Page 77 of The Beach Trap

I stop by a wooden sign that saysTHIS WAY TO THE WATERand snap a selfie in front of it. I post it to my stories with the caption:Ahoy! Ready for a fun day on the water with an old friend!

Then I use my phone’s camera to check my hair one last time. It took me an hour to get perfect beach waves—which I know is ironic since I spend a fortune every three months on a keratin straightening treatment, but it is what it is. I snap a picture because you can’t fake this kind of happy—my crazy-wide smile shows how much I’m looking forward to this day. I adjust the hat, then throw a bag on each shoulder and follow the sign toward the water.

The path is paved with old bricks, and there are a few big wheelbarrows over to the side. I consider using one to carry everything down to the boat, but I want Henry to see Blake’s not the only one who can handle hard things.

As I turn the corner toward the promised water, I stop in my tracks. The dock is a dock all right, but there aren’t any boats in sight. At least, not the kind of boats I’m used to. This looks like a graveyard where boats come to die.

For half a second, I hope there was a mistake, that Henry gave me the wrong address. That this is some kind of funny joke and he’s going to send me a text, saying he’s kidding and he’ll give me the real address for the correct dock.

I take out my phone, just in case, when I hear him call my name.

“Kat!” he calls. “Over here!”

My heart lifts at the sound of his voice, then quickly falls when I realize that means I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. I take a deep breath, slip my phone back in my bag, and keep walking toward Henry’s voice.

He’s standing in a boat that looks like a blow-up raft with a motor on the back, and I feel like an idiot for showing up dressed for a day on a yacht. Although he could have clarified what kind of boat he was inviting me out on.

“Hey,” I say through a big smile that I hope Henry doesn’t realize is totally fake. I set my bags down and can’t help but wince as I take in the “cabin” of the boat. I’m not sure it will fit both of us, my two bags, and Henry’s giant cooler, which looks big enough to hold a mini keg.

“Hey,” he says, a question in his voice as he looks me up and down, and not in a flattering way. He laughs but stops abruptly when he sees my steely expression. I’m not amused. Not by any of this. “You look... nice,” he says.

I manage a smile at the quasi-compliment and look at Henry’s outfit to try to return the favor, but he’s wearing old cargo shorts and a T-shirt that’s seen better days.

“Where’s your swimsuit?” I ask.

He raises a questioning eyebrow. “I don’t go in the water when I’m working.”

“Working?”

Henry laughs as if everything suddenly makes sense to him. “I told you I work some shifts on my friend’s boat?”

I shake my head. I would have remembered something like that.

“Selling boiled peanuts out on Crab Island?” he says, as if hearing more information will trigger a memory of something that never happened.

I shake my head again.

“I distinctly remember you saying you wanted to get out to Crab Island while you were here,” Henry says. “That day at the bank.”

“That may be true,” I tell him—that part does sound familiar—“but I wanted to go on a boat.”

Henry flashes a bright smile that highlights his cheek dimple and holds his hands out to the boat-like object at his feet. It rocks precariously, like it might tip over if he makes a sudden move.

Henry’s smile and his dimple vanish when he realizes I’m not buying it. “Listen,” he says after a moment. “You don’t have to go.”

My shoulders slump, and I deflate at the thought of going back to the empty beach house and posting ajk not really going out on a boatmessage to my story.

“I should’ve known this wouldn’t be your idea of fun,” Henry says.

He sounds sad, and I hate being the cause of that. Especially since I’d have fun hanging out with Henry even if we were doing grunt work at the house. Out here, I can at least get a tan. And this could be an opportunity to show my followers that things don’t have to be beautiful to be worthy of love. They’re probably picturing me on a fancy yacht, just like I was.

If I show them that I can have a fun day on the water in this... thing, it could be a turning point in evolving my brand. The vulnerability angle is already working in my favor—the post about my dad had more than triple the engagement of my average fashion posts.

If I can be honest and share the truth of the day—admitting the mishap, maybe modifying my reaction and the time it took me to go from “hell no” to “oh, what the hell!” it might have the same impact.

Of course, I’ll have to find another way to showcase this bathing suit. If I ask Henry to take a picture of me posing in a gold lamé bikini, it will just confirm what he probably already thinks of me. And it isn’t pretty.

I look back up at Henry, whose face looks poised for disappointment, one side of his mouth on the verge of turning down. He looks like he genuinely wants me to go with him. And who am I to keep Henry from getting what he wants, especially after he’s done so much for me and Blake.

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