Page 48 of Rum Sips and Salty Lips

“No, whatever’s on your mind.”

The fight falls out of me. Of course he knows I’m upset about something else and not his music.

“No, that’s not part of the deal.” I lean against the porch railing and close my eyes. I let the music from someone else’s yard disappear until all I hear are waves crashing on the beach. Orion stands next to me, not touching. But close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin and the smell of sea salt.

Fuck, I love it so much. I want nothing more than to completely collapse in on him and let him take away my frustration. He might be my friend and clearly thinks it’s okay to kiss his friends. But he didn’t sign up to take on my emotional needs.

Though it couldn’t hurt to share some of my problems.

“Fine.” I cave. “I had a strategy session with one of my investors. His team thinks if I downplay the sustainability aspect of the clothing, it will reach a wider audience.”

“Do they think people specifically not buy because it’s sustainable? Like people think, ‘Fabric’s soft. Looks nice. Too bad it’s not harming the planet as much as those other pants.’”

“Exactly. For some it’s a selling point. Others a bonus. No one treats it as a deterrent. But he thinks environmental concerns are a niche market.”

“Sounds dumb.”

“And then.Then. They had the audacity to tell me since their approach is guaranteed to sell more, I am actually hurting the environment by not doing things their way.”

“Carina, they’re gaslighting you.”

I’m not prepared for the ferocity with which he comes to my defense. “I know. What am I supposed to do? He’s my biggest investor.”

Orion’s eyes wander to my backyard. I expect him to offer some advice about standing up for myself or to mansplain environmentally conscientious living, but he doesn’t.

“You said you got the house in your parents’ divorce?”

“Yes. They kept arguing over who would get it, so they put it in a trust for me when I turned eighteen.” I’m thankful for the change in topic. It’s an old wound. It doesn’t hurt as much.

“So, you came here a lot as a kid?”

I nod. “Met Haley collecting seashells on the beach. Alex used to chase me out of the locals’ section. She’d yell at him since it wasn’t fair. I would’ve lived in Wendell Beach then if I could.”

“You had to stay then, to spite him.”

“I’m sure he feels that way.” I smile.

“And your parents? Do they visit?”

It occurs to me that this conversation was an odd segue. He doesn’t know the bad marketing advice is coming from the man who raised me.

“Not often. They’re busy,” I say. I wait for the follow-up about me visiting home.

“Did you ever think about selling and getting a smaller place?”

“No,” I blurt out. It’s more house than I need, and I purposefully avoid thinking about its carbon footprint. It’s an indulgence. “My parents might have made terrible memories here, but I have good ones. I want to pass that on to my children.”

“Your children?” he questions.

My barriers have fallen around him. I don’t know how to rebuild them. “You surprised I want kids?” I search his eyes for a reaction.

“No, just hard when you don’t date.”

Any other person I would smile and comment on my schedule and timing. But I can’t stand judgment from him.“Fuck off.” I push away from the railing. “Why did you move here, then? If you didn’t know anyone besides Alex and clearly aren’t close to him.”

“I like sweating,” he says as if that’s an answer.

“What?”

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