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We sat on towels. She made a mess and laughed with her whole body when the wind blew napkins across the sand, then she chased them laughing harder. We built the world’s worst sandcastle. Lopsided. Crumbling.

Then she pulled two bottles from the bag like it was a surprise party, looking around like the police would jump out at any moment.

“For me,” she said, showing off the Sutter Home. Then a bottle of gin. “For you.”

“When you steal those?” I joked.

She grinned. “When I went back in the store to pee. I made a detour. But I paid for them.”

How she got fucked up off Sutter Home is beyond me. One moment we were talking about nothing and everything, then her words slowed, and her head started falling to one side when she smiled.

“Are you drunk?”

“No. I’m fine, pretty man. Let’s go, I gotta pee.”

She tried to stand, to grab the cooler, missed the handle completely, and burst out laughing like it was the funniest thing in the world.

“All right,” I said, already moving toward her. “I got it.”

She took one wobbly step toward me, arms outstretched like a kid about to fall.

I caught her before she could.

“How you get just as drunk off cheap wine as whiskey?” I asked, already bending to lift her.

Before she could answer, I had her off the ground—her legs dangling, arms wrapped around my neck, her face buried in my collar like she belonged there.

“You smell like sun, pretty, pretty man,” she mumbled, voice syrupy and low.

I didn’t respond to the sun comment or her calling me pretty. Just held her tighter and started walking, her laughter bouncing in the dark.

She kicked her feet once like she was on a ride, then laid her head down and sighed so hard I felt it through my chest.

At the house, she had sand in her lashes, salt dried on her neck, a sleepy smile glued to her face.

I turned on the shower while she leaned against the counter, one eye half-closed. She stripped down boldly like she didn’t care what I saw. She stepped into the spray with a sigh that sounded like relief.

I turned to leave.

“No, stay?” she nearly screamed, eyes fluttering. “So I don’t drown or fall or... do something dumb?”

I sat on the toilet, fists clenched on my knees, too stupid to look away.

She hummed something under her breath—some song from earlier—while dragging her soapy rag over her nude body.

I liked how confident in her skin she was, that her moment of self-doubt hadn’t been the usual her.

She didn’t know what she was doing to me.

Either way, I sat there watching her, a man on fire, trying not to burn the whole house down.

Chapter 11- Zane

The next day, I sat on my edge of the bed—Sam’s guest bed, technically—phone in hand, thumb hovering over the call button like it weighed a hundred pounds. My chest felt tight. I hadn’t talked to my parents in years. Not since I’d married Mark. Not since I chose him and silence over their concern and disapproval. But now I couldn’t stop thinking about them. I needed them now more than ever. I knew my daddy would be at work. Momma had retired to travel. I could only deal with them one at a time, and Momma would be easier.

I took a breath. Then another. Pressed “Call.”

It rang once.