Page 67 of Debugging Love

It’s finally our turn to serve. Kayla goes for the underhanded approach, swings her fist and misses.

“Oops,” she giggles.

Chance claws at his hair. I gaze at his chiseled torso for a moment too long. He intercepts my eyes. Instead of calling me out for ogling his abs, he leans toward me reassuringly. “You can do this. Just fold your hands together like this.” He demonstrates.

“I know how to play volleyball,” I say with a sneer.

“Are you sure? Because I noticed—“

“I know what I’m doing.” I bend at the waist and fold my hands into a wedge, anticipating Juanita’s serve.

She lobs the ball with the force of a thousand fists. It soars into the stratosphere like an unidentified flying object. As it descends, Chance stretches his arms out to make room. Not willing to give him this victory, I prance around on the sand trying to position myself to prove I know what I’m doing. My eye still on the ball, I realize I pranced too far left, so I dive to theright. My cheek hits something rock hard. I ricochet off and hit the sand while Chance hovers over me rubbing his pecs.

“You okay?” His body is blocking the sun.

The sand feels relatively comfortable, and the view isn’t half bad, so I say, “Yeah.”

“Out!” Christopher yells.

The other team cheers. I hear the slapping of high fives. “Take that, you crybabies!” Juanita yells.

Chance offers me his hand. I don’t take it. I might not be good at sports involving projectiles, but I’m not an old lady. I run every morning.

“Thanks,” I mumble once I’m back on my feet.

Chance looks at me curiously, brushes my shoulder. “You’re covered in sand.”

“Imagine that.”

“It’s on your nose.”

I rub my nose with my sand-covered hand, which obviously negates the effort.

He reaches out to help.

I step back so fast that his hand flutters in the empty air. “Time out! I need to rinse off!” I holler as I bound toward the waves.

The cool water bites against my sunbaked legs. Twenty-five yards out, I lay back and let the gentle waves rock me as the saltwater rinses my hair. Before standing, I brush my legs and arms to remove the remaining sand while lamenting the fact that I have to rejoin Christopher’s sick idea of fun.

When I hit dry land, I’m so focused on moping that I don’t notice Drew. I just hear “Move!” right before he plows into me. His raspberry-red face is inches from mine as we fall to the sand. He lands on me, gasps noisily in my ear, and then crawls to the water.

“Gross,” I mutter, feeling violated. And I’m covered in sand again. I sigh, watch the clouds for a moment, and then rollover to hoist myself up. Chance is hovering over me, his hand outstretched. “Need help?”

“Drew landed on top of me.”

“I saw that.”

“It was disturbing.”

“Wanna rinse your eyes out with salt water?”

“Yes.” I grab his hand, noting the grittiness between us, but also the heat. Now my brain needs to be rinsed out with salt water.

We repeat the drill, wading to our knees, and then dropping down. As the gentle waves buffet us, I look over at Chance. “Why is Drew wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt?”

“SPF 100 isn’t strong enough. He still burns.”

“Yeah, I heard that whole conversation. But why sweatpants? Why not linen?”

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