Page 98 of Backslide
What comes next—after we drive through what is more a single intersection with a cute café, antique store, and post office than a town—is the hotel, though we pass it twice before we spot and pull into the small parking lot.
Whatever I pictured, this is a thousand times better!
Though the fog is so low that the details are hard to make out, a cluster of tiny prefab houses line a grassy cliff above a wide sandy beach and churning gray ocean. A sign—so distant I can hardly decipher the words—announces this is the Point Reyes Seashore.
Sign. Me. Up.
The cottages themselves sit on paving stones the color of overcast days, protected by raw wooden fencing at the cliff’s edge. But beyond that, the view gets wild. Windblown cypress trees are frozen as if petrified like supersized bonsais with splintered trunks.
Looking at them is like seeing the Earth change in real time.
“I wonder if geology is my missed calling,” I say out loud, as Noah cuts the engine.
“I’m pretty sure that requires math,” he says, sliding a dubious look my way.
“What are you trying to say?”
“That you’re terrible at math.”
“Why?” I say, propping a hand on my hip. “Because I’m a woman?”
“No. Because you—specifically—are terrible at math.”
I want to tell him once again that he doesn’t know me. I want to not feel comfort at the fact that he does. I want to announce that since he last saw me, eking by in pre-calculus thanks only to Cara’s help, I have taken up coding and stock brokering and volunteering for NASA in my spare time. Those are math things, right?
But alas. It’s only a matter of time until he sees me use the calculator on my phone just to figure out a tip.
“Ready?” he asks me, as we prepare to run toward a shop marked GENERALSTORE—the only building that looks open. There’sa restaurant that is clearly shuttered currently, an office that—probably thanks to the evening hour—is dark and closed for the day. I am praying that not only is there a room, but that there’s someone there to give us a key—if only because the art director in me needs to see the decor in these adorable houses.
“Ready!” I say with more bravado than is real.
“Go!” he says, and we both shove open our doors and bust out into the storm. It’s raining so hard that I almost lose my footing trying to slam my door shut. Seeing me struggle, Noah jogs around the car and helps me.
Then, he grabs my hand.
Together, we run like the wind through the rain. But it’s all for naught. Because when we jog up the stairs to the covered porch and arrive on the threshold of the shop, breathless and huffing, we are soaked like we just went swimming fully clothed.
“It’s like we jumped in a pool,” I say, gazing down at my sopping-wet clothing.
“Or a hot tub,” he says.
And my face gets hot. I am suddenly conscious that we’re still holding hands—and the dampness is doing nothing to tamp down the wattage searing up my arm. But I’m afraid to let go, because, honestly, I don’t want to. And also won’t that make it more of a thing?
“Haha,” I say. “Maybe don’t humiliate a lady in a hot tub and then tease her for it.”
“Sorry, sorry,” he says. Then he squeezes my hand, sending another wave of something torrid through me.
I play my shudder off as chills. Then, under the pretext of opening the door, I let his hand go—and immediately miss it.
Inside, once I get over the fact that we are literally dripping water all over the wood floor, I look around and realize we have landed in my happy place.
This store is part gourmet market, part home decor boutique, and part surf shop.
And those are all the things I love.
One side of the space is stocked to the gills with local snacks like garden veggies with citrus hummus, sandwiches, pasta salads and, of course, more wines, beers, ciders, and cheeses. There are artisan chips aplenty, with West Coast flavors like jalapeño and chili lime, and a bakery counter with what smells like outstanding coffee. There are fresh donuts and signs for some kind of straight-from-the-cow soft serve. Moo.
On the other side of the store—beyond a dishware array and Turkish kitchen towels that I vow to peruse at length later when I’m not straight from a dunk tank—is everything you might need for a beach vacation. And I meaneverything.
