Page 60 of Coming Home to Wishington Bay
‘Of course not.’
Sitting down on the steps to the beach, Gabe and I undid our shoes and he pulled off his socks, stuffing them in a trouser pocket before making a couple of turn-ups on the bottom of his trousers.
‘Ready to go?’ he asked, holding out a hand to me when I nodded.
We walked along in silence for a while. After a few minutes I glanced back, trying to judge on a scale of one to ten how inebriated I might be by the amount of sway in the trail of footsteps I was leaving behind me in the sand.
In hindsight, stopping walking forward while trying to study the way I’d come might have been a more sensible idea but sense was often the first thing to go once I’d had a glass of bubbles. Or four. All of a sudden, I seemed to have way more legs than usual and some were most definitely getting in the way of the ones I was using to try and stay upright. There was a garbled sort of yelp sound that I guessed came from me, interspersed with something my grandmother would have told me off for, and then I was tumbling backwards with the sea sounding way too close for comfort. This wasn’t going to end well.
‘See? I knew this was a good idea.’ Gabe grinned, his arms wrapping around me moments before I hit the water, the ends of my hair skimming the surf.
‘Actually, the only reason I tripped is because I came this way. So, technically it wasn’t a good idea. And technically it’s your fault I fell over. Almost.’
‘You completely fell over. The only reason you didn’t land in the sea was because I caught you,’ he said, eyeing me as though he wanted to check that I wasn’t about to give a repeat performance. He switched sides with me, keeping the sea to his outside, his footprints disappearing in the wet sand as the water washed over them.
‘Which I thanked you for.’
‘You didn’t actually,’ he said, apparently thoroughly amused at this point if that grin was anything to go by.
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘Huh. That’s not like me. I’m normally very polite.’
‘How was this all my fault again?’
‘You insinuated I was drunk. And, going by the fact policemen ask you to walk a straight line if they think you’re drunk, I thought I would see how straight a line I was walking. Do they still do that?’
‘What?’
‘Ask you to walk a straight line.’
‘I literally have no idea. Carry on. I’m still not seeing your reasoning.’
I rolled my eyes at him. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’
‘Apparently not.’
‘If we had gone the village way, I wouldn’t have left any footprints behind so I wouldn’t be able to tell if the line was straight or not. But because we’ve come via the beach, on your suggestion—’ I pointed at him for emphasis, even though there was no one else on the sand for miles ‘—there was the chance for me to study my tracks, which led to me stumbling.’
‘Falling.’
‘Faltering.’
‘Lurching headlong towards the ocean.’
‘Ugh. Whatever. It was still your fault.’
‘Of course it was. So, what did you ascertain from your studies?’
‘Mostly that you should probably stop walking if you’re trying to focus on something that’s behind you.’
‘Sounds like a good lesson. Anything else?’
‘Not really. And the clouds have mostly covered the moon now so I can’t really see my footprints anymore.’
‘Want my professional opinion?’
