Page 30 of Beach Bodies

I dart another glance his way. His eyes are hooded. Is this a come-on? Maybe. Do I care?

My heart is beating fast. I shouldn’t be saying anything more about myself. I come back to the Riovan year after year because I do my job and I don’t draw attention to myself. My invisibility is my re-entry ticket, and revealing shit about myself could really screw things up down the road.

‘I did have someone,’ I say quickly. ‘We were in love. I was going to marry her.’

‘What happened?’

Of course he would ask that. I went there.

The question is, do I want to keep going?

I peel my eyes away from Daniel and look out at the ocean. The reflections of the fireworks in the water seem more melancholy than festive here on the darker, quieter area of the beach. I remember lying back with Mom on a picnic blanket every Fourth of July. We’d hold hands as we watched the sky bloom into a living garden of light. Fireworks blaze so powerfully, you can’t look away. They overwhelm your senses withlight and sound. And then, they’re over, and the sky is black and empty again.

‘She’s gone,’ I say. To Daniel. To the ocean. To myself. My heart is thundering. I swallow. Do I make it sound like we broke up, like I did this morning with Vic? Something about Daniel is suddenly demanding more from me. And the scary thing is, I want to respond. ‘There was… an accident. I… I blame myself.’

He’s silent for a moment, as if waiting to see if I’ll offer more. I don’t, even though I want to. The story is pressing on my heart, pressing for release. Instead, I wrap my arms around my torso, like that will help me keep it all in.Oof.It’s not just thinking about Jessica. This stark summation of my life I’ve just given to Daniel? It’s a story without a lot of fluff. A life that was mostly hard. It feels… depressing. Depressing as hell.

It also doesn’t escape my notice that within minutes of talking to Daniel, I’ve revealed the two biggest events of my life: losing my mom and losing my girlfriend. What’s scariest is that, far from taking it all back, I want to give him more.

That’s the thing about starting; it’s hard to stop.

‘Her name was Jessica,’ I say, and as I utter her name, my throat squeezes painfully. I place my palms in the sand, as if trying to find an anchor in something bigger than me. Something stable. Instead, I think of the grains of sand, and how once they were rock, strong and stable, now mere specks, remnants of what they were. So small, who could even distinguish one from the other?

‘I’ve always liked the name Jessica,’ he says.

‘Yeah. Me too.’

The waves lap the shore. The music from the Mambotel pulses in the background. Down the beach, two pirates perform a choreographed sword fight to cheering onlookers. I think,What a strange world.

Daniel and I sit quietly, side by side. He says nothing, but he says,I’m sorry, and I say nothing, but I say,I know.

Chapter Twelve

Saturday is busy, the pools and the beach crowded with day-trippers from Saint Vitalis. We go there at night, they come here during the day.

I sleep in until ten– we didn’t get back from the Mambotel until 3a.m.– and, after reporting back to Vic that Daniel and Serena didn’t even cross paths, I get busy with lifeguarding duties, starting with a supply inventory for Kenton, the Lifeguarding Team Lead.

As I walk through the supplies room and tick buoys and oars and life vests off the inventory sheet, I’m narrowing the list in my head. I have my longlist, of course, but I like to get it down to three by the end of the first week, which is approaching fast. Of everyone I’ve considered, Serena is an obvious first choice. Craig, an iffy but possible second. The third slot, however, is really giving me trouble. Kyle, however high he may rate on the international scale of assholery, doesn’t have the particular flavour of poison I’m here to find. Ana Durango-Carter is so private, she’s hard to get a read on– not to mention she has issued a public apology for her insensitive comment abouther co-star. Perhaps she’s learned her lesson? Skylar’s mom is kicking around in my mind, but that small tender gesture at breakfast and the look of love I saw in her eyes is making me lean towardsno. I have considered Shayna for slot three. But my biggest impressions of her are still fromTake it Off, i.e. years out of date. Ugh. Usually I’m in a much better position by now.

It’s Daniel. I have to face it: he’s a distraction. I’ve spent way too much time thinking about him when I should be focusing on my potential targets.

During my lunch break, as I pick at a microgreen salad alone at one of the window-side tables, a brief, dangerous thought slides into my brain. What if I let myself pursue things with Daniel– or at least, explore the possibilities? What if, instead of putting on the brakes every time I see him, I give myself permission to—

What, you little fool?

There is no ‘possibility’. There would always be pieces of myself I’d have to withhold, and I’m smart enough to know that doesn’t work long term. The choices I’ve made are not compatible with a normal, healthy relationship. Not now. Not ever. And I know myself well enough that a fling with Daniel wouldn’t be enough to satisfy what I’m feeling. It would just make me want more.

As I wrap up my afternoon shift at the lap pool, I resolve to distance myself from Daniel. I can ice him out, like I’ve done with every other person who’s demonstrated even the mildest interest in me for the past five years. The hot city council member who gave me the contract to cater his meetings and was a dead ringer for Ryan Gosling. The barista girl with the blue hair. That pitcher for the Cincinnati Reds.

Right before dinner, I head to the yoga class I signed up for yesterday, and even though Daniel joins at the last minute two rows behind me, I focus fully on Shayna’s surprisingly soothing instructions. As I wrap my right leg over my left and intertwine my arms for eagle pose, letting myself feel the satisfying amount of effort it takes to maintain balance, I determine that the next time Mr Black comes around, no matter how werewolfish his energy, no matter how much he makes me want to reveal my deepest, darkest self, I will be stone cold.

Shayna, I notice, is lovely to everyone, and gives modifications for a heavy-set woman with a leg injury with the gentlest of touches. No yelling, no body-shaming; nothing but calm, steady encouragement from the former queen of breaking people down on national television. I find myself grimacing in my downward-facing-dog position as I hear her say, ‘You’re doing so good, Traci,’ to the woman in question.

Forty minutes later, when class ends, I’m covered in sweat. I’m rolling up my yoga mat when she approaches me.

‘Hey, I haven’t met you before.’

‘Lily. One of the lifeguards.’ We shake. Both our palms are sweaty.

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