Page 68 of A Shore Fling
“I like spending time with you, Nina.”
She smiles.“I like it too.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” I say before I can talk myself out of it.
“Here, as in this zip code or here at the picnic table?”
“Both.”
“Well, I can add damn good tacos and life-changing queso to the list of things Havenport has to offer,” she says.
I grab another chip, scoop up some queso, and pop it between my lips. I’ve overeaten already, but this stuff is addictive.
“Do you ever wonder what you’d be doing if you weren’t here?” she asks.
“Sometimes,” I admit. “But my thoughts always come back to the things that are important to me. Being on the water. Being close to my family. Helping out in the community. I don’t think I was meant for anything else.”
“You don’t ever feel restless?”
I consider her question. “I think everyone does, now and then. But I’ve never thought about leaving. Not really.”
She nods again, slower this time. “That’s the difference between us. I’m always thinking about what’s next. How can I improve my family’s business? What goals I should be working toward.”
“That doesn’t sound like a bad thing.”
“It’s exhausting.” She laughs softly, but there’s another emotion underneath it. “I keep wondering if I even know what I want or if I’m just doing what I’m good at because it’s easier than figuring it out.”
I study her for a second. There’s a vulnerability there she doesn’t usually show. She’s polished, driven, and sharp. But this quiet uncertainty is just as real. Maybe more so.
“What would happen if you stopped chasing the next thing and just let yourself stay still for a while?” I ask.
“That’s my time here is supposed to be about,” she says with a half smile. “I need to figure some things out.”
“Let me know if I can help.”
“That’s nice of you to offer, but this is my stuff to work through.”
We stay there for a few more minutes before we start to clean off our table.
“Do you want the leftover tacos?” I ask.
“No, you take them. You can have them for lunch tomorrow.”
We both rise from the wooden benches. I toss our trash in a nearby barrel and then take Nina’s hand. “We can walk off the queso,” I say, as we start down the sidewalk.
“You mean before we bike it off?” she teases.
I laugh. “I forgot about that.”
“I didn’t. The nervous butterflies are already kicking in.”
“You’ll be fine. I’ve got you.” I give her hand a gentle squeeze.
“I know.”
When we get back to the bike, I drop the wrapped-up leftover tacos in the front basket. Nina climbs on behind me without hesitation this time.
“You ready?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder.
