unclaimed area of the beach near some rocks. I set the bag of groceries down and lay on the blanket, my feet hanging off. I dug my heels into the sand and closed my eyes for a moment.
Cool sand hit my ankles and my eyes flew open. “What are you doing?!” I laughed as Devin continued to pile sand on me.
“Burying your feet,” he said matter-of-factly, as though it were obvious—which, really, it kind of was.
“You watch it,” I said, and grabbed a handful of sand and playfully tossed it at his waist, careful not to get it on the blanket.
“Now you’re in for it,” he said, and went around to the hand that had thrown sand at him, where I was gathering up a second handful. Devin bent over and, before I knew what was happening, started throwing sand on my hand.
I couldn’t help laughing. “And now what do you think you’re doing?” I asked.
“If I bury your hand, you won’t be able to throw any more sand on me.”
“Oh, right,” I laughed, “you’re completely immobilizing me.”
“I am,” he said. “Just try to get your hand out of there. Just try.”
I turned to stare at my loosely sand-covered hand and wiggled my fingers, then pretended to try to lift the hand. “Oh no—I can’t do it! I’m stuck!” I joked.
“You see?” he said. “That’s what you get. Let that be a lesson to you.”
Then Taco ran up to us. Devin sat down beside me on the blanket and coaxed Taco to sit between us. With a heaving sigh, the dog plopped down on the blanket, and I turned over onto my stomach, freeing my hand from its sand prison. Devin and I lazily stroked Taco’s fur, and I thought about how close his fingers were to mine, how easy it would be to reach over and touch his hand.
A few minutes later, Devin reached into the bag we’d brought. “Ready for some wine?”
“Sure,” I said, propping myself up on my elbows and watching him unscrew the lid and pour some into the two mugs. “Good thing you got screwtop,” he said, and I laughed and shook my head.
“I told you, I think ahead,” I said. “You’re telling me we’d be screwed right now if this bottle had a cork?”
“Um…” he looked up, thinking. “Yes.” He handed me the cup. “I don’t usually drink. Kind of messed with the running. It’s not like I keep a corkscrew in the car.”
“I don’t drink a lot either,” I said, and peered at him, wondering if the party boy image I’d conjured earlier had been wrong. “But on a day like this? At the beach?”
He cocked his head to the side and opened his arms up to me as though to say, “What can I do? It’s out of my control,” and I nodded. “Solid point.”
“Exactly,” he said, and held up his glass. “To nice weather.” I clinked mine against his.
We each took a sip. “And to the marathon!” I said.
He held up his glass again. “Doesn’t count unless we clink them.” I tapped his mug with mine obligingly, and we took another sip.
“And to getting to spend time with my dog again!” He raised his glass a third time, and a wave of guilt hit me as I met his. He just seemed happy, though, his grin electric. I was so glad that he was grinning at me again, even more so now that we’d agreed to share Taco.
“And to my dog too,” I couldn’t resist adding, “who helped me through the roughest night of my life.” We clinked a fourth time.
“Want to talk about it?” he asked, and I paused to consider.
“No,” I said, and I meant it. Matt was in the past, and I much preferred being right here, right now, with Devin.
We sipped in silence for a few minutes, and then Devin jumped up, Taco excitedly following.
“Come on, let’s get in!” he said.
I glanced down at his jeans. “Do you have a swimsuit?” I asked in surprise.
“Nah,” he said, and leaned over to roll up his pant legs while Taco jumped around him in excitement, then ran a few yards away, looking back at us as though trying to
Cool sand hit my ankles and my eyes flew open. “What are you doing?!” I laughed as Devin continued to pile sand on me.
“Burying your feet,” he said matter-of-factly, as though it were obvious—which, really, it kind of was.
“You watch it,” I said, and grabbed a handful of sand and playfully tossed it at his waist, careful not to get it on the blanket.
“Now you’re in for it,” he said, and went around to the hand that had thrown sand at him, where I was gathering up a second handful. Devin bent over and, before I knew what was happening, started throwing sand on my hand.
I couldn’t help laughing. “And now what do you think you’re doing?” I asked.
“If I bury your hand, you won’t be able to throw any more sand on me.”
“Oh, right,” I laughed, “you’re completely immobilizing me.”
“I am,” he said. “Just try to get your hand out of there. Just try.”
I turned to stare at my loosely sand-covered hand and wiggled my fingers, then pretended to try to lift the hand. “Oh no—I can’t do it! I’m stuck!” I joked.
“You see?” he said. “That’s what you get. Let that be a lesson to you.”
Then Taco ran up to us. Devin sat down beside me on the blanket and coaxed Taco to sit between us. With a heaving sigh, the dog plopped down on the blanket, and I turned over onto my stomach, freeing my hand from its sand prison. Devin and I lazily stroked Taco’s fur, and I thought about how close his fingers were to mine, how easy it would be to reach over and touch his hand.
A few minutes later, Devin reached into the bag we’d brought. “Ready for some wine?”
“Sure,” I said, propping myself up on my elbows and watching him unscrew the lid and pour some into the two mugs. “Good thing you got screwtop,” he said, and I laughed and shook my head.
“I told you, I think ahead,” I said. “You’re telling me we’d be screwed right now if this bottle had a cork?”
“Um…” he looked up, thinking. “Yes.” He handed me the cup. “I don’t usually drink. Kind of messed with the running. It’s not like I keep a corkscrew in the car.”
“I don’t drink a lot either,” I said, and peered at him, wondering if the party boy image I’d conjured earlier had been wrong. “But on a day like this? At the beach?”
He cocked his head to the side and opened his arms up to me as though to say, “What can I do? It’s out of my control,” and I nodded. “Solid point.”
“Exactly,” he said, and held up his glass. “To nice weather.” I clinked mine against his.
We each took a sip. “And to the marathon!” I said.
He held up his glass again. “Doesn’t count unless we clink them.” I tapped his mug with mine obligingly, and we took another sip.
“And to getting to spend time with my dog again!” He raised his glass a third time, and a wave of guilt hit me as I met his. He just seemed happy, though, his grin electric. I was so glad that he was grinning at me again, even more so now that we’d agreed to share Taco.
“And to my dog too,” I couldn’t resist adding, “who helped me through the roughest night of my life.” We clinked a fourth time.
“Want to talk about it?” he asked, and I paused to consider.
“No,” I said, and I meant it. Matt was in the past, and I much preferred being right here, right now, with Devin.
We sipped in silence for a few minutes, and then Devin jumped up, Taco excitedly following.
“Come on, let’s get in!” he said.
I glanced down at his jeans. “Do you have a swimsuit?” I asked in surprise.
“Nah,” he said, and leaned over to roll up his pant legs while Taco jumped around him in excitement, then ran a few yards away, looking back at us as though trying to
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