Page 73 of The Beach Trap

He snorts. “I have a couple leads. My buddy in Chicago, the one I visited over the Fourth, has a tech start-up that’s doing well. That’s why I went to visit him; he wants someone to run the business side of things so he can focus on the rest. But I also heard from someone at my family’s company, too.”

Our waitress arrives with a platter of baked oysters, andNoah watches as I try the first one. It’s delicious—breaded and cheesy—and I reach for a second one as soon as I finish the first.

“You like it?” Noah says, grinning.

“Iloveit,” I tell him. “Now go on—you heard from someone at your family’s company?”

Noah finishes his own oyster, then nods. “He said that my dad is on board with improving conditions at the overseas factories. I’m not sure his motive is altruistic—it’s all about the bottom line for him, always has been—but it could be a good thing for the workers, and that’s what matters.”

I give a cautious nod. “Do you think you’d ever work for them again?”

“The company’s been in the family for four generations, so I can’t help feeling a sense of loyalty. My dad isn’t getting any younger; someday he’ll have to sell, and that feels wrong. His great-great-grandfather started the business.”

That must be how Kat feels about the beach house. That’s why she’s so desperate to keep it, no matter the cost. And I can understand the feeling, a little; losing the house would feel like losing a connection to my past, too. A past I’m only just starting to understand.

“But on the other hand,” Noah continues, “I want to figure out who I am, separate from my family. Write my own story. My own identity.”

“As Noah, not Junior,” I say.

“Exactly.”

Our waitress reappears, this time with a platter of raw oysters. I’m a little nervous about these, but Noah tells me to go for it. I top one with a squeeze of lemon and a little cocktail sauce, take a deep breath, and slurp it down. It’s a cool, crisp burst in my mouth, slightly salty, like a bite of the ocean itself.

“Amazing,” I say after I swallow it. “That’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted in my life. Present company excepted, of course.”

Noah laughs, and I’m already helping myself to another one. After slurping that one down, I realize that he’s smiling at me, his eyes soft.

“What?” I say.

He shakes his head, still smiling. “Have another oyster, Blake O’Neill.”

•••

By the timewe leave Hunt’s, I’m so stuffed my stomach hurts. We drive back to the Rooneys’ place, where the dog is overjoyed to see us again. He’s practically bouncing off the walls with energy, so we take him on a walk down Old 98.

At one point, Noah glances over at me. “By the way, you’re gorgeous. Did I say that already tonight?”

I laugh as he pulls me in for a kiss, and for a moment the rest of the world fades away. Gone is the laughter of tourists on the beach, the cry of seagulls overhead, and the crash of waves on the sand. All I can feel is Noah’s mouth, Noah’s hands on my hips, Noah’s fingers drifting lower on my butt. When the dog tries to weasel between us, Noah laughs and releases me. “I’ll try to control myself until we get somewhere private,” he says, and gives me another quick peck.

We keep walking, and my mind drifts back to what he said at Hunt’s about writing his own story. I can relate to that. My identity has always been tied up in my origins as an illegitimate child. Abandoned and left behind. Raised by grandparents whom I now feel compelled to repay.

I’d love to write a new story for myself.

My phone rings with a FaceTime call, distracting me.

“It’s Kat,” I tell Noah. “Sorry. Give me one minute.”

He nods and motions that he’ll take the dog so I can talk. When I answer, Kat’s face appears on the screen. She’s sitting on her bed at the beach house, and she’s wearing a sheet mask that makes her look like a pale pink zombie.

“Hey!” she says. “Quick question. I got us the sponsorship for the bedding—do you prefer down comforters or temperature-control ones?”

I’m momentarily taken aback; Kat is askingmyopinion? “Um. Down is good.”

She smiles, crinkling the sheet mask. “Totally agree. Yay. Also, Henry wanted me to tell you that he’s starting the electric on the second floor tomorrow and he won’t be finished until the middle of next week. Just so you’re aware for your own projects.”

She keeps prattling on about the renovation, and I half listen. Across the sidewalk, Noah is approached by a family with a little boy and girl who have asked to pet the dog. Noah smiles and goes down on one knee, helping the dog sit while the kids pat his sides and belly. This is what Noah could look like ten years down the road, I realize, patiently showing his own children how to approach a dog. He’ll have a wife, too, someone who isn’t me, and although it’s totally irrational, my heart constricts with longing.Ridiculous, I tell myself. And yet I can’t stop watching.

The boy asks what the dog’s name is, and Noah responds in a serious voice: “His legal name is Cheeto Puff Ball the Magic Dragon, but he prefers to be called Magic Mike.”

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