Page 68 of Debugging Love

“Linen doesn’t block out enough sun.”

I lean my head back and rinse my hair. “Why are you justifying his weirdness?”

“Because. I’m a nice guy.”

I frown at him. Before I can argue that he might be overestimating himself a smidge, Christopher calls, “Hup!”

I groan.

Chance grabs my hand without asking, sending a jolt up my arm. He grins. “I got this. Just let me hit the ball.”

I squeeze his hand for leverage as I stand, and then I pull away, putting several feet between us. “Fine by me.”

We pass Drew on the way back to shore. He’s still wallowing in a pile of soaked cotton/polyester blend.

“You gonna be okay there, buddy?” Chance asks.

Drew gasps. “I will be in five minutes and thirty-seven seconds. Tell Christopher to restart without me.”

“Will do.”

Chance and I walk side by side to the volleyball court, his arms swinging in a confident swagger, tempting my hand to grab on for the ride. But my brain is in control and it’s way smarter than that.

I think.

Chance

After single-handedly losing three volleyball games, I’m exhausted and famished. I tried to overcome my sorry excuse for a team, but one man can only do so much. It was like playing beach volleyball pairs, except no one was helping me and the other team was a sextuplet. Oh well. I got in my exercise for the day.

Christopher insists that we continue to team build, this time by pulling our chairs under the canopy and eating his turkey and Swiss cheese sandwiches as a group. I pluck one out of the cooler, grab a bag of chips, and look for a chair to collapse into. The one next to Danni looks perfect. I take a seat.

She squinches her eyes at me. “Morgan is sitting there.”

I stand, cross in front of her, and fall into the chair on her opposite side.

“Kayla is sitting there.”

I glance down at my chair. “Is she? I don’t see her.”

“Ha ha.”

“You can talk over me.”

She pinches her mouth to the side, rolls her eyes skyward, but doesn’t argue.

“How’s the sandwich?” I ask when I notice her picking at the bread.

“Christopher put mustard on it.”

I lift my bread to check. “Mine has shredded lettuce and mayo.”

“Lucky.”

“You want mine?” I offer it to her.

She shrugs, snuggles her can of pop into the chair’s drink cozy, and then slides away. I’m afraid I chased her off, but she returns with a new sandwich and two little ducklings named Morgan and Kayla. They take their seats and we settle in for a quiet lunch free from Christopher’s overbearing enthusiasm. During our volleyball tournament, he was official, cheerleader, and coach wrapped up in one small, surprisingly loud package.

“There’s sand in my sandwich!” Violet huffs on the other side of the circle.

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