Page 19 of Chasing Sunsets

And I shouldn’t be thinking about her like that.

Parker slaps me on the back. “You’ll figure it out, man. And if you screw it up, we’ll be here to laugh at you.”

“Appreciate it,” I say dryly.

We finish cleaning up, tying down the gear and hosing off the last of the mess. By the time we’re done, the sun is dipping low, turning the water gold.

As I step off the boat, I check my phone for the hundredth time. Still no message from Tabby. This morning, I dropped off my spare phone for her on my way to work, and she planned to borrow Pete’s bike to get it turned on today. I want to ride back out to the campground to see why she hasn’t texted me her new number yet, but that might come across as a bit stalkerish. She asked for a friend after all.

I guess it’s time to figure out how to be one.

Tabby

Isit on a blanket in the sand with my easel and wooden palette and stare at the entrance to the campground. It’s a far cry from what it was when Indigo and I drove up to it. Pete and I transformed it into a picturesque, welcoming gateway to the shore. A freshly paved, sandy-hued drive curves gently beneath a wooden archway, where a hand-carved sign swings lazily in the breeze, its letters painted in soft coastal blues and whites. The wordsThe Sandspur Campgroundstand bold against the weathered wood with a pair of seagulls etched into the corners.

Lush, native plants frame the entrance, carefully chosen to withstand the salty air and shifting coastal winds. Dune grasses sway in the breeze, their feathery plumes catching the sunlight, while clusters of date palms and wax myrtles add bursts of deep green. Along the edges of the drive, bright yellow coreopsis and delicate pink beach roses bloom in wild clusters, their petals fluttering in the salty air.

A neatly mulched pathway winds from the entrance toward the main office, lined with sun-bleached driftwood posts connected by thick nautical rope. Along the path, a mix of sealavender and lantana spills over low stone borders, their colors vibrant against the soft, sandy ground. Small, solar-powered lanterns, which I picked up at the farmers market, are nestled among the plants, ready to cast a warm, golden glow once the sun dips below the horizon.

To the right of the entrance, a wooden welcome kiosk stands beneath the shade of a sprawling oak. A colorful map of the campground is displayed behind a glass panel, alongside a weathered bulletin board filled with handwritten notes about tide times, local wildlife sightings, and upcoming community bonfires. A wooden bench sits by the tree trunk.

Beyond the entrance, the office stands with rolling dunes peeking from behind it, where glimpses of the ocean flash between the sea oats. The hum of cicadas and distant laughter from the beach mingle with the sounds of people milling around the campground. The sounds blend with the regular crash of the waves—an open invitation to slow down, settle in, and embrace the coastal rhythm.

I take it all in as I dab dots of paint from the tubes onto the board. Then, I use my brush to mix cobalt-blue acrylic with iridescent white, creating the perfect shade of Carolina blue. Finally, I sweep the brush across the canvas.

It’s been a long time since I pulled out an easel. I’ve always loved painting. When I was a little girl, I’d spend hours sketching and then creating pretty watercolor landscapes. My grandmother would hang them all over her house.

My parents were never big fans of creative pursuits. They favored academic achievements over artistic ones. When I joined the debate team or the Junior Civitan club, they were impressed. However, if I joined the art club, they lectured me on how to make better use of my time.

I work on the painting until the sunset takes the last bits of light and my stomach growls angrily. After that, I pack my supplies and blanket and head back to the Shasta.

I place the painting on the table to dry and wash my hands. My eyes land on the phone sitting by the sink. I pick it up, dial the number Anson gave me, and send a quick text.

Me: Got the phone. Happy?

Me: This is Tabby, by the way.

He doesn’t respond, so I toss it back onto the counter and open the refrigerator. I quickly throw together a salad and go out to join the other campers by the fire.

I make my way back to my RV. The campground is quiet, just the distant sound of waves lapping against the shore and the occasional murmur of voices from a nearby campsite. My stomach is full from dinner, and I should be exhausted, but there’s a buzz under my skin—something restless that I can’t quite shake.

I open the door and step inside, the tiny space warm from the day’s heat.

I kick off my sandals and tug off my sundress. I then grab my sleep shirt from the basket in the bathroom and pull it over my head, sighing as I sink onto the edge of my bed. I’m about to curl under the covers with a book when I hear a ping. I reach for my phone, which is still sitting by the sink, and the screen lights up with a familiar name.

Anson.

A slow warmth spreads through me. Of course. He’s the only person who has my number. I only got this phone hooked up so I could talk to him. I told myself it was practical—he and I are friends, and we need a way to keep in touch without him having to drive out here.

I swipe open the messages.

Anson: Welcome to the twenty-first century. Admit it, you like it. Besides, a woman needs to have a phone just in case of emergency.

I smile a little, even though I’m a grown woman who can take care of herself.

Me: Oh, yes. It’s a lifesaver. What if a wild animal attacked me before I could make it the ten feet to the camper next to mine?

His reply comes almost immediately.

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