Page 29 of Girls Will Be Girls
“Pink isn’t a flavor.”
“Yes, it is. Just like blue.” He pushes the box closer to me.
I catch myself about to say that I don’t mind, but think about Lou psychoanalyzing me yesterday. If he were here now, he’d probably smirk and say something like:“Don’t just say it’s fine.”
I don’t want to give imaginary Lou the satisfaction of thinking he knows me, so I grab the pink one.
It’s silly how proud I feel of myself for taking the one I wanted.
I take a bite. “Does everyone get a treat after?” I ask Buck.
He takes a bite of his own chocolate-sprinkled one. “Only the people I like.”
I hold my hand to my heart. “I’m honored.” And I really am.
I cheers my pink sprinkled donut with his.
We talk until his next class turns up, and I find out that he moved here two years ago for both the lake life in the summer and the snowboarding in the winter, and because he felt too old for the surfer dude scene back in California. He’s a Pisces, even though he says he thinks he’s spiritually more of an Aquarius. He has a definite thing for Willie, and I would like him to be one of my new best friends. He’s only a little older than me, so we can just adopt Casey together and live happily ever after, paddle boarding into the sunset.
Once he’s back in the water, I stay on the sunny beach a moment longer and write down anything else that inspired me from this morning. The words paradise and heaven circled at the top.
It’s moments like this that I start to feel a pang of guilt. I internally complain so much about having to write about exercise and wellbeing, because I usually don’t vibe with most types of sport, but I loved that, and I feel bad that I’m being ungrateful. I should be happy I get to do this, that I get to write the genre of journalism I want to. I need to stop being so negative about it not beingexactlywhat I want.
I feel guilty that maybe Evelyn thinks I don’t love working atLure. I should make more of an effort.
“Hey.”
My guilt spiral is luckily interrupted, but unluckily it’s by one of the not-so-happily-married guys.
“What you writing?” He asks, adjusting his baseball cap with his left hand, the tan line from where his wedding ring should be practically glowing.
I paste on a smile. “Just some notes.”
He sits down next to me on the sand, a little too close for my liking, as if us being at the same paddleboarding lesson means we’re best buddies.
He’s not bad looking. He clearly makes an effort with his appearance. If I had to guess, he spends more time at the gym than at home. He has that kind of blue-collar allure to him, but it’s overshadowed by the slimy vibe. The way his eyes move up and down me like he’s getting an eyeful without my permission. That smile that is anything but infectious.
“What are the notes for?” He asks.
I uncross my legs, shifting them under me in an effort to shuffle away from him without it being obvious.
“They’re for work.”
“You shouldn’t be writing stuff on vacation!” He laughs.
“Oh, I’m not.” I fake laugh. “I’m writing for work. About here.”
“Oh.” He says like he figured something out. “You’re like a travel blogger.”
“Nope.” I smile again. “I’m a journalist.”
“You uncovering some sort of seedy underbelly of the locals or something?”
I fake laugh again. “Nope. No seedy underbelly.”
“What? You doing some hard-hitting journalism on paddleboarding or something?” He laughs, pleased with his joke.
His words make my stomach dip uncomfortably. His tone feels like acid. Exactly how it always feels. Like embarrassment, guilt. Like what I do is meaningless, stupid, not real. It’s not important, and it doesn’t matter.
