Page 89 of Beyond The Break

I stare at my reflection as I readjust my soaked panties back in place. I don’t look as bad as I expect, aside from the deep flush of my cheeks, I look normal. I wash my hands and rinse my mouth before leaving the washroom and walking back to our table, finding it’s already been cleared. Griffin stands by the front counter, the sleeves of his black top rolled up, exposing his veiny forearms. He hands the red-head a fifty-dollar bill as he takes a pastry bag from her.

“Keep the change,” he says with a warm smile before turning to find me watching him.

He walks up to me and hands me my half-finished latte before taking my free hand and leading me out of the café. I force myself not to look back at the red-head, wanting to forget that she caught me sucking Griffin’s fingers like a lollipop, but also grateful that it was the only thing she saw.

He intertwines his fingers with mine, his thumb tracing patterns on my palm as we walk towards the clothing shops.

“That was so embarrassing,” I groan, covering half of my face with my latte cup, “I can’t believe she saw us.”

“She barely saw anything, don’t worry about her. She’ll forget about us before the end of her shift.”

I sigh. “I really hope so. I will literally die of embarrassment if she tells the press and we’re in tomorrow’s paper again.”

He chuckles and then comes to a stop in front of a thrift store. “Why don’t we try in here? I’ve never gone into one of these places before.”

His eyes scan the mannequins displayed behind the window before he opens the door, ushering me inside as he follows close behind.

“You’ve never been thrifting before?”

He shakes his head and excitement explodes in my chest.

“Okay, this might be the best day ever because I love thrifting. Grab a cart.”

I run to the accessory aisle, Griffin trailing behind slowly. We sift through a large pile of oversized sunglasses for almost thirty minutes, and I watch as he tries some of them on, his brows furrowed in concentration. He eventually finds a pair of aviator glasses that he likes, tossing them into the cart before we continue to the hats.

I glance back at him and notice a subtle limp in his walk that wasn’t there earlier today. “Is everything okay with your leg?” I finally ask.

He hesitates, looking like a deer caught in headlights, before he looks to my left and picks up a wide-brimmed summer hat and places it on my head.

“This is the look,” he says, forcing a smile.

I try not to let his avoidance bother me because his lack of response is confirmation enough that he’s not okay and his leg isn’t either. It’s becoming increasingly difficult for him to conceal it now and I know we’ll have to talk about it. I don’t want to ruin the moment, so I pick up a colorful scarf insteadand toss it around my neck, posing for him before I blow a kiss.

He laughs, flicking the brim of my hat, before he picks up a navy-blue baseball cap and puts it on. Who knew something as simple as a hat could be a turn on?

“I think we nailed it,” I giggle, “let’s pay for this and get some ice cream by the beach.”

The setting sunpaints the sky in shades of orange and pink, reflecting on the ocean surface. Griffin and I sit on the beach, watching the waves slowly crash to the shore as couples walk side by side with their shoes in their hands.

“Who comes up with the names of ice cream flavors out here? Beach berry Blast? Coastal Caramel crunch? It’s like the towns are trying to outdo each other with the weirdest flavors.”

Griffin laughs, the sound warming my insides. “It’s all part of the fun of living in a coastal town, everything is a competition and everything is beach themed.”

“I can see that.” I laugh, crossing my legs at the ankles as I lick my ice cream.

We sit in silence as we finish, the sound of the waves filling the silence. When we finish, I pull my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them and resting my head atop.

“Griffin?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you tell me what’s going on with you? With your leg?”

He’s quiet, his face unreadable as he stares out at the water before he sighs and frowns down at the sand.

“I went to see the physiotherapist,” he pauses, his Adamsapple visibly bobbing, “my leg is getting worse instead of better.”

My heart sinks for him. “What does that mean for surfing?”

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