Page 9 of Book Boyfriend
I deadpan stare. Is he serious? What the ever loving fuck? I don’t know what to say to that. We stare at each other forever before his lip slowly curls on the side and he starts to laugh.
“All I want is tacos and some conversation on a gorgeous night on the beach. I rarely have time to enjoy myself and you fascinate me. You make having a good night easy. There’s no pretense here. No expectations. No hidden agenda. Okay?”
He seems legit. I almost feel bad for assuming anything. “That’s good to know. Because I’m notthatkind of girl and if you think anything is going to happen you’re going to be disappointed.”
“Fair enough.” He slaps his palms together and motions to my almost empty cup. “How about another drink?”
“Only if I can pay this time.”
“Nope,” he says as he stands. “I’m notthatkind of guy.”
I can’t help but smile. That was a good comeback. No, a great one. I make a mental note of it. As he steps into line at the taco truck, I watch him. Why in the world is this man talking to me? I’m not his type, am I? I glance down at the tattoo on my thigh and then at the one on my arm. I don’t see a single tattoo on his body. I lift my hand and touch the four piercings in my ear. I bet he’s never pierced anything.
At least three or four girls stare at him as they walk past. He doesn’t seem to notice. Is he for real?
Crumpling wrappers, I start cleaning up the table. I need to focus on something other than him. I walk over to the trash can to throw everything away then stop to admire the sun as it starts to set in the horizon. It’s breathtaking.
His arm stretches out around me with my new margarita and I take it from him. “Thank you. And I’m sorry if I seem paranoid. I have issues with trust.”
His eyes darken as he gazes down into my eyes. “Trust has to be earned. I don’t trust many people either.”
“Oh really?” I ask, taking a sip from my drink. “Who do you trust?”
He ponders my question for a moment as he takes a drink and faces the setting sun. “I trust my mom, my younger brother, my best friend Chloe, and . . . my dog.”
“That’s a good list,” I say with a smile.
“What about you?” he asks, leaning on a rail. “Who do you trust?”
I shrug my shoulders and let minutes of silence pass us by.
“How many of those margaritas will it take to get you to tell me about yourself?”
I shrug again.
“How about a walk on the beach?”
I wrinkle my nose. “I’m not a fan of sand.”
“Oh, come on. It’s just your toes. I promise I won’t let you get knocked over by anyone. I’ll protect you from dirt and non-observant runners. I’ll even carry you if you’d like.”
I snicker as he starts to walk around the railing and motions with his head for me to follow him. “Come on, Greer. Take a chance.”
I sing “Take a Chance on Me” by ABBA in my head as I watch him. My apprehension seems to be fleeting. Fisher is so carefree and light, like nothing bothers him. He’s a positivity magnet. He also seems to be daring me by the “take a chance” comment. Greer Hanson might be nervous, but Macy Greer, author extraordinaire, would never shy away from a dare. I summon her silently and laugh at myself.
Maybe this sunburn is poisoning my usually impeccable judgement. Or maybe the alcohol I rarely drink is making me more carefree. For once, I don’t think. I simply slide off my flip-flops and follow him. Part of me feels that tonight, I might just follow him anywhere.
We walk in silence. It’s . . . nice. I like the quiet. I especially like not having to answer questions. The cool breeze feels amazing on my skin. The waves wash over my toes, making me forget we’re in sand at all. Every once in a while I bend over to pick up a sea shell. He starts pointing them out to me after he notices my fascination with them. I begin collecting them and when my cup-less hand gets full, he takes them from me and places them in his pocket.
After I finish my drink, he takes my empty cup from me and runs them to the trash can nearby. He makes jogging on the beach look effortless. I can barely walk in deep sand without stumbling. “Having fun?” he asks as he returns to me.
“Yeah. I think I am.”
“Good. So, can I hold your hand?” he asks, reaching out to me and looking adorably unsure.
I shrug as I place my hand in his and he smiles like he won a prize. It makes me feel good. Better than I’ve felt in a long time. His hand wrapped around mine doesn’t suck either. I haven’t held a man’s hand in ages. I forgot how good it feels. I imagine a crack forming in the wall I’ve built around myself. It slowly crumbles more and more the longer we walk.
He limits his questions to things like, “How about this shell?” or “Have you ever seen anything like it?” It’s comforting. Those are questions I can and want to answer.
