Page 2 of The Sweet Spot

Wren:Wish I was there, too.

You have no idea how much.

Saira’s in Encinitas with her older sister, Janya. They go down every summer to visit their aunt and uncle, who have an enormous beach house. I usually go with them, but this year I had to drop out so I could work at the last minute. I’m still bitter.

Saira: You have any days off? Auntie Bina wants to know if you can make it down next Wednesday and stay the wknd. We’ll come back up together.

I peek at Rodrigo, who’s standing in the open back door, talking on the phone. The ocean sparkles dreamily in the distance.

Wren: No days off. Asha still has bronchitis and needs another week.

Saira: She’s full of shit.

Wren: Yep.

Saira: That sucks :/

Wren: No kidding.

The hair on the back of my neck prickles, and I look up to find a pair of frumpy tourists staring at me. Sliding my phone back into my pocket, I bulldoze their salty frowns with a chipper grin. “Hi ladies! Sorry about that—family emergency. What can I get for you?”

When my lunch break rolls around, I peel off my apron and slip out the back, leaving Rodrigo and the new guy, Sean, to handle the rush. They’ll be okay—Sean’s a pro. We recruited him from Carousel Cones.

Ordering a trio of street tacos—carne asada and extra guacamole, always—and chips from my favorite spot on the boardwalk, I hustle down to the sand to eat. This is my favorite time of day, when I get to relax, staring at the water while stuffing my face. Little kids and families pepper the beach, caught up in the wonder of summer. A group of girls lounges to my left, taking countless pictures and spritzing each other with tanning oil. Can’t lie; I kind of envy them.

Yanking my sneakers off, then my socks, I bury my toes in the sand just to remind myself that there are worse places I could be working. And then, taking a deep, grateful breath, I tuck into my tacos.So good.I wonder if Arlo Janvier likes tacos…although, with a name like that, maybe he prefers escargot.

Maybe I’d know if I read his message. I can’t, though. Not here in public, on the beach, and maybe not ever. What if he’s a perv? A serial killer? A politician? I try to love on everybody, but my bleeding-heart liberal of a mother would die.

I’m halfway through my second taco when my phone bursts into Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams”. Mom’s ringtone. Wiping my mouth, I bring the phone to my ear.

“Hey, Mom. How’d you know I was on break?” I ask, though we all know she has a knack for ‘knowing’. Fingers crossed she doesn’t suddenly know about Arlo.

“Lucky guess,” she says. “How’s it going today? Anything interesting happen?”

“Not really. It’s the same as every day,” I lie, wondering if her spidey-mom senses are tingling.

Out on the waves, a surfer loses his balance and topples into the cold water. I shiver in empathy. Even during the summer, that water’s frigid.

Mom pauses. “I know you’re still upset about not being able to go with the girls, but I’ll make it up to you. I really appreciate you helping out this summer.”

It takes me a moment to respond, thanks to the sudden lump in my throat. “I know.”

“I’m supposed to be taking care of you, little bird.” Her voice is so pained that I’m simultaneously annoyed and filled with guilt I’m making her feel bad.

I drag a tortilla chip through my salsa. “Mom, it’s fine.” And it would be, if we could just stop talking about it. Life is real, not fair. “It’s not your fault.”

“Darius is coming to dinner tonight,” she blurts. Soothing, instrumental music tinkles softly in the background. “Is that okay?”

“Of course, it’s okay,” I say. What she should really be concerned with is the fact she just invited her chef-boyfriend to dinner when she can’t cook, but I keep that thought to myself.

“Good, good. I didn’t want you to be caught off-guard. I saw him at the farmers’ market earlier today and one thing led to another, so. You know.”

“I do know.” Mom and Darius have had athingfor each other ever since he brought his niece to the studio for Youth Yoga three years ago. You’d think they’d be past the tiptoeing by now, but she has a habit of holding guys at arm’s length.

A gust of wind tosses a bunch of my chips onto the sand. Cursing inwardly, I scoop them onto a napkin. “Mom, I gotta go.”

“Oh, okay. Love you, Wren.”

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