Sand to Love on Dog Beach

"How about the full version."

I put my pencil down into the crease of the sketchbook and looked at her. She was already looking sympathetic, I knew this was going to upset her, I just didn't know how much.

"Well," I started, "two or three years before you found this beach I was in an accident." Maybe this wasn't a good idea, so I paused.

"Go on," she calmly prompted.

"I got my degree in fine art with a minor in art history. Worthless degrees, I know, but Mom and Dad were great about it. After I graduated, I spent a year in Europe, staying in hostels mostly and a few stints interning at some incredible museums. I learned how to clean and restore paintings, it was an awesome experience. I was gone for a whole year and my mother was anxious to see me, so Mom, Dad, and even my dog that they had watched for me while I was away, all picked me up from the airport."

"Oh, no," she uttered. I think she could see what was coming somehow.

"Yeah. It was bad. I was the only survivor in the crash. When I came to, in the hospital, I was suddenly very alone. With a broken body. There. Now you know." I tried to hide my forced stiff upper lip.

Her lower lip started trembling, tears formed in the corners of her eyes. In a blur she was in front of me and my chair, kneeling on the blanket in between my legs, her arms around my neck.

In between sobs, she tried to say, "I'm so sorry."

I returned her embrace, albeit with a little twinge in my back.

*

A week from the following Sunday, things got real personal again. We had been on the sand sitting next to each other in our new-new-new normal, looking out to the ocean. She was reading her book on her phone, I was just people watching and making up stories in my head about them as they walked by.

She broke me out of my thoughts, "I had a date last night."

"What?" I said, not processing her words until after.

She sighed, "I went on a date last night."

"Oh. I thought you said you weren't dating. That all men were jerks and assholes." I looked over at her and said, "I think your exact words were that 'men are solid bags of shit and they can all go fuck themselves.'" She winced at her own words and krinkled her face.

"Yeah, I did say that."

I laughed, "So you don't feel that way anymore?"

She looked embarrassed, then it morphed into anger. "No. I mean, yes. I learned my lesson yet again. I swear, I'll never learn."

"Oh, so your date didn't go well then?"

"It started out fine. Our first date was nice. Fun even. Last night was our second date, and . . ." She looked over at me and made sure she had my full attention. "This shit is caused by you men in the first place. This 'third date rule' about sex is 100% created by you perverted assholes."

"So I'm an asshole now because you had a bad date?"

"No, not really." Then she got angry again. "Kind of. By association."

I had to laugh again at her reaction. "OK, enlighten me so I can un-asshole myself."

"Yeah, OK." She took a moment to think about it. "Deconstructing courtship as defined by you men and counting backwards, it puts me on the third date where I'm jumping in the sack with someone. So therefore, the second date would have to include some semblance of making-out at the end of the night, right? Maybe even some groping or something. That would mean there should at least be a kiss on the first date, I mean I wouldn't just go from our first peck on the lips to swapping spit and a feel up in one evening. Are you following me?"

"Uh, I think I'm following your logic there."

"Fuck. I'm not saying it right, I had it thought out better in my head. OK, it's like this. We went out on a really nice first date. It was nice enough that I thought maybe I was wrong about dating and even men all along. Then he took me out for a second date, and it was nothing like before. It was . . . rushed. Like he couldn't wait to get it over so we could get to the third date and do the koo koo."

She saw my confusion and then I got it. "The koo koo, eh?"

She finally smiled, "That's what my sisters call it. Stupid, right?" She shook her head and continued. "When I think back about it now, that pattern has been repeated over and over again. I mean, I wasn't even speaking to him by the end of the date last night, I couldn't wait until he dropped me off. Yet the idiot ignored all the signals and still asked when he could see me again, wagging his tongue like he couldn't wait. Entitled even. He earned it and I owed it to him in his tiny brain."

I didn't know what to say so I didn't say anything.

With a pained look, she said, "That's just not me. I mean, I like sex. A lot, actually. Only I have to feel some emotion behind it. There has to be some meaning to it. I don't do one night stands, or friends with benefits, that's all purely physical. I don't have an 'itch I need to scratch'. I actually had a date ask me that once in those exact words. Yuck." She paused again before going on, "I want to feel something, you know? I want the guy to be just as emotionally invested."

I nodded to her, "I get it."

That seemed to mildly irritate her, "Do you? Do you really?"

"Yes." I gave her a sympathetic look. "You want to feel loved."

She nodded her head in thought. I could almost see gears spinning inside her head. I added, "And who can feel that way about someone after just, um, what? A combined total of three or four hours in trying to get to know someone?"

She gave me a puzzling look, "Yeah. Umm, exactly. I guess that's what I'm trying to say."

She had been sitting at the edge of her beach chair and settled back down in it. I resumed looking out to the west and asked, "Yeah, so he sounds like a real piece of work. Where did you find him?"

"Oh, in a coffee shop near the school. He was Herbert's veterinarian tech, and his office is next door to that, so running into him wasn't really a surprise. He expressed his sadness about Herbert passing and then we talked about my dog for a few minutes before he asked me out. I should have known right there. Ugh. Why do men around my age have to all be jerks and assholes?!"

I chuckled lightly, "Present company included?"

She sighed, "No. You're neither of those. I'm sorry."

"It's OK," I chuckled, "After a bad date, you get a free pass. Right now, even I think men are jerks and assholes."

She laughed and then passed her phone over and asked me to scroll down. "Read these texts he sent me starting from last night and up until the last one from 15 minutes ago."

"Eww." That was all I could get out. She dodged a bullet as far as I was concerned.

I handed back her phone and we went back to what we were doing like we never had that conversation. Only my mind was doing flips. How did I feel about her dating? Of having a life outside of the beach? I had no right to be jealous. I had to admit to myself that I was. Very much so.

No, don't be stupid, I thought to myself.

I don't know how many pounding waves hit the beach before she broke me out of my thoughts again.

"What are you thinking?" She asked.

"Nothing," I lied.

"When you think really hard, you make this face and your body tenses up like you're carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders."

"Ha," I deflected, "I can barely carry a backpack on my shoulders."

"You're such a doofus. Fine. Bottle it up and keep it in."

That was exactly what I was going to do. I wasn't going to tell her that.

"Leo?"

I was starting to recognize her tone. I wasn't going to like what she was about to ask, so I just looked at her and waited.

She had put her phone down and was lightly wringing her hands. "Leo, um, are you dating?"

Yeah, OK, I didn't see that coming so I looked back out to the Pacific to avoid her eyes. "Nope."

"Why not?"

"What woman would want to date a cripple?"

"Shut up. You're not a cripple."

Yeah. Whatever.

She wasn't going to let it go, "Before the accident. Were you dating then?"

"Yeah, I had my share of girlfriends."

Like she was sticking her toe in the water to check the temperature, she asked softly, "And you haven't seen anyone since the accident?"

"There's been a couple."

"Oh? When was that?"

I guess there was no harm, no foul to tell her. "I had dinner a couple of times with a woman from a museum in Chicago a while ago. I think she's married now. There was also this woman from a museum in New York, and we went out to dinner a handful of times, but in both cases, it couldn't work out. Long distance relationships suck, you know?"

"Sure. OK. I get it, Art-guy."

*

More weeks flew by but we were solid in our new routine. If I wasn't already at the beach when she showed up, she'd walk up and get me, otherwise she would approach me on the beach in brilliant purple looking like she could cover-model in that two-piece. Then she'd spread her blanket next to mine on the sand and whether I was painting or sitting and sketching, she'd alternate from reading a book on her smart-phone to talking to me and we'd discuss things about our day. Then she'd help me up the stairs, relieve herself in my bathroom, change into her street clothes minus the shoes, and give me a hug goodbye.

As embarrassing as it was, the assist on the stairs really helped and with our bare arms around bare backs, our ascents turned into insanely intimate moments for me.

I looked forward to every hug hello and goodbye, savored every moment of them, and never took even one for granted.

On her birthday, I surprised her with a replacement iPad. I felt bad about breaking hers with my ass and that since she couldn't afford a new one, she was forced to read her books on the little screen of her phone. She didn't want to accept it, citing the price tag being too outrageous for a gift. We even fought a little bit over it, not much differently than our first fight about me accepting help up the stairs. I somehow persuaded her to keep it and got not only a hug, but a kiss on the cheek too.

A few more weeks went by and then one day she started to talk about ideas she had for lesson plans on the impending school year and told stories about good kids she had taught and the ones that were just little shits. I laughed a lot. Thoroughly enjoying our conversations and time together, all seemingly spoiled when two events landed on the nightly news the very same day.

There was a school shooting a couple of states away and it was horrific. Students and teachers lost in the most senseless possible way. That same night, a woman was assaulted on a beach about 5 miles up the coast from ours after he followed her into the public restroom.

The next day Janine showed up at my door, only without her bathing suit on, jeans and a t-shirt instead. While wringing her hands, she said sadly, "I don't think I'm going to do the beach today. I just wanted you to know." I could see an entire planet on her shoulders, the poor thing.

She came an awfully long way just to tell me I wouldn't see her, and as dense as I can be, I knew she was a wreck and needed more from me.

"That's OK," I told her in understanding. I opened up my arms, beckoning for the hug and then after gripping me tightly, she made my shirt wet in a stream of what seemed like an endless flow of tears.

She eventually separated from my arms and apologized. I simply took her hand in mine and led her to my balcony where we got comfortable on a cushioned patio loveseat. I put my arm around her and she snuggled in close. We watched the ocean from high above and listened to the incoming tide, still able to feel the vibrations of the pounding surf even from such a distance. We didn't say a word.

By now I knew of something we had in common. I call it 'wave therapy' and I felt like it helped. It always had for me, and I felt her emotions calm with the sound and vibration of the wave action.

She stayed a while, we watched the sun set until she yawned and let me know it was time for her to go.

"Wait right here," I asked her. I got up (with a groan of course) and returned with a little white box. "I have something for you."

She opened it up warily and studied the contents. A plain white plastic card with a magnetic strip, like an unmarked credit card. Under that was a key on a cute little black Labrador keychain. She looked at me puzzled, "What . . .?"

"Here's what I'm thinking. Tell me if it is too much or if you just hate the idea. I own two parking spaces reserved for me as part of the condo. They are in a secure, gated parking garage under this building. I only have one car." I didn't tell her that I sold my father's old pickup truck that occupied my second space just this morning so that it would be free.

"When you come to the beach," I continued, "I'd like you to use this access card to get in and park next to my car, use space #19. Then come upstairs to my place and you can use my bathroom or guest bedroom and change into your bathing suit. If I'm already on the beach when you get here, use the key and let yourself in, then come down and join me."

She looked shocked. "No way."

I chuckled, "Is that 'no way' like you don't believe me or 'no way' like you don't want to do that?"

My shirt had only just recently dried out from her tears, she made it wet all over again.

I grabbed my keys and we took the elevator down to the parking garage. I first pointed out the security cameras throughout and then showed her the free space next to my Subaru that would be hers and showed her how to use the entry card. Then I drove her to where she had parked and bid her goodnight.

Holy crap, her car was ugly.

Before getting out of my car, she softly said, "Thank you for today." Then she gave me an awkward hug across my center console and after pulling back, she moved in like a woodpecker and smacked her lips against mine, smashing our noses in the process. It hurt even. She pulled away almost violently and with huge eyes, her face full of concern, said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."

Before I could process what happened, she had leapt out of my car and was in hers in a blink of an eye, starting it and pulling away like she had just robbed a bank.

*

I didn't get a lot of sleep that night. My mind was crowded with what felt like an angry mob in my head. I'd rationalize something and then I'd beat down that idea and chastise myself for it.

She kissed me. Then said she didn't mean it.

I couldn't think of anything to do about her distress over the school shooting. Only I wished she had a safer job. She just loved being a teacher though.

But . . . I could do something about keeping her safe on her favorite beach and bypass the long walk alone and the public bathroom altogether. I felt good about that. She appreciated it enough to rain tears of appreciation on me for it even.

We were friends, but with friendly hugs and touching on the stairs, beyond that there was a sharp demarcation line that was the limits of our intimacy.

Until a nose-smashing, dart throw of a kiss on the lips.

At the very least, I had a friend now. I didn't have any real friends before her, so this was good. Right?

We only recently exchanged contact information on our phones. So maybe we weren't real friends after all, only friendly.

OK, so big deal. It's not like she would ever like-like me. And I don't need the complication. I'm fine by myself.

No. That's a lie. Over the summer, my loneliness evaporated. If she left me, if she never returned to this beach, for any reason even, I would drown.

Yet, I don't deserve her. I don't deserve anyone, really, but especially not someone special like her.

And what about her? She is amazing. I had thought her so beautiful for so many years at a distance, now that I know her, her aesthetics barely cross my mind. She's the most selfless, kind woman I've ever known.

Yeah, she doesn't deserve someone like me.

Yet, she has shown through her actions that she genuinely cares about me.

I wish my folks were here. I had nobody to talk to about this.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Why am I so stupid?!

*

"Leo, look! Look at that woman with the big straw hat. The one with the red ribbon. I bet she loses it in the wind, chases it down the beach, and trips over that little corgi over there. What do you think? Bet me?"

"Hmm?"

Then she said something like, "That woman. The woman with the hat."

"What woman?" I responded, not seeing anybody. I thought the beach was empty except for us.

In an irritated tone I finally heard her clearly, "The woman you're looking right at, you doofus. In the hat with the red ribbon. I just bet you that she'd . . . she'd . . . oh, fuck it."

In a perfected move I'd seen her do a dozen times she hopped her butt up off her beach chair pulling it into the air with her, spun her legs with the chair, and landed more or less facing me while still seated.

In a motherly tone of hers that reminded me of my mom, "What's eating at you, big boy? Talk to me."

I didn't say anything, just taking a quick look over to see caring eyes bore through me. I had to look away.

"You can talk to me. By now you know that."

"I'm fine," I pleaded.

"So full of shit. Come on. Whatever it is, you can talk to me. About anything."

I rolled my eyes, then hoped she didn't catch me doing that. I sighed, "Not about this, I can't."

She tried to joke, "What, did you hurt your back trying to wank one off?"

I gave a groan of disgust and shook my head. She returned to her kind tone, "OK, I'm sorry. Just trying to lift your mood. What is so bad that you can't talk to me about it?"

I just looked at her and stared at her face which was trying to read mine. Which she could. Was that her superpower?

"Oh." She said softly.

She moved off of her chair and onto her knees. She patted a spot on the blanket in front of my chair, motioning me to sit there. When I moved out of my chair and onto that spot, she moved behind me, sitting on her haunches, holding my thighs between her knees. She wrapped her arms around my neck and chest, resting her chin on my shoulder but not before she kissed my cheek.

"You are a sweet and amazing guy, and I feel it too, and I know I'm not being fair. Especially after I almost broke your nose." Then her voice intoned like she was reading a story to a delicate child. "Just let it happen naturally. We'll get there."

Her succoring voice. Her breasts pressed against my shirtless back, surrounded by more skin on skin than I'd ever felt with her. Her squeeze and breath in my ear. The way she supported my torso. The sound of the ocean. I relaxed. I didn't feel any pain.

Even the longing was washed away by the moment.

*

The end of September was hot. Like record breaking temperature hot, lingering in the region for a record-breaking number of days. It was comfortable on the beach though, the cool ocean temperature and a steady breeze off of it being like a giant swamp cooler. Which was why the beach was packed with people trying to escape the surface of the sun only a mile east of the coast and beyond.

Really packed. Uncomfortably so.

There was no way it would have been productive bringing my painting kit.

Beach-girl and I even shared a beach blanket, the armrests of our chairs touching. Sitting shoulder to shoulder, our arms entwined in solidarity, like it helped to separate ourselves from the crowd. She took my hand in hers, gave it a squeeze, and said, "This sucks."

I agreed. "What if," I tested, pausing for effect, "we made our way upstairs? We can put our asses on a comfy patio chair cushion and a cold beer in our hands."

"How cold?" She asked with a smile.

"Extremely cold," I smiled back.

She closed her eyes with a grin, like she was in a happy place and said, "I thought you'd never ask."

Like she was late for an appointment, it showed in her assist up the stairs. She helped me to the top, reaching it in record time.