Page 49 of Sexting the Coach
“I grew up in Boston,” I remind her, glancing her way. “Not exactly a beach town. And that’s not a reason to like the beach—that’s just a fact about where we are.”
“Okay, fine. You’re going to tell me you’re not a fan of seeing beautiful women in skimpy little swimsuits?”
I can’t help it—I reach out and take one of the little ties around her neck between my fingers, rolling it back and forth. She shivers, and I track the movement. “Why? Is that what you have on under this thing?”
For a second, it looks like she might play it safe, pull back, commit to the whole “friends” thing we’ve agreed on, but then something shifts behind her gaze, and she leans into me, staring up at me with those honey eyes.
“Maybe if you pretend to have a good time tonight,” she whispers, one of her hands sliding up my chest and winking. “You might just find out.”
I open my mouth, but I’m still trying to figure out what to say when the car comes to a stop and the driver glares at us, “We’re here. Have a great night.”
Maybe he wasn’t too thrilled about all the PDA in his backseat. Not PDA—just flirting, I remind myself. Flirting is fine. It’s harmless.
But every time I think about touching her, I also think about the expression on her face when she woke up in bed with me that morning. Her littleoh God. Her agreeing with me that the entire thing was a mistake.
That helps to sober me up a bit.
Elsie and I climb out of the car. Stretching out before us is a huge party on the beach, tiki torches lining the paths, guys in swim trunks and girls in—just like Elsie said—skimpy little bikinis.
Although many of them are throwing on sweatshirts by the time we arrive. It was unseasonably warm today for late October, but with the sun setting, the temperature starts to drop.
Elsie takes my hand and tugs me along, saying something about getting a pina coloda to start the night. I wasn’t lying to her in the car—I’ve never been a big beach guy, never understood the appeal of the sand, salt, and sunburns.
I’m much more comfortable bundled up in a coat, walking through cloudy downtown Boston. Complaining about the slush in February. It’s been a long time since the weather around me made me feel at home.
Sand shakes up into my sandals as we wait in line for drinks, and when I knock Elsie’s card to the side, insisting mine instead, the girl behind the bar rolls her eyes, but takes mine.
“You don’t have to pay,” Elsie says, glancing at me. I raise an eyebrow at her.
“It’s all part of the date you won, remember that?”
Despite the sand and ridiculously high prices, the beach party is actually kind of fun. Elsie gets second place in a game of limbo. We get to try pork from a pig that was buried—and cooking, apparently—under the sand. Our dessert is a creamy coconut and lime ice cream that actually makes me hate the beach just a little bit less.
With two pina colodas under her belt, Elsie is tipsy. It makes her handsy, too, her palm flattening on my back, her fingers running down the length of my arm more than once. We meet some other people at the party, and when they mention a bar crawl starting and stretching on into the night, she looks over at me, her mouth in a perfecto.
“Let’s do it!” she whispers, and when she leans over to me, she goes a little too far, giggling when I take her and sit her back upright.
“Are you sure it’s a good idea?”
Of course, she is—all that rum is going to her head. And when I try to protest, try to point out that it might be a better idea for her to go home, focus on drinking water, she just starts to pout, saying she’ll go without me.
And that’s thelastthing I’m going to do—let her go walking around San Francisco with a bunch of strangers, nobody to look out for her.
When I give in, rolling my eyes and telling her I’ll come along, she throws her arms around my neck, and it’s almost worth it.
“Come on,please, Weston! It’s in the rules of the date—you have to do whatever I say!”
Elsie is thoroughly wasted now, her hand in mine. It’s impossibly warm, and her fingers are tight as she tries to pull me in the direction of the dance floor. Our friends from the beach have tracked in plenty of sand, and only two-thirds of them are wearing shoes, but the owners don’t seem to care.
Elsie’s hand is in mine, impossibly warm, gripping my fingers as she tries to pull me toward the dance floor.
“No,” I say, gently pushing her hand off mine, resisting the urge to laugh and give in. “I’ll stay here and watch the drinks.”
Elsie’s drink—a vodka water I told the bartender to make a double water—sits mostly untouched. I gesture at it, and she rolls her eyes, taking a hasty gulp.
“I’m reporting you to Gigi,” she mumbles, raising her eyebrows in what she must think is a menacing way, before she turns and walks back out to the dance floor, finding the girls she made friends with at the beach party.
I shake my head, nurse my Coke, and watch her as she dances with them.
