Page 56 of The Destined SEAL
I text back a joke about her bikini line being more of a priority than my rescue. I pop my trunk and find my beach bag. It has one of those blankets that doesn’t let sand sit on top and a novel I’ve been trying to finish for the last few weeks. I toss thebook back in my trunk and stuff a towel inside instead. I lock my car door, and a message from my mom pings:
Have fun.
God, Mom, I think,shouldn’t you be at least a little concerned? That’s the point where we are in our lives. She wants grandbabies. Well, she wants me to be happy with someone, and grandbabies would be a nice side dish. She’s telling me to have fun with a potential serial killer with little regard for my well-being.
Thanks, Mom.
I text back while making my way down the trail that leads to the beach. Thinking about what my mother must think of me at this point in my life keeps my nerves at bay for a second. As soon as I put my phone away, my heart moves into the cardio zone. “Candy Apple Red,” I whisper to myself, shielding my eyes from the sun to scan the part of the beach visible from my location. Sliding off my flip-flops, I slip them into my bag and step into the packed sand.
Nothing. No red shirts, so I keep walking. I see a family with a golden retriever running around the beach, turning his fur a dusty black color, a stick in his smiling mouth. There’s a woman and her little boy, an older man walking, a fanny pack strapped to his waist, and a woman running. Narrowing my eyes, I let my gaze wander farther down.
“If I get stood up by a man with Candy in his name, I’m buying a pair of cats,” I mutter under my breath. There’s a white gazebo set up, which is completely out of place for this beach, so I head in that direction. It’s far from the place he told me to park, so I’m not holding my breath. I make up a song in my head, onethat’s in the tune of a Katy Perry song. The chorus is, Harper is a hare-brained harlot.
It passes the time as I walk. “I should have brought my book,” I say when I begin to shame spiral. I pull out my cell phone and check my social media accounts to pass my walk. A friendly speed walker wishes me a good day. I respond with a smile and like a photo of my friend’s new baby. It looks like a little alien wearing pink sitting in a spaceship. I scroll down a little further and see a photo posted by Marcus’s wife. She’s tagged him, so I’m able to view it. The caption reads, #tbt #bestdayofmylife. “Puke,” I groan, thumbing down immediately. Next is a picture of my father in the garden, holding up a tomato. They planted a few things, and it looks like he got over a case of the black thumb. I type in a comment, Way to go, Dad!
I shunned social media all through college and a bit after, but then it got to a point where I was missing too much by not being on it. Marcus’s Instagram photo scandal is what spurred me to be a little more conscious about the social interweb world. It was one more way for me to try to fit in better and connect in a disconnected world.
I look up to see how far I have to go and to scour for a red, muscle-filled shirt, if I’m being completely honest. The white cabana is empty but for a large lounge chair and a table in one corner. The white curtains billow against a slight breeze, and my phone pings an alert.
I look down and click the red number one. It’s a tagged photo from Benjamin Brahams. It’s a photo of a beach. Black’s Beach. He’s added two stick figures using the draw feature. The caption reads, Fate Ballet.
“You weren’t supposed to see that yet,” Ben says, his voice coming from beside me.
Jumping, I let out a little scream and then recover by covering my mouth and dropping my cell phone into the sand. “What are you doing here?” I ask.
Ben picks up my phone and hands it to me. His fingers brush mine as he sets it in my palm. “Conducting a ballet. It’s so hard to get my dancers to do what I want, though.”
I wrinkle my brow and smile. “You’re insane,” I remark, looking behind me. “Seriously. How did you know I was going to be here?”
“You’re serious, Harper? Really? You don’t know? I mean, I knew there was a possibility you weren’t one hundred percent sure, but I figured you’d be a little more intuitive.” Ben extends his hand. “Mancandy. Nice to meet you.”
“What? No way.” I step away from him. Like he’s some criminal who’s meddled in my files or stolen my email password or something. “There’s no way. No fucking way. We were a perfect match. The program said so.”
He extends one bulky arm to the cabana. “Welcome to the Fate Ballet, Harper Rosehall. Where every part of the dance has been leading up to a grand finale. I know we’re perfect for each other. You know we’re perfect for each other. The fail-proof computer program knows it too. Your mom told me you were doing some stupid online dating site.”
Swallowing down this insane truth, I walk to the lounge chair and sit down. Ben sits next to me, his red shorts glaring against the white fabric.
“I knew which one you’d use, and I joined too. Figured if someone else told you we were meant to be, you’d believe it. There was never any doubt in my mind.” He clears his throat.
“This can’t be real. You hacked the system. You had to have. There was nothing in there about me. How did you know it was me?”
He laughs, his angled, perfect jaw tilting back a touch. “I’ll always know it’s you,” he says. “You’re back now.” Ben strokes the side of my face, his fingers a featherlight touch on my skin but a heavy bowling ball to my soul. “I’ve missed seeing you.”
“Fate is a pretty superfluous word for you to use,” I say, straightening my thoughts. “Not a word my Ben would use.”
He shrugs. “Maybe I’m not your Ben anymore. I’m Mancandy,” he says, extending his hand. “It’s nice to meet you. What was your name again? Amour?”
“You want to start over?” I ask. “I don’t see how that’s possible.”
“Anything is possible. We aren’t getting any younger,” Ben says, looking at the ocean and then back at me. White hairs have started peppering his temples and sadness fills my heart for all of the years that have passed since we fell in love and did nothing about it. “Before you tell me nothing has changed in two years, I beg to differ. A computer matched you to me, and the statistics of that happening are a million to one. Don’t say no to the computer, Harper.”
“How do you know my name?” I smirk.
Ben slides closer to me. “You look like a Harper, that’s all.”
“I think a fresh start is the only way to make something as complicated as this work out, and I don’t have the first clue as to how to make that happen,” I admit, looking at him. Shaking my head, I go on, “I still can’t believe you wrote those messages. Well, I can and I can’t. I’m still looking for a dude in a red shirt.”
Ben smiles, but it’s sad. “I’m tired. I’m so, so tired. It doesn’t have to be complicated. You’ll agree to a fresh start? Something new and different? You and me?”
