doesn’t stop me from wanting to go. Shaking my head, I trail behind, lost in thought about how this has to be the dumbest thing I’ve done in eight years.

Chapter eight

Greg

As Sam locks up the surf shop, she throws a casual glance back at me. I can’t help but tease, “Woah, what about your hot friend?” Her laughter is a melody that dances in the warm Costa Rican air. “I doubt she wants to play third wheel,” she says.

“Third wheel? Between you two, I bet I’d be the one left out.”

“Probably,” she says. Her honesty is appreciated, and I make a note of it for later. Sam is close with Tilly. If I want this to go somewhere other than lunch, I probably need to get on Tilly’s good side.

While we walk, I can’t resist; I grab her hand as we make our way across the street, feeling a buzz from the contact. But then, Sam looks down at our intertwined fingers, a smile blooming on her face before it’s quickly replaced by a look of alarm. “Erm, Greg?” she murmurs, pulling away slightly.

I release her hand immediately, feeling a pang of regret. “Sorry, say no more.”

Sam’s response is hesitant, her usual confidence momentarily faltering. “It’s just a very couple thing to do, sorry. I just didn’t think...”

Raising both hands in surrender, I attempt to mask my disappointment with a quick smile. “Not a couple. Got it. Where are we eating?”

She points to a nearby taco stand, asking, “You like carne asada?”

"Who doesn't?" I ask. She looks at the ground and smiles again. So shy, yet so confident. Such a strange combination that leaves me staring at her.

It continues even as we queue up, and Sam orders for us in fluent Spanish. I’m impressed but not surprised; she seems to seamlessly blend into the local culture.

As we sit under the fluttering palm fronds, I’m struck by the casual, vibrant atmosphere of the beachside eatery. Mismatched tables, paper plates, and a lot of delicious smells. It’s has a vibe that I love even if its common here in Costa Rica.

“So, Sam. Where are you from?” I ask, hoping to peel back some of the layers she’s wrapped around herself.

“California.” Her answer is brief and guarded. But I am somewhat surprised she gave an answer at all.

I mirror her restraint, revealing just enough to keep the conversation flowing. “Same. San Diego.”

She perks up. “Oh, I love it there! You like it?”

I tell her I did, and the conversation evolves, touching on our shared history with surfing, and silly high school stories. As we talk, I have to remind myself not to stare at her lips. But as often as I do, she seems to be fighting the same problem. The unspoken words hang heavily between us. Every laugh, every glance, is charged with the memory of our night together.

I find myself wanting more than just casual banter; I want to dive into the depths of who Sam really is. It’ll take longer than a taco lunch though and I’m kind of nervous to broach the subject. But a real date with Sam? It’s suddenly all I want.

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