After lunch, we climb into Ian’s silver pick-up truck. Courtney slides in next to Ian, and I take the only empty seat: Ryan’s lap. He wraps his arms around me, and I lean back against him. Courtney and Ian do all the talking, but I just sit there, listening to every breath Ryan takes, feeling his chest rise and fall against my back. Then he adjusts me, turns me slightly, and soon his mouth hovers near my ear. I wait for him to say something. A simple word? A soft whisper? But nothing—except warm cinnamon breaths—escape his lips. His arms tighten around me and bring me closer to him, and I respond with short breaths, uneven and shaky. And I wonder if he hears me—if he understands what he does to me. Yet he says nothing, does nothing, as he continues to breathe, gently, calmly, warmly into my ear. And we remain like this—absorbed in a wordless conversation until we reach the Ponce Inlet Lighthouse. As Ian cuts the engine, Ryan places a solitary a solitary kiss on my shoulder. I turn slightly and smile back at him.
We get out of the truck, and the four of us stop and gaze at the red brick structure climbing majestically against a graying sky.
Ian states the obvious. “That’s the lighthouse.”
“And now that Callie’s seen it,” Courtney begins, “can we go?”
I shrug, but Ryan grabs my hand and pulls me into the small gift shop. We stroll around for a few minutes, his warm fingers laced through mine, looking at books and beachy souvenirs, and then enter the park where several museums and the light station encircle a grassy courtyard.
Ian turns to Courtney. “Wanna’ see the movie?”
“Why? What’s it about?”
He smiles devilishly and shrugs. “Who cares?”
She giggles and follows him into the little building, and I flick my head toward the movie house. “That movie’s rating just went from ‘G’ to um…”
Ryan just shakes his head. “So, uh, where do you want to go first?”
“Anywhere but the movie.” I look around at all the old buildings and then glance at the lighthouse. “How about the main attraction?”
“Sounds good.” I stroll beside him, his warm hand still in mine. Once inside, he lets go of my hand, and I glance up at the spiraling staircase—endless white steps with a black railing.
Ryan is many steps ahead of me when he yells, “Race you to the top!”
“Hey, that’s not fair!”
“Life’s not fair,” he yells down.
I grab the rail and propel myself up the stairs. As I near the top, my thighs begin to burn— like during a stadium workout. I step out into the fresh air, but Ryan is not there. I turn and walk around the top of the lighthouse. Passing by an older couple, I call out, “Ryan?”
No answer.
I keep going, passing a family with two small children, before making a complete circle. “Ryan?” I call out again. Then I go for a second lap, and the older gentleman smiles at me. “Looking for someone?”
I nod.
He points. “He went that way.”
I change direction and run right into a smirking Ryan. “Did you hear me calling you?”
“Yeah, that was very helpful.”
I punch him lightly in the arm. “Ry-an!”
“What?” He laughs and finds a spot against the railing. I move closer to him. Our shoulders touch, and we gaze out at the ocean, standing together, but we remain in silence.
Soon I feel his eyes on me. I turn and look at him, and we exchange warm smiles.
“This is my favorite place,” he begins. “On a clear day, you can see for almost twenty miles.”
“Yeah, it’s nice up here,” I add, brushing the hair out of my face. “A little windy, but nice.” All my “nice” is more about the way I feel about him and how he warms my heart with his sexy smile.
“Yeah,” he continues softly, “and everything seems so small up here.” His eyes drift back toward the ocean, and he folds his hands on the railing. “People, cars, buildings—even problems.”
“Problems?” I ask tenaciously. “What problems?”
“Nothing.” He shrugs. “Just the usual stuff.”
“That’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair?”
“You never tell me anything, Ryan. All I know about you is that you play three sports and speak French.”
He turns toward me with a grin. “Well, I…also like long walks on the beach and good conversation.”
“Can you ever be serious?”
His smile fades, and his voice softens. “What do you want to know, girl?”
“Everything.”
“How about ten things?”
“Okay.”
“Let’s see,” he rubs his chin and begins, “I’ve lived in Florida my whole life, but I want to attend an out-of-state college. I like the beach, but I love the mountains. My favorite places are up high—like this lighthouse. And someday I want to be a pilot. How many is that?”
“I wasn’t counting.” I shrug. “I was just listening.”
“Well…here are a few more: I am allergic to bees; I was afraid of the dark when I was a kid; and I like to hang out in bookstores. Okay, your turn.”
“My turn? You already know enough about me.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
“I am?”
“Yep.” He laughs.
I feel like Ryan just told some joke, but I didn’t get the punch line. “What’s so funny?” I scrutinize him. “And how come—all of a sudden—you know enough about me?”
“You were the one that said it—not me.”
“Yeah, but…”
He leans over and whispers. “Ah, the power of reverse psychology.”
My eyes narrow at him. “I know something you should add to your ten-things-about-me list: ‘I’m a manipulator.’”
“And you should start with ‘I’m gullible.’”
“I’m not gullible; I’m just trusting.”
“Okay, nine more.”
I shrug, tossing my hands to the side. “I don’t know where to begin.”
“How about with your family?”
“Okay…my family is a mess right now, and my grandma would probably say it’s because we have nothing guiding us. We never go to church—not even on Easter or Christmas. But we used to have the picture-perfect life—all except there was no dog in the picture. Just cats—black cats with lame names like Midnight, Pepper, and Shadow. Oh, and Callie is really short for Callista. My middle name is Olivia, so my initials spell COW. Yeah, I know. What were my parents thinking, right?” He smiles back at me. “Okay, what else? My favorite candy is Twizzlers, and I like to bite off the ends and use them as straws. My favorite music is techno, but I secretly listen to country when no one is around. I want to be a basketball player when I grow up, but if that doesn’t pan out, I want to be a P.E. teacher—anything so I can be around the game. And I’m not allergic to anything—that I know of. Is that enough?”
“Nope, that’s only nine,” he tells me with a grin. “You have to tell me one more—like how you feel about…?”
“What?”
“Not what, whom?”
“You?”
“Yeah, me.”
“Well, Ryan…I like…” I begin, then my eyes catch a glimpse of his braided bracelet. I play with it and rotate it on his wrist. “I like this,” I say and look over at him with a big smirk.
“Talk about avoiding the subject.”
I laugh. “So…did you make this?”
“No, but my dad did.”
“Your dad, huh? I hope you don’t mind me asking…but what does he do for a living?” I figure he is a CEO of some big company, or a surgeon, or a trial lawyer, or some other very lucrative profession.
“My dad?” His gaze returns to the ocean. “My dad lives on his dreams.”
“Huh?”
“My biological parents aren’t together.”
“Really? Why didn’t you tell me yesterday—like when I was talking about my parents?”
He shrugs. “Because you needed someone t
o listen to you—not talk about himself.”
“I’m a good listener, Ryan.”
“I know that, Callie,” He says gently, lacing his fingers through mine.
I wait for him to say something more, but he turns and faces the ocean, letting silence slip between us.
“Ryan?” I place my other hand on top of his. “When did your parents get divorced?”
“They didn’t.”
I offer a perplexed look. “What?”
“My mom got pregnant in high school.”
“Oh,” I say. “And your dad…?”
“Didn’t stick around for long.”
“That must have been tough for your mom.”
“It was, but my grandma was there. She practically raised me and took care of me while my mom was out looking for someone new.” He pauses, “Of course, she ended up finding someone old.”
I conjure up this image of Albert Einstein hobbling around with a young super model on his arm. “Really? How much older?”
“No,” he chuckles, “not older—they’ve just known each other for a long time.”
“Oh, I get it.” Then I consider his monstrous house. “Well, I guess she did okay, huh?”
“Yeah, I guess so.” His tone isn’t very convincing, and I want to ask him a ton of questions. I want to know him better. I want to uncover all those little imperfections that make him seem real. But before I can ask anything else, a familiar giggle wafts up the stairs. It is Courtney; thus, the most annoying person in human history ends my alone time with Ryan.
“How was the movie?” Ryan gibes.
“Oh.” Courtney’s eyes widen. “It was very educational.”
“So…” Ryan begins, “what was the original name of Ponce Inlet?”
Courtney shrugs.
“C’mon, that’s an easy one. It was called Mosquito Inlet, but they changed the name to Ponce Inlet after they built the light station.”
Courtney takes a quick look around, like she’s a tourist trying to check off ‘view from the top of the lighthouse’ from the travel to-do list. Then she pulls Ian back down the stairs. We follow, and Ryan has another question for her: “So how many steps on the lighthouse stairs?”
“A million?” Courtney replies and then she and Ian rush back down the stairs, leaving Ryan and me alone again.
I turn. “Three hundred?”
“Close. 203.”
“Isn’t that how many bones there are in the human body?”
“No, there are 206 bones.”
“You’re like a walking encyclopedia.”
“Well,” he begins, “my parents play Trivial Pursuit for fun. My mom always takes a box of cards for long car rides and then asks us questions the whole way.”
“We just put in ear buds and tune each other out.”
“We’re not allowed to have technology in the car.”
“Then what are you supposed to do?” I wonder.
His smile retreats into his cheek. “Take in our surroundings.”
“You’re parents sound really strict.”
We reach the bottom of the stairs. “Yep, I live in a house of rules.”
“Yeah, we used to have a lot more rules before the divorce.” I switch the conversation back to him. “So what does your step dad do for a living?”
“He’s a cardiac surgeon.”
“Wow. And your mom?”
“She runs a foundation for the arts.”
“Impressive,” I say and pray he does not inquire about my parents. My dad: unemployed. My mom: a real estate agent—and with the recent turn in the housing market, that’s pretty much like being unemployed. That’s why she spent the last few months looking into a job transfer. I thought she would wait until after I graduated, but ‘this deal was too good to pass up.’ Then my phone rings, and for some reason, I answer it without looking at the screen. “Hello.”
“Oh, thank God, you’re okay.” It’s my mother, and it always bothers me when she inserts God into her maternal paranoia.
“I’m fine.”
“Why aren’t you answering my calls?”
“I texted you.”
“Well, I’ve been worried sick about you, Callie.”
I offer a lifeless “Sorry.”
“You know what? On top of everything else that I’m dealing with, I don’t need this right now. I don’t need my daughter off at the beach doing God-knows-what while I’m trying to pack up an entire apartment and go through a huge storage unit.”
I turn and head up a few steps, trying to distance my anger from Ryan. “You don’t need this? This whole thing, this whole divorce is always about you—and what Dad did to you. Well, guess what, Mom? He did it to all of us.”
She is quiet for a moment. “Just come home, and we’ll talk about it then.”
“Don’t you get it, Mom? I don’t want to talk about it!”
“But you need to talk about it. You’re so angry.”
“Only because you make me angry. And if you really cared about me—”
“Of course I—”
“Then you’d leave me alone.”
“Callie, I—”
“Mom, it’s not always about you.”
She gets quiet, but I can hear those swallows which will manifest into tears.
“I gotta’ go,” I tell her. I cannot listen to her sobbing—especially with Ryan a few steps away from me. I shove the phone back into my pocket and descend the stairs.
“Everything okay?” Ryan asks.
I erase the anger from my face. “Yep.”
“Don’t lie to me, girl.”
“I’m not lying,” I sigh. “I just don’t want to deal with it right now. I left because I wanted to get away from everyone, but they won’t leave me alone.” My emotions are rising to the surface, and anger is the victor. “I’m just so tired of all their crap.”
“It’s okay…come here.”
I shake my head and turn away, walking into the little alcove at the bottom of the stairs. I face the wall, not wanting to be in front of anyone right now.
“Hey,” he says gently.
I close my eyes, swallowing the knot of sadness.
His hands rest on my other shoulder, and he gives me a gentle squeeze, massaging his thumbs into my neck. Then his hands drift down my arms and he wraps me up, pulling me close to his chest. He never says another word, but his actions tell me everything that I need to know.
Ryan, who I have known for only a few days, cares more about me than the people I have known my whole life. I need him: his warmth, his closeness, and the feeling that someone really understands me. That is what I have been missing lately. I thought I had Mike. I thought Mike was looking out for me, but when he cheated on me, I felt so alone. Now in Ryan’s arms, I feel like I am a part of something—something wonderful.
I turn and face him. “Thank you.”
“Any time.” He places a kiss on my forehead and then slides back. “But maybe we should go find them. They might leave us here, and it’s a long walk back to Courtney’s place.”
“But,” I begin with a smile, “I thought you liked long walks on the beach.”
He shakes his head and laughs. “You know what, girl? You have a great sense of humor.”
You know what, boy? I look over at him and retort silently, You have a great everything. I let him get a few steps ahead of me, so I can admire some of his finer qualities.
“Look, there they are,” Ryan says.
I lift my eyes from Ryan’s butt and spot Courtney and Ian, chatting with a bunch of kids, yet as we move closer, I remain on the fringe of the conversation. I just stand there, milling over the conversation with my mom as the drops of rain assemble on my bare arms. Then the drips turn into drizzle, and Ryan grabs my hand. “Let’s head inside!”
Ryan and I rush toward a nearby museum, crowded with patrons, so we remain outside, under the overhang, and lean against the wall, watching the afternoon storm which characterizes Florida in the summ
er.
Ryan slides closer to me. “You cold?”
“Yes,” I say, and he rolls me into his chest. I rest my head on his shoulder, breathing in his scent as he rubs circles, slow and soothing, on my back. I close my eyes and relax against him, listening to the rain drumming the roof. His hands slide across my back, pulling me tighter, and he continues to hold me as the rain slows to a soft patter. As the crowd begins to emerge from the museum, I turn and face the courtyard, leaning against Ryan’s chest while his arms circle my waist.
His lips find my ear. “What do you want to do next?”
“I don’t know.” I turn my head slightly, eyeing him. “You live here. Not me. You decide.”
“How ’bout the jetty?”
“I didn’t wear a swimsuit.”
“That’s okay. We’ll just walk around.”
Soon Courtney and Ian sift through the crowd and walk up to us. “You ready to go?” Ian asks, and I step, slowly, out of Ryan’s arms. We begin walking, crossing the soggy courtyard, and step out into the parking lot. We pause at Ian’s truck. “What next?” Courtney asks.
“The jetty,” Ryan answers.
“Sounds good,” Ian replies, and we climb back into the truck, traveling the winding roads to the entrance of Lighthouse Point Park. Ian stops at the gatehouse, flashes his pass, and parks near the back of a crowded parking lot.
“I’ve never been here,” I tell Ryan as we cross the parking lot and step onto the soft, warm sand.
“Really? Some poll ranked this as one of the top ten beaches in the U.S.”
I survey the beach and my eyes travel down the rock-lined jetty. “Yeah, I can see why. It’s really nice. Much better than Daytona.”
“Daytona is for tourists. This is for locals.” His hand reaches over, his fingers lacing through mine. “Come on. I’ll show you around.”
Ryan leads me to the observation deck, which reaches into the inlet, and we pass the fishermen, photographers, and little kids. We head to the end of the boardwalk, pausing at the railing, and take in the three-sixty view of the ocean. We watch the surfers ride the soft swells as the birds soar overheard. I slide closer to him and rest my forearms on the railing. I look over at him. “So…do you get along with your step dad?”
“Yeah, but we have our moments.” He turns toward me. “He really loves my mom—so that’s what really matters.”
“You have step brothers and sisters?”
“No, he didn’t have any kids when he married my mom.” He pauses. “But they have four together.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I was ten when the twins were born.” He shakes his head. “And by the time, Allie, the youngest came, I was thirteen—and the built-in babysitter.”
“Wow, four kids.”
“Tell me about it.”
“But it wasn’t so bad. My girlfriend used to come over and help.” He starts to smile. “Of course I didn’t tell my parents that she was my girlfriend. I just made it sound like she was this friend who liked being around kids.” His smile slips into a devilish grin. “You like kids, right?”
“Um...”
“Because I wanted to go catch a movie tonight, but I have to babysit.”
I bump him with my shoulder. “Very funny, Ryan.”
“But seriously, Cal, I want you to come over for dinner—some night before you leave.”
“Okay,” I say with a smile. “I’d really like that.”
He slides an arm around my waist, and I drop my head onto his shoulder. I scan the shore, spotting Courtney and Ian. They are standing in the shallow water, hugging. I am happy for her—but I am especially happy for me, and I can remain in this state of elation if I don’t consider that it will all change in a week.
Ryan grabs my hand. “You ready to see the boardwalk?”
“Sure,” I say, but what I really want is to stay in the moment—one that would never take me begrudgingly to Tennessee.
Ryan weaves us back through the crowd. We step off the observation deck and travel across the beach, letting warm sand sift through our toes. The afternoon grows darker, turns cooler, as the sun plays hide-and-seek with the clouds on an unpredictable afternoon.
We head toward the boardwalk, located behind the narrow beach, and I spot the lighthouse in the distance. We walk past people he knows, but he never stops. He just offers a quick hello and moves along the boardwalk. Stepping up a few steps and down another one, turning right and then left, we weave through a jungle of low palms. The birds hover over us, intermittently squawking, and the longer we walk, the quieter the path becomes. Ryan and I stroll down the boardwalk, one slow step at a time, barely speaking as the afternoon whispers her secrets—like gentle words floating on salted breezes. Ryan moves closer to me, his arm sliding around my waist. He glances in my direction and smiles, and I return the expression.
“You head back on Sunday?” He asks.
“No,” I pause, not wanting to think about leaving the beach, and leaving Ryan. “I head back on Friday morning.”
“Can’t you leave on Saturday afternoon?”
“No, I have this party on—oh, wait a minute!” I slide in front of him and put my hands on my hips. “You want me to stay because of the game, right? So is that what I am to you?”
“C’mon, you know that’s not true.”
I shrug. “I dunno.” I step over and lean up against the railing.
“What?” He steps forward with a grin. “You need some proof?”
“Maybe?”
He licks his lips and rests his hands on the railing, trapping me inside his muscular arms. “Like some physical proof?” He steps closer, only inches separate us. “I like hanging out with you, girl,” he begins, his voice a shade deeper than usual. “A lot.”
I smile, yet say nothing, eager for the taste of our first kiss.
He sighs. “It’s too bad you don’t live closer.”
“I know,” I say, wincing at the impending distance.
“And Riverside? It’s not that far. It’s what—less than an hour?”
“Yes, it is, but…”
“But what?”
“What if it were more than an hour?” I begin.
“Then it would it suck even more than it already does.”
“B-b-but would it be okay?”
His eyes narrow. “Why are you asking me this?”
I shake my head. “Just wondering...that’s all.”
Ryan tilts his head, smiling. “Stop wondering.” His mouth opens, and his lips advances toward mine.
“Wait,” I say, touching his warm lips with a fingertip. “Then are you saying it would be okay?”
“I’m not saying anything. I’m just trying to kiss you.”
“I know, and I’m sorry for stopping you. I just need an answer.”
He looks confused. “To what?”
I push out a breath and wonder if I need of a psych eval. The hottest guy I have ever met, ever touched, wants to kiss me, and I stop forward progress. What am I thinking? Clearly, that’s the problem: I am thinking—when I should be kissing his succulent lips. And never in any of my Ryan-kisses-me mind romances would I ever do that. But then again, Dream Ryan has an unfair advantage: Being a figment of my imagination means he lives in my mind and we never have to be apart. Distance never becomes an issue in fantasyland.
I sigh and shake my head. “I’m sorry, Ryan.”
“For what?”
I offer a slight frown. “I just need to talk to you…about something. It’s really important.”
“Then talk.” He takes a step back, folds his arms across his chest, and settles into the listening pose.
“Remember what I said yesterday?”
“You said a lot of things yesterday.”
“I know that, but—” I stop because he looks a little annoyed with me.
“Go on.”
“Well,” I pause, taking a deep breath. I have a tendency to explain things quickly—like in one breathle
ss sentence. “When I was talking about Friday being the ‘worst day of my life,’ I left out the reason why.” I stop, push out another breath, and continue, “It wasn’t really about Mike. It was about…”
“What?”
“About my mom taking another job.”
“Another job?”
“Yeah.”
His eyes narrow. “Where?”
My eyes drop to the ground. “Tennessee.”
I wait for him to come closer. I wait for his arms to wrap around me and for his reassuring words to fill the silence. But I wait in vain, and I lift my eyes, slowly. I see Ryan, still standing several feet in front of me, his hands shoved into his pockets.
“Say something…please?” I ask
“What do you want me to say?” His voice does not mask his anger.
“I don’t know.”
“Listen.” He steps closer to me. “You should have told me”
“I know that, Ryan.”
“Do you?” He snaps back.
“I’m sorry…okay?”
“No, it’s not okay.” He shakes his head. “And you wait until now to tell me.”
I look down. “I’m sorry about the timing.”
“No, it’s great, Callie. It makes for a wonderful story: ‘Yeah, I was about to kiss her and then she tells me she’s moving to Tennessee.’”
“I’m sorry.”
His eyes narrow. “Is that all you can say?”
“I don’t know what else to say, Ryan.”
“Neither do I,” he replies coolly and looks down the path. “Listen, I’m just going to head back now.” He steps backward a few paces, then turns, and walks down the boardwalk.
“Ryan…wait.”
He turns back slightly. “What?”
I stand there, wanting words, yet I say nothing.
He shakes his head and continues down the boardwalk, and I watch his silhouette shrink into the distance. Why am I standing here—and why couldn’t I come up with any words to say to him? Why am I letting him go?
Unfortunately, I don’t know the answers to any of these questions. All I know is that I will be replaying this scene over and over again in my mind—like a coach analyzing an important game film. The only problem is, even if I figure out my error, will I have another chance with Ryan?
Soon I decide to follow him down the path—in hopes of meeting back up with him. Maybe he just needs a few minutes to calm down. Maybe he has to count to ten. Or one hundred. Then I remember the expression on his face. Or maybe one million.
Back at the truck, I find Ian and Courtney. Ian steps forward. “Where’s Ryan?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“I thought he was with you,” I say.
“Wasn’t he with you?”
“Yeah, but…”
“Forget it.” Ian grabs his phone from his pocket. “I’ll just call him.” Ian turns and walks away from us. I watch his conversation, wondering what Ryan is telling Ian, wondering if Ryan has forgiven me, wondering if I still have a chance with him. Ian puts his phone in his pocket and starts back toward us. “Ryan got a ride home from a friend.” Then he steps closer to me, his eyes narrowing. “And he doesn’t sound that happy.”
I have my answer, and all hope drains from my body.
The three of us climb into the truck, riding back to the beach house in silence. I start replaying the clips from my time with Ryan. The highlight reel. I should have told him about Tennessee yesterday—before we got so close, close enough to kiss.
*****