Page 22 of Sea La Vie
Tate’s eyes glaze over and he sets his mouth in a hard line. “Right.”
There’s no way he could still think things between us would work, does he? Or am I imagining his demeanor?
“How are your parents?” I ask, desperate to change the subject.
“Mom’s great. She’s married to an attorney in Atlanta, and she’s finally happy. Dad passed away a few years ago from liver cirrhosis.”
“I’m sorry, Tate.”
“I think by getting that scholarship I was hoping to finally make him proud. He tried getting help. He knew he was an alcoholic. But, by the time he was ready to make a change, it was too late.”
Before I can say anything, he sends a splash of cool water in my direction, a clear indication it’s his turn to change the subject. “Gosh, I love it here.”
I raise a brow and send a well aimed splash back his way. “You still love it here, even after living in the city for so long?”
He shakes his head, freeing water droplets from his hair that trail down his neck. “Yeah,” he says. “The city is okay, but it’s never felt like home. “I wouldn’t mind putting down rootssomewhere, though.”Don’t get your hopes up, Lainey. Don’t do it.
“What made you decide to fish?” He asks.
I bite my lip and try to ignore the sting in my chest that simple question causes. I haven’t talked about this to anyone, not even Eden. But sitting here with Tate, yards away from the shore, it feels like we’re kids again and I can tell him anything.
“I didn’t really want to fish,” I admit. “But when my dad had his heart attack, I needed a way to keep the money coming in. He’s the best fisherman on the east coast, and he brings in more fish than most boats in the Outer Banks combined. I couldn’t let that all go down the drain. He works so hard, but he’s getting older, and it’s starting to show. He can’t move as fast as he used to, and he’s not as strong as he once was.” I look away from him and back toward the horizon as I admit the next part of my story. “And lately, there's been one repair after another on our old boat and dad’s house. Somewhere along the way, we ran out of money.”
“That’s tough,” he says. “What were you doing before you started fishing full time?”
I laugh. “What wasn’t I doing? Filling in as a dental assistant, waiting tables, running a cash register somewhere. Somehow, I became the person everyone calls when they need something.”
“Do you enjoy that?” Tate asks.
“I enjoy helping other people,” I answer honestly. “And it pays the bills.”
“As an accountant, I feel the need to advise you that they need to cut you an actual paycheck so you earn retirement that you can use one day.” He smirks and I roll my eyes, but inwardly I feel the all too familiar anxiety creeping in and beginning to squeeze my chest. I know that my current situation isn’t ideal, but what I don’t know is how to stop it.
“What’s your plan after your dad recovers?” he asks.
I shrug. An image of my mom’s flower beds flash through my mind, and I think about the dream I’ve always had of starting my own cut flower farm. I squash the thought before I can dream about it too much and start paddling toward another wave. “Are you ready to head in?” I lift my head and scan the waves when Tate doesn’t respond right away. When I finally find him, his wide eyes meet mine, and my stomach drops.
“Lainey,” he croaks and points beside his leg. I follow the tip of his finger down to a jellyfish sitting within centimeters of his calf. Then, I notice they have him surrounded.
“It’s okay,” I say, relieved it’s nothing worse, like a shark. “Just wait for them to swim away. Don’t panic.”
Tate nods for all of a second before I hear, “Lainey I can’t do this. I’m panicking.”
“Take a deep breath, Tate. They’ll swim away. Just don’t mo—”
“LAINEEEYYYY!” Tate’s shrill cry cuts through the air, and after a sheet of water hits my face from Tate’s panicky movements, I see him paddling haphazardly toward shore, limbs flying in every direction.
When I reach him on the shore, he’s wailing and rolling around the sand. “Owwww,” he moans. “Do something! Put me out of my misery.”
I kneel in the sand next to him and pry his fingers off his calf. An angry, red welt has already formed. “Doesn’t pee or something help?” He asks through a grimace.
I plant my hands on my hips. “Look around, Tate. Who’s going to pee on you?”
Tate opens his eyes briefly enough to scan the empty beach before turning to me.
“Not a chance,” I say.
Tate promptly gags. “I wasn’t suggesting that.”
