Page 9

Rhys

T he morning air bites my skin as I jog toward the Inn Above Tide. My breath comes in rhythmic puffs, syncing with the thud of my sneakers against the pavement. It’s six o’clock, and the world is painted in soft hues of blue and gray, the day not quite ready to wake. As I round the corner, I expect to see Jade waiting outside.

But she’s not there.

Puzzlement creases my brow as I slow to a stop, hands on hips, catching my breath. Maybe she’s running late? I glance up at the inn, considering. I stride inside, the warmth enveloping me. The plush carpet muffles my approach as I head straight for the house phone and have the operator connect me to her room.

A groggy voice crackles through the line. “Hello?”

It sounds like I’ve just pulled her from the depths of sleep. “Jade, it’s Rhys. Did I wake you?” My question feels stupid the moment it leaves my lips. Of course I woke her.

“Shit,” she hisses, a muffled sound following, as if she’s buried her face in a pillow. “I’ll be down in a minute—maybe two, so I can brush my teeth.”

“Hey, it’s okay. We can try another morning.” I’m ready to let her off the hook, but there’s an urgency in her next words that halts any further suggestion of rescheduling.

“No, no, I’ll be right down. Just…wait there, okay?”

The line goes dead before I have the chance to protest.

I lean against the cool wall near the elevator, arms crossed, watching the numbers above the door slowly light up as the car descends. Minutes tick by, and my mind wanders back to the office and the problems waiting for me, but I shove those thoughts away.

Finally, the bell dings softly, and the doors slide open. Jade emerges, her hair a wild mane with bits of what looks like dried clay caught in the tangles. She offers a sheepish smile.

“Sorry, I had this stubborn patch of clay in my hair, and it slowed me down,” she apologizes, brushing her fingers through the strands.

“Did you fall asleep working?” I ask.

“Sometimes, it gets messy in the studio,” she admits with a playful glint in her eyes.

“Is ‘messy in the studio’ a euphemism for something else?” I tease.

She laughs, a bright sound that echoes in the quiet lobby. “Guess you’ll have to come by one day to see for yourself.”

“Maybe I will,” I respond, accepting the flirtatious challenge. “Ready?”

Jade pulls her hair into a ponytail and nods. “Let’s head down the boardwalk until it meets the beach, right before the Golden Gate Bridge, and then circle back.”

“Sounds perfect,” I say. “Shall we?”

“Let’s do it.” She takes a step forward but stops when I gently catch her arm.

“Wait, did you stretch?” I ask. The last thing she needs is an injury.

She tilts her head, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Are you always such a stickler for the rules?”

“Depends on the rules,” I admit with a smile. Some rules are meant to be followed, like those ensuring safety or efficiency. Others, though, might be bent, especially when they stand between me and something—or someone—I find intriguing.

“All right, rule follower,” Jade says, stretching her legs one at a time, indulging my insistence. “Lead the way.”

And so we set off, side by side, into the early-morning light that bathes the city in a golden hue.

We pick up the pace, and Jade looks over at me. “What rules do you break?” she asks. “Speeding on the freeway doesn’t count.”

I laugh. “Have you been following me?” I tease.

She shakes her head and smiles broadly. “No, but I’m familiar with your type.”

“Is that right?” I can’t resist digging deeper, drawn to her confidence. “Was your ex-fiancé like that? The fast-driving, thrill-seeking type?”

“No.” Her voice changes, a shadow crossing her face for a moment before she looks away. “He was…ambitious, in all the wrong ways. His family made their fortune in vineyards and real estate, but he thought cannabis was the next big thing. ‘The new wine distribution,’ he called it.” She shakes her head. “My dad made it clear that wasn’t for us. Let’s just say, I dodged a bullet.”

“The new wine distribution?” I question. I’ve never been much of a user of drugs, but I guess that makes some sense. “Does it sound selfish if I’m glad you didn’t marry him?”

Jade shrugs, her gaze fixed on the horizon where the water meets the sky. “I’m glad too. Life goes on, right?”

“Right.”

The sound of our running shoes hitting the boardwalk melds with the distant call of seagulls overhead. Jade’s pace is steady beside me, and I search for a new, lighter topic.

“So,” I say, “I’ve been thinking about your question at dinner. What do I like to do for fun? I’ve decided I’m pretty boring.”

She laughs. “I think you’re underselling yourself.”

My brow quirks. “Really? Is it possible to sell myself to you?” I note the pink tinge to her cheeks and her wild hair and suddenly wonder if this is what she looks like after an orgasm.

“I can tell you your getaway car was a selling point.”

“I told you the McLaren is a chick magnet.”

She shrugs. “More it was a convertible in the right place at the right time.”

“Would you have jumped into a Mazda Miata?” I tease.

“Absolutely,” she fires back.

I laugh. “So much for fate. You’d have left me stranded for a chick car.”

“Cars don’t have genders,” she says, rolling her eyes.

I laugh. “You’re very funny.”

She holds out the corner of her windbreaker and ducks her head in a bow, never breaking stride. “Thank you. I’ll be performing tonight at the Laugh Factory.”

We continue in silence for a few minutes.

“You ever stop to look at the colors around here?” Jade asks, her pace slowing slightly as she gestures toward the skyline.

I look up, catching the pale pinks and golds of the rising sun stretching across the bay. “I guess I’ve never really thought about it,” I admit.

“It’s kind of wild,” she continues, her voice almost reverent. “The light changes everything. Same bridge, same water, but every hour it looks completely different. Artists spend their lives trying to capture that, and even they can’t get it entirely right.”

“And yet you try,” I say, a smile tugging at my lips.

She laughs, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Yeah, well, I like a challenge. It’s less about getting it perfect and more about the attempt. It’s the process that matters, you know? The way it forces you to see things differently.”

We continue running, but her words stick with me, lingering long after the moment passes. She doesn’t just see beauty. She studies it, lives in it. It’s like she’s tapped into a way of being that I’ve spent my life avoiding, too caught up in plans and outcomes to notice the details.

“I don’t think you’re boring,” she says eventually. “You’ve lived here for almost a decade, though, and you’ve never really been shown around. How about I show you the real San Francisco?”

“I’d like that.”

We reach the end of the boardwalk, where the planks give way to a sandy stretch leading to the beach. For a brief moment, we both stop, taking in the view—the vast expanse of ocean before us, the Golden Gate Bridge looming in the distance like a silent sentinel.

“Shall we?” I gesture back the way we came, and she nods.

“Let’s do it.”

We pivot together, falling back into our rhythm as we start the return journey. The sun has climbed a bit higher now, casting a golden light over the Marina. I find myself savoring the simplicity of this moment. With the wind in my face and Jade at my side, everything else fades away.

“Can I ask you something a bit personal?” Her voice is tentative in a way it wasn’t a moment ago.

“Sure,” I reply, feeling cautious.

“Your thoughts on drug use?” She looks at me, her gaze searching. It’s clear this isn’t idle curiosity.

I take a deep breath, memories surfacing despite my attempts to keep them at bay. “Drugs are a hard pass for me,” I answer. “I lost someone because of them. Never touch the stuff myself. Alcohol on occasion, sure, but that’s where I draw the line.”

She absorbs my words and nods. “I’ve determined that alcohol’s also not a good fit for me, but otherwise I agree. I lost friends in school.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “The opioid crisis started with accidents, then spiraled into addiction.”

I nod, acknowledging her pain and better understanding her choice of sparkling water at meals. Yet I can’t bring myself to voice how close to home her words hit. Instead, I tuck that part of me away, a chapter of my past that still stings when I turn its pages.

After a few minutes, I steer the conversation toward lighter shores, a reprieve from our shared grief. “So, what’s fun on the San Francisco agenda?” I ask as we round the final corner of the boardwalk, the cool morning breeze playing with her hair.

Jade’s lips curve into a smile, and it feels like the sun has decided to shine just a bit brighter. “Gallery openings are my favorite,” she says, nudging my shoulder. “The people-watching is unmatched.”

“I believe you.”

“Really. There’s always a person who moves from one painting or object to the next without even really looking, offering instead a faint, knowing smile, as though she’s already decided their worth with a single glance. When she speaks, it’s in a hushed tone that drips with implied sophistication. She’ll lean in to discuss a piece with a friend, eyes half-lidded, making a point to drop references to obscure artists or critiques, as if daring anyone to say they don’t know who she’s talking about.”

“You think those people are fun?”

“To make fun of. Yes. They ruin art with conversations filled with phrases like, ‘Of course, it’s not quite Rothko, is it?’ or ‘Well, I adored his earlier works before he sold out.’ And they never buy. I bet their homes are filled with art from the local Z Gallerie.”

“Hey,” I tease. “I bought all my wall coverings at Z Gallerie.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that unless you’re a phony art critic.”

I laugh. “What else would you like to do?”

“Be inspired by nature. There are so many beautiful places around here. I did a collection for a restaurant where I used leaves and rolled their textures into the plates.”

“That sounds beautiful and very creative.”

Jade leans against the railing, her cheeks flushed from the run, her chest rising and falling as she catches her breath. “There’s nothing like this,” she says, gesturing to the Bay below. “Just the sound of the water, the salt in the air… It makes everything else feel so small.”

I follow her gaze, the sunlight glinting off the water’s surface. I’ve been here a thousand times, but I’ve never stopped to see it like this. For me, it’s always been a backdrop to meetings, errands, deadlines. But for her, it’s a moment to breathe, to feel.

“You live like this all the time, don’t you?” I say, half a question, half a statement.

She glances over at me. “Like what?”

“Like the world’s bigger than you are. Like it’s meant to be explored, not controlled.”

Her smile widens, and she laughs softly. “Well, I try. Doesn’t always work.”

I nod, but the contrast is striking. My life is measured in schedules and outcomes, every minute accounted for. Hers feels…freer. Not without its challenges, of course, but somehow unburdened by the need to control every variable. I wonder if I’ve spent so much time building structure that I’ve forgotten how to really live.

She tightens her ponytail, fingers fumbling like she’s trying to keep busy, keep from focusing on anything else—like me. I can feel it, the way she’s hyperaware of my presence but won’t let herself look my way for long.

She’s steady in one way, but restless in another, and it all feels like a contradiction she’s trying to manage.

“You okay?” I ask, resting my forearms on the railing. My eyes stay on her, though. There’s something there—something she’s not saying.

“Yeah,” she says quickly, too quickly. Then her shoulders shift, and I hear it in her voice before the words even leave her mouth. “It’s just… I’m not great at this.”

I tilt my head, keeping my tone soft. “At what?”

She exhales, her eyes on the waves instead of me. “Letting people in. Trusting them.” The words come out like they cost her something. She shrugs, trying to make it seem lighter than it is. “I’ve been wrong about people before. Trusted the wrong ones. And it…it doesn’t feel great.”

I don’t answer right away. What can I say to that? I know exactly what she means. So I stay quiet for a second, watching the way her expression shifts with the rhythm of the waves, waiting for her to look at me again.

She feels my gaze—warm, patient—and I can see the way it unsettles her, makes her squirm a little. She’s not used to this kind of attention, the kind without strings or expectations.

“Cooper,” she finally says, spitting the name like poison. “And others. I used to think I was good at reading people. Turns out I’m better at picking the ones who’ll hurt me.”

I straighten, frowning. “You don’t think I’m like that, do you?”

“No.” She answers so fast it catches me off guard. But it’s the conviction in her voice that surprises me. She means it. “But that’s the thing about trust, isn’t it? You don’t really know until it’s too late.” She glances my way, like she’s bracing for me to react—anger, defensiveness, maybe even denial. But that’s not what she gets.

I just look at her, letting her see that I get it. I’ve been there too.

Despite what she’s just told me about her fears, her limitations, I wonder if maybe I’ve found someone worth risking it all for. She’s unlike anyone I’ve ever known. She makes me want to loosen my grip on the structure I’ve built, to let go of the control I’ve always thought I needed.

But the thought lingers, unspoken. What if she’s not interested? What if she’s not capable of creating a partnership? Could the differences that draw me to her be the very things that eventually would tear us apart? She’s comfortable in the chaos, and I’ve spent my life trying to avoid it. Could someone like her ever really understand someone like me? Could I keep up with her, or would I just hold her back?

The questions stick in my mind, unresolved. For now, I just follow her lead, drawn to her energy.

We walk back toward our homes, and I linger for a moment as we reach the fork where our paths diverge. “Hey, if you want to go for another run, or when it’s time to check out some gallery openings or show me some fun places in the City, let me know,” I say casually. “You know how to reach me.”

“Sure do,” she promises.

“Great.” I nod, and then we part ways.

As I walk back, alone now, my steps are lighter, easier despite the long day ahead. I’m smiling as I unlock my front door.

I strip off my running gear, shower quickly, and suit up for the office. There’s no denying the sense of fulfillment the run has given me. It’s a small victory, but significant. It’s been too long since I’ve done something just because it made me feel good.