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I screeched into Ken’s driveway the next morning at 8:52 with wet hair and no makeup on.
The entire drive down, we sang along to his CD collection—including The All-American Rejects, thank you very much—and we only got lost, like, three times. Every time, it was my fault for not paying attention to the highway signs. And, every time, Ken would simply pull off at the next exit and turn around like it was absolutely no big deal that I’d just caused us to drive fifteen minutes out of the way—again.
By the time we parked in front of Bobby’s adorable little bungalow, I was almost sad we had to get out of the car.
Bobby was a country boy through and through—from the deer heads on his walls to the rebel flag belt buckle on his Wranglers. He greeted us warmly and talked nonstop as he gave us a tour of his new house. Chelsea followed behind, smiling and nodding in her preppy polo shirt and crisp white shorts.
And I’d thought Ken and I were opposites.
“Welp. Y’all wanna go to the beach or what?” Bobby asked, popping the tab on a can of Budweiser. “Better go now, so we don’t hafta walk back in the dark.” Bobby jerked a thumb in my direction and chuckled. “This one’s so tiny; the gators ‘round here might snatch her up.”
Redneck beach adventures always involved beer, duct tape, and improvisation.
After Bobby plopped his aluminum lawn chair into the sand and duct-taped a golf umbrella to the side of it, he pulled another can of Bud out of his rolling cooler and offered it to me.
“Thanks,” I said, reaching for it with one sunscreen-covered palm.
Ken accepted it on my behalf, looking absolutely drool-worthy in his dark sunglasses and simple black board shorts.
I smiled at my own reflection in his eyewear as I spread the lotion down my spindly, freckled arm. I hoped he was watching me because he liked how I looked in my new leopard-print bikini, but when he opened his mouth and said, “You forgot the tops of your feet,” I realized he was simply watching me to make sure my dumb ass hadn’t missed a spot.
Rrrrrrrrip!Bobby tore off another long piece of duct tape and went to work on attaching another large umbrella to a second lawn chair.
In my mind, I’d had visions of Ken and me enjoying a long, romantic, barefoot walk on the beach, hand in hand, as seagulls sang a chorus of Toni Braxton songs.
Instead, the two Eastons grabbed their boogie boards and ran straight into the water, leaving Bobby and me behind to drink lukewarm beer in the hot Florida sun.
I sat down in the chair next to Bobby in resignation, careful not to put an eye out on the umbrella attached to it, and took a long sip from my beer. “So, Chelsea’s a jock, too, huh?”
“Hell yeah.” Bobby spat in the sand. “If it wasn’t for her, I’d fail the fucking Air Force fitness tests every time. That girl gets my ass up every morning an’ makes me go joggin’ with her. Joggin’! Like a couple of damn yuppies.”
I giggled. “Ken runs too. I don’t get it, man. The only way I’m running is if one of those gators you were talking about tries to eat me.”
Bobby laughed as I watched Ken and Chelsea ride the same wave, side by side, all the way to the sand. I was vaguely aware that my mouth had fallen open at the sight of him. Ken stood up and shook the water out of his darkened, wet hair. Then, he laughed at his sister with that Hollywood smile as a second wave knocked her back into the sand. Ken didn’t offer to help her up, and she didn’t ask. She simply got up on her own, and the two Eastons walked back into the ocean with their boards tucked under their arms.
“Is Chelsea weird about touching, too?” I asked Bobby without taking my eyes off the pair in the water.
“What do you mean? Like, ’cause of germs and stuff?”
“No, I think it’s more like a personal-space thing.” I turned and looked at my new friend. “Ken doesn’t touch people unless he has to. He lets me hug him”—and physically abuse him in bed—“but he never initiates human contact with anyone unless he has to. It’s so weird.”
“Now that you mention it, Chelsea is kinda like that. She’s a sweet girl, but she ain’t real cuddly. Most girls, no offense—” Bobby held his non-beer hand up. “But most girls are kinda needy. Ya know?”
I nodded with a chuckle.
Oh, I know.
“But Chelsea’s cool, man. She don’t need nuthin’.” Bobby took a long swig from his can and gazed out at his girlfriend, who was standing waist deep in the ocean, having a conversation with her brother.
Probably about how needy I am.
“That sounds like Ken. He won’t even let me buy him gifts.”
“Welp, I sure hope Chelsea ain’t like that ’cause I’m thinkin’ ’bout givin’ her a real big gift here pretty soon.”
My eyes lit up. “Like a riiiiiing?” I sang.
“Shh,” he scolded, turning his anxious brown eyes on me. “Not so damn loud.”
