Page 73 of Unwritten Rules
“It’ll be cooler by the water,” Morgan promises, kissing her at her temple a little absently, then hauling their luggage inside.
Zach knows Rehoboth from its reputation—Morgan booked the beach house because of it—but it’s not until he’s out in a sea of beachgoers that it really hits him. It’s crowded; there’s not much space to navigate between blankets, beach chairs, enormous multicolored umbrellas. A few people hit a badminton shuttlecock back and forth. More are lying with shirts and towels over themselves, basking in the unrelenting sun.
Morgan puts down a blanket, Lydia settling on it, face shaded by an enormous hat. Around them, couples, some straight but mostly not, recline casually on blankets and build sand sculptures with their kids. A couple in matching swim trunks holds hands as they walk down the beach, and Zach doesn’t look at anyone in particular—doesn’t gawk and doesn’t avoid—wondering what it would be like with Eugenio here, out in the open.
“You all want to go swimming?” Zach says, setting his stuff down.
Morgan sighs, like they’re just not going to talk to each other.
“I’m calling a truce,” Lydia says, not looking up from her book. “Mostly because I get one week of vacation a year, and I’m not going to spend it reenacting my parents’ Catholic divorce.”
Morgan sighs again, then gets up and nods to a football Zach brought where it’s lying on the beach towel. “It’ll be good to get in some throwing.”
So Zach picks up the ball, staking out a patch of sand twenty or so feet from her, the conversation of throw-catch-release, throw-catch-release easier than the one they actually need to have.
They go to dinner that night, at a place that serves seafood by the water, the kind that converts into a club after dark. There’s newspaper on the tables, beer served in a bucket of ice, endless baskets of crabs covered in Old Bay. For a while, the only things they occupy themselves with are crab and Morgan’s grousing that they take too much work to pick.
The restaurant staff begin moving tables, converting the area in the center to a dance floor, though not many people are dancing. “You gonna dance?” he asks, when Lydia flags down a waiter, requesting tequila.
“One week of vacation a year,” she says. “Of course I’m gonna dance. Aren’t you?”
And it’d be one thing to have pictures taken of him, at a gay beach, or at a restaurant, sitting, guarding Morgan’s beach bag, Lydia’s hat. Another to be on a dance floor, especially with the lights undimmed.
“I’m a bad dancer,” he says.
“So’s she,” Lydia says. “She stepped on my feet at our wedding. I thought athletes were supposed to be coordinated.”
And he remembers them dancing together, how Morgan seemed to radiate happiness, while he sat on the perimeter, watching them. “I think I’m gonna stay here.”
They go, and he watches the increasing number of people, the volume loud enough he can feel it in his jaw. He’s seated by a window, and he looks out, watches lights blink on in boats just off the shore, a few people out on the beach with flashlights or lanterns. He texts Eugenio a picture, the only message in a thread, having deleted all the previous ones the night before in case his family got interested in his phone, and gets back a picture of the place Eugenio’s looking to rent.
Nice kitchen,Zach texts, when Eugenio sends him pictures of the countertops, the variegated tile backsplash, the stove with clawed grates over the burners.
Wait until you see the bedroom.
A few guys come up to him, one offering a drink, which Zach declines. Another saying, “You look like—” and Zach’s ready to deny that he’s ever heard of the sport of baseball, when the guy finishes “—you could use some company.”
“I’m good,” Zach says, and then orders another beer to keep himself occupied.
Morgan comes back, hair sticking sweatily to her forehead.
“Is that glitter?” he asks, and she rubs her arms on him. “You know that shit never comes off, right?”
“Yeah, yeah. Anyone ever tell you that you need to have some fun?”
“I’m trying to.”
“Doesn’t seem that way.”
Lydia totters over, swaying in her shoes, holding a shot of tequila. “Hey,” she says, batting at his arm. She holds out her phone and nearly drops it onto the floor; he darts a hand out, catching it. “Get one of us together.”
And she drapes an arm over Morgan’s shoulders, rubbing a hand up through Morgan’s hair, which falls in Morgan’s face in the first few photos, before Lydia turns, brushing it away, kissing her.
“I should probably go,” he says, putting Lydia’s phone down on the table.
“C’mon,” Morgan says. “No one here’s gonna care or take your picture or whatever. Just come and dance.”
“You know it’s not like that.”
