Page 36 of The Moment of Letting Go

I pull a clean beach towel from my bag and go to unfold it.

“Don’t you want to go swimming?” Luke asks.

“Definitely,” I say and lay the towel over my bag to conceal it the best I can.

“I’d tell you not to worry about it,” Luke says about the bag, looking around at the many small groups of people all hanging around the area, which according to Luke is a pretty popular place. “But I don’t know even half of these people—most are tourists.”

“How do you know?”

“They’re not hard to pick out of a crowd, really,” he says and points briefly at a group of girls who just climbed to the top of the cliffs. “Two of them look like they don’t spend much time in the sun. The other two have taken probably thirty selfies each just in the past five minutes, duck-lips and all.” He points at a man and woman who just walked up. “And no locals who come out here wear running shoes and socks in the sand, or big floppy hats and jewelry.”

I stifle a giggle.

“Well, I must really look like a tourist, too, then, shooting a hundred photos on the bus on the way over here, or that rookie mistake of trying to walk in the sand in heels.”

Luke laughs.

“Well, you don’t look so much like one right now,” he says. “Though most locals who come out here aren’t afraid to jump off the cliffs, either, so you’re walkin’ the line.”

My face gets warm, but then disappointment in myself steals my good mood away all over again. I sigh, drop the towel the rest of the way over my bag, and look out at the ocean, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Hey, I’m sorry if I—”

I shake my head. “No, it’s nothing you said. Really. I mean, it is kind of, but not what you’re thinking.”

Luke tilts his head to one side, a curious and somewhat confused look in his eyes.

“Do tell,” he urges me.

Hesitating, I look out at the ocean again and think on how much I want to tell him, or if I want to tell him anything at all.

“Hey, no holding back,” he says and pokes me in the ribs playfully with his knuckles. “Come on, spit it out. And no sad faces allowed in Hawaii, especially while you’re on vacation.”

He got the smile that he had been trying for out of me easily. But it wasn’t hard because the last thing I want to be is a mood killer.

“It’s what you said on the bus,” I tell him. “About how you used to be afraid of everything.” I pause and then say, “It’s not just heights that I’m afraid of.” I point at him briefly and quip, “But I’m not afraid of camping—that’s just crazy.”

He grins, letting me have that one.

“So what else are you afraid of then?” He sits down on the sand and pats the spot next to him.

I sit down, too.

“Well, I’ll be honest—”

“You better be,” he jokes, bumping my bent knee against his.

“It feels strange not to be working right now,” I say.

“You’re joking, right?” he says, looking over at me. “You’re in Hawaii. On vacation. And it hasn’t been a couple of hours and already you’re stressin’ out over a job that you’re supposed to be leaving behind for two weeks—not to be nosy, but is it a paid vacation?”

“Yeah. I’m just not used to not working.”

“Shit, tell me you’re not one of those who works seven days a week and never calls in sick even when you’re on your deathbed.”

“No, no,” I say, shaking my head and my hand, “I’m not that bad—”

“Yet,” he interrupts.

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