Page 87 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

Quentin laughs incredulously. “Is that a real thing?”

“It’s totally a thing.”

We hit two of the advertised yard sales – one where I snag a secondhand deck of playing cards with artsy koi fish printed on the backs – before making our way to The Treasure Trove, which boasts shelves upon shelves of highly breakable tchotchkes. It makes me nervous just to browse the narrow aisles of crystal dolphins, elaborately handmade art that may or may not double as smoking devices, and precariously stacked frames made of sea glass. At one point Quentin’s hand finds my arm, and he leans in close.

“Can we please get out of here before one of these shelves spontaneously combusts and we have to max out our credit cards?” he says against my ear.

“Don’t trust your Class Five Rapids reflexes?” I tease.

“I trust myself less in this store than I trust myself around you. And that’s saying something.”

My heart skips. I turn, but he is already edging his way back down the aisle. I watch him head outside through an overloaded shelf of sea life snowglobes.

We don’t break or buy anything, but we do rent some beachy vintage bikes from the rack out front. A guy sitting in a lawn chair under a beach umbrella gives us the rundown of all the return locations, one being Barnacle Billy’s, which means I’m sold. We load our purchases thus far into the little baskets attached to the handlebars and cruise to the marina – where there’s still no sign of Teddy or the Virginia Marie.

Eventually we cruise down to the pier, stopping for ice cream so we can listen to a trio of street musicians play a mini concert that we saw advertised on The Pole. I dance to covers I haven’t heard since high school until ice cream melts down my hand, and I lick vanilla off my wrist, earning one of those distracted, two-beat stares from Quentin. We pack up our things and head to our last stop as the afternoon clouds are rolling in.

Shelluva Deal is one of those tacky stores that lurks on every coastline, peddling neon pool noodles, borderline inappropriate shot glasses, and airbrushed t-shirts. It’s nostalgic and terrible all at once. We dodge a group of teens carrying skim boards as we park our bikes and head inside.

“Should we get matching nose rings?” Quentin says. “Tribal henna tattoos?”

He spins the display of bracelets by the register. They’re the kind made of thin twine that remind me of middle school friendship bracelets. They promise things like Love and Happiness and Calm. I snag one and grab his hand, sliding it around his wrist and pulling the strings until they tighten.

“For luck,” I offer, pointing to the sign.

He slides a matching one off the rack and adds it to my wrist, working the ties until it’s snug against my pulse point. The trio of stones are smooth and green.

“They match your eyes. And your hat,” he says, tipping my feather. “You feelin’ lucky, PBG?”

I give him a coy smile, laughing in spite of myself, until I realize the pimply kid is watching us from behind the register.

“Do you, like, wanna pay for those or whatever?” he asks, half looking at us and half checking his phone. I wonder why he thinks he’s standing at a cash register if not to accept forms of payment from customers who are also standing at a cash register.

I slide some money across the counter and we slip back out into the humid, suddenly gray afternoon. I squint at the sky.

“Is it supposed to rain?”

“It’s Florida,” Quentin offers. “These things blow through quick.”

Turns out, it does blow through quick. Unfortunately, we’re about a hundred yards from Barnacle Billy’s when the sky opens up. The rain pelts us with big, warm drops that makes splotches across the fabric of my sundress. We leave our bikes against the building and jog up the steps, shaking ourselves out and laughing as we step in through the propped open door, with a sign that says ‘No Shirt, No Shoes, No Problem’.

“H! Q!” Barnacle Billy announces from behind the bar. “You two crazy lovebirds. You’re early for the wet t-shirt contest.”

“That’s too bad. I was a shoe-in for first,” Quentin says, peeling his shirt away from his torso with a grin. “Just a couple of drinks then?”

“You got it!”

We settle in at a table beside the wall of unshuttered windows, where a sheet of rain pours off the roof and onto the patio. We’ve caught the place between lunch and dinner, and the crowd is sparse, only a few gray-bearded men and sun-weathered women wearing bright beach cover-ups, smoking at the bar. We order a couple of sandwiches and settle in.

“You’re a bad influence on me,” I say, sucking the lime of my drink. “You know I think this is the first Saturday I haven’t worked since… ever?”

He smiles. “Yeah? How does it feel?”

I think for a moment before admitting, “Good.”

We both laugh at the surprise in my voice.

“Good,” he nods.

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