Page 58 of Is This for Real?
“You look like you’ve been swimming. But with clothes. You’re not a fan of skinny dipping?”
“Hmm . . . you know what? I’m a fan of the wet pant look on a man.” And I kick my foot into a wave, spraying him with water. And then I run up the beach, slowly, because my bag has not gotten lighter.
“Chicken.” He chases me.
I dump the suitcase down as I hear him behind me and face him, knees bent, ready to dart in the opposite direction.
He puts down the cooler. I shrug off the backpack. I wipe the rainwater off my face. We’re a few feet apart.
“You know how I like my chicken?” he asks.
“Soggy?”
“Breaded and crunchy. You need a little sand on you.” He lunges for me. I twist away and run back down to the ocean. He catches back up as I reach the surf. He’s left the backpack up with the other bags. I spray him again, but he’s got a handful of sand that he bends down to throw at my legs.
I swipe my wet hair out of my eyes and push back my rain hood. I can’t see, and I’m wet anyway. I spray him again, and he returns the favor. We’re both laughing. I am tempted to try to get him off-balance so he can fall into the waves, but it’s more likely to be me who ends up in the ocean.
“Truce?” he asks.
“Okay.”
I reach out to shake his hand. He pulls me against him and wraps his arms around me. I feel warm and protected. He smells of sea air and wet jacket. I hug him back and wish we could stay like this—just for a few more minutes.
“Let’s go make some hot chocolate,” he says. I release him and step away.
We walk up the beach together toward our bags. My sand-heavy pants are sticking to me, and yet I am grinning.
We pick up our bags and walk the last stretch to the wooden steps off the beach and down the wooden pathway, where we can roll our bags. We turn down the main walk and go a few more blocks until I turn right again, and we squelch up to Theresa’s beach house.
The key is in the outdoor shower, hidden in a plastic, soap bar case. Rory unlocks the door while I pull off my sand-covered pants in the shower, so I don’t fill the house with sand, even if I am the one who will be cleaning it up. The “no sand in the house” rules from my childhood die hard.
We escape to separate bathrooms to strip off our wet clothes and take hot showers. Brrr. The water takes forever to warm up. The house feels like an icebox. I hate being cold. Frick. This is turning out to be more a test of my character than our relationship. And I definitely don’t want to get sick when I’ve got a book to finish.
I feel better after I’m warmed up by the hot water. I quickly put on several layers of warm clothes. A Pillsbury dough boy theme is emerging here in my clothing choices when I’m with Rory. I walk up the stairs. It’s an upside-down house. The living room and kitchen are upstairs, while the bedrooms are downstairs. Rory is making hot chocolate, and it smells delicious. And it’s warm.
“You look like a snowman.”
That’s the look I’m going for. “It’s Fire Island fall fashion. Two sweaters. And long underwear.” I sit, cupping my mug in both hands.
“Do you think we can make a fire?” Rory asks, pointing to the fireplace with the neatly stacked wood next to it.
“Yes. What’s your fishing cabin like?” I ask. Rory and his dad spend time every fall up in a fishing cabin in Maine. I’ve always thought it must be some sprawling house that they just call “the cottage” given their chic tastes, but now that Rory seems unfazed by shlepping a cooler across two miles of wet sand in the rain, I’m wondering if it is just some lean-to cabin with a fireplace, a potbelly stove in the corner, fishing rods next to hooks by the door for wet rain fishing gear, and hammocks to sleep on.
Rory describes it, and it sounds like the beautiful, wooden house I first imagined. The fire is now roaring away, and I take off a sweater.
He lounges next to me. The rain is still sleeting down outside, but we’re in this warm cocoon and it feels lovely. I’m also very much aware that we are alone in front of a roaring fire. I sigh.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say sadly. “I love the fire.” If Rory is interested in me romantically, this scenario couldn’t be any more perfect for him to kiss me. And I feel like he’s interested, after that playful tussle on the beach, and then I caught him looking at me when he was making hot chocolate, and it was not a playful look.
“Theresa certainly has a lot of pictures of Jamie around. It’s like the opposite of subliminal advertising,” he says.
It’s true. There’s Jamie at two, Jamie at five, Jamie at ten, Jamie as a teenager, Jamie in college. It’s like a shrine to Jamie. There’s also one picture of me and Jamie standing together at the dock at sunset, two peas in a pod, one with brown curls, one with blond.
“Should we make s’mores?” Rory asks. “They have marshmallows and graham crackers in the cabinets. I brought chocolate.”
“So did I. Yes, definitely.” And there’s the final piece of proof that we’re just friends: that’s more camping buddies than romantic. Because we’re closing up the house for the winter, we have to eat up, bring back, or throw out any perishable food so there’s nothing for mice or bugs to find during the off-season.
