The sun was just coming up, bathing everything in a warm pink and orange haze, like bubbles, he thought. Jack watched as the sun silently crept up the walls, light slowly touching everything. There were only two other patrons in the diner this early, and though he’d never been here, he felt at home.

As he sat, he bounced, the almost unnoticeable tremors causing little ripples to dance across the black surface of his coffee. He never intended to drink the coffee. In fact, he hated coffee, but his hands were freezing and today, of all days he needed them to be warm. For her.

Jack glanced down at the coffee in his mug, then back out the window. A few feet away, a yellow taxi sat lifeless on the curb. The driver slept, his head resting on the window, mouth gaping open. Though he couldn’t hear it, Jack imagined that the driver was snoring, a deep guttural rumble, similar to an angry dog about to bark.

Watching the sleepy Cabbie reminded Jack of how tired he was. Though he’d tried, sleep had never come. His mind was abuzz with images of the day ahead. Three times in the night Jack had crawled from his bed and re-read the email just to be sure:

Sundays I get coffee from this little place on Broadway and 49th. I can’t spell the name but there is a good chance you’ll find me under the lights.

Jules

Jules. He loved that she’d signed the message with her nickname. Or maybe that was what everyone called her now. He had no idea. She’d given him no name, only street coordinates. That seemed like a very Julia thing to do. At first he’d found her mysteriousness charming, alluring in a way.

Much like the games of hide and seek they had played as children during the humid summers at camp. The dense Georgia foliage was a child’s dream, providing pockets of shade and endless places to hide. Julia had long blonde hair that danced across her lower back as she ran away from him. He always found her by following the scent of her shampoo on the wind. It was intoxicating. And although time had passed and many memories had faded, that scent had stayed with him.

……

The next morning he learned there were five coffee shops on Broadway and within walking distance of 49th. After the first few shops he found her charade charming, fun almost. But with every clingle of the bell, every new aroma from a different blend of coffee, and every dimly lit shop, Jack grew anxious.

He finally decided to sit in coffee shop number 4. Jules and lights were nowhere to be found and his nerves were about shot. He needed to regroup. What if she wasn’t there? What if there were no lights? What if he’d missed her somehow? His mind raced. So there he was, sitting, watching a snoring cabbie wondering how the hell he’d gotten himself into a game of cat and mouse 15 years overdue.

The coffee in his hands had stopped steaming ages ago. He knew he needed to get moving but he couldn’t seem to will himself to stand. He pulled a few bills from his jean pocket and laid them on the plastic tablecloth, debating if he should even try the final shop or call it a loss.

Just as he was pondering his next move, Jack’s eyes strayed one last time to the window. Walking briskly past was a tall, slender woman, in a flowy dress, ill-equipped for the brisk breeze common in New York to the fall. On her head, the woman wore a red, floppy hat that contrasted dramatically with her blonde hair. She walked quickly, holding the cap to her head in response to a gust of wind.

Julia.

Without even thinking Jack was on his feet, knocking the table with his knees and sending the mug of cold coffee spilling all over the bills he’d just placed there. With a quite ,”sorry” jack pulled on his black leather jacket and was outside within seconds. Locals seemed to be coming out in masses, the sidewalk suddenly more alive than it had been just moments before. Maybe twenty yards ahead Jack could make out the top of the girls head with the floppy red hat.

So many people, Jack thought as he waded, half running through the people on the sidewalk. The girl turned a corner and Jack slowed willing himself to breathe. As he approached the corner he saw a small door, with a wooden sign above it.

Caffe Bene 1611 Broadway

Four letters. She couldn’t spell four letters. He chuckled. After thirty more seconds of rest Jack entered the shop behind two teenage girls.

The shop was small, crammed with Sunday morning regulars. The ceilings were tall and paneled with reclaimed wood. The walls of the shop were covered top to bottom with books. An older woman with hair in a gray bun stood on a ladder a few feet away skimming books far above her head.

Toward the back of the shop Jack saw what he was looking for. Under and canopy of twenty or more hanging light bulbs, there was a wooden table surrounded by woven wicker armchairs. Though there was room for at least 5 or 6 people to sit, all seats were vacant. Except one.

Bathed in the warm yellow glow cast by the excessive, shadeless bulbs, sat the girl in the red hat. Except this time the hat lay beside her on the table, revealing a lovely, oval face and the same green eyes Jack had painted into his mind for many years. She was more beautiful than he had imagined. The round cheeks of childhood had given way to delicate cheekbones, dusted rose and the toothless grin of a little girl now hid behind wine colored lips.

Jack stared for what must have been hours, watching her calmly thumb through a magazine. And then she looked up. Caught. Instead of disgust or alarm, her eyes softened when she saw him.

She spoke first, revealing perfectly white teeth beneath her crimson lips.

“Jackson Jones. Are you just going to stare at me or are you going to sit down?” She smiled, gesturing to the seat beside her.

“Julia.” Jack breathed.

“Jules. Only mama calls me Julia.”

Only my mother calls me Jackson. It’s just Jack.”

“Well, Just Jack, you’re hair is longer and your face is much cleaner, but I’d have recognized you anywhere.”

He blushed. “You look the same too, only prettier….. not that you weren’t beautiful before,...” he trailed off, embarrassed.

“ I was twelve. No one is beautiful at twelve.” She said.

He wanted to tell her she was wrong. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever beheld in all his thirteen years. The kind of beauty that haunts your dreams even fifteen years later and makes it hard to sleep. He wanted to. But he didn’t. Yet.

https://creativewritinglessons.com

Hi, writing fam! I just started a new website, social media presence and blog JUST FOR WRITERS that you might like. I teach private and group lessons online, but I am also committed to FREE new content, original writing, exercises for growth and suggestions for improving all styles of writing. I would love you to follow along or participate in some of my workshops if you'd like!

https://creativewritinglessons.com

insta: @the_writers_seat

https://www.instagram.com/the_writers_seat/

Facebook: @thewritersseat

https://www.facebook.com/thewritersseat/

Can't wait to share more with you! If you have any ideas for helpful content I would love to learn from you!

Best,

Hayley

"Make a choice, Lucy!"

"You make a choice!" her head throbbed.

" I did make a choice. I chose you. I have been choosing you every single day since you appeared. Every single thing I do is choosing you. So don't you dare tell me about making choices. I Choose. I act. I decide. The only thing you choose is you."

"And maybe that works for you, and maybe that will work for you somewhere, but that place is not here. I won't wait forever. I can't wait forever. And if you do wait, the day you do decide, I won't feel bad if you look up and I am not there. Because I did choose and you'll be too late."

The silence lasted long enough for both of them to age, until Lucy finally spoke, kicking her heels against the fence she sat on.

"I don't know how to choose you."

"What do you mean you don't know how?"

"What if I'm wrong, I choose and it's wrong? You're wrong? We're wrong?"

"But what if we're right? Do you ever stop to think of that? What if this " he gestures between them, "is enough. What if I'm it, Lucy, and maybe I'm not in the package you imagined. But maybe if you got out of your own way for two seconds you would see that this box" - he circles an invisible line around his chest-" is enough. In fact, it's better than you dare to dream. Hate to break it to you babe - but I'm it. I'm your Buckley trees, your coffee shops, I'm every word you're saying when you aren't talking, I'm your freaking Mississippi."

He got quieter then.

"So please, please stop pushing me away. Please stop fighting me. Everything in you is screaming. Can't you hear that? Everyone can hear that. Please listen long enough to just be… happy."

He was her Mississippi - so unexpected, so unplanned, so unassuming, yet the piece to a puzzle she didn't know existed, a puzzle so well hidden that she'd only found it when she was standing directly on top of it. That she knew.

But the unknowns were so big that they consumed her. The what if's were so bright she couldn't see anything else even if she tried. Her wildest dreams were far far from this place and the unfamiliarity of it all was becoming too much.

"I didn't plan for this," her voice trembled. "None of this is MY life. Not who I am."

"Why not?"

She thought for a very long time about those two words. Why not. Every reason she gave herself, though valid, felt flimsy, so much so that even trying to speak them was impossible.

Because this is the south. Because we're so different. Because I suck and you're brilliant. Because I cry and you're strong. Because art school and your PhD, because we'd be poor. Because your'e too tall, too spiritual, too bright, too thoughtful, too kind, too warm, too intuitive.

Because you see too much of me. You see everything.

You know my secrets, but I can't begin to find yours. Because someday you'll discover the real me, the bad parts of me, the parts your Mama has always taught you to avoid. And on that day, the dissapointment on your face, the betrayal in your eyes will be so great, that my heart will break.

So I think I'll stay up here on the pedestal you've invented, safe enough to admire, but not too close to let you down.

At least these were the excuses she told herself.

What she didn't know then, was that if she left - when she left - a piece of her would stay in Mississippi, leaving a constant dull ache, that ocassionally would flare into a flame so warm that it would consume her whole chest. And when it flared up she'd type out a text or google flights to Memphis, or paint trees. Anything to feel closer to him, to herself, to home. But then the flame would fade, breath would return to her lungs, reality would settle like dust and she'd carry on.

It was January and she felt like crying. Those two things she was certain of.

She watched him quietly as he worked. The haphazard way he threw ingredients into the bowl was both mesmerizing and relaxing. He used no recipe. He removed sugar, baking powder and flour from the cupboard. He bent his tall frame to just above the counter and measured a cup of flour with only his eyes. His mouth never stopped moving, as if his chatter were the rhythm of the erratic yet confident dance he made around the kitchen.

And she said nothing, because speaking meant releasing the knot that had recently taken residence in her abdomen. A release that would inevitably be accompanied by tears, which she knew, so she stayed quiet.

She envied the confident way his hands worked, mixing all the ingredients around and around in the bowl. The rhythmic scraping of the spatula along the bowls walls was distracting.

“Hey,” a voice broke through her daydream, “you going to help me or not?” He smiled at her, his blue eyes laughing before his lips even curled into a matching smile.

“You want to help stir?” He prodded.

She shook her head, “No, I think you are doing a great job. Besides, I’d make a mess. I am terrible at cooking.”

He watched her intently as she spoke. “I can teach you, you know.” Again she declined, and he shook his head but kept stirring.

Once all the ingredients were mixed into a smooth batter, he greased and floured two round pans, and with the same ease and dexterity he’d shown moments before, he filled the pans to the brim and slid them into the oven.

“If I cook them just right, this should be a very moist cake.”

Moist. She scrunched up her nose. Gross.

“ I hate that word so much.” She smiled.

“ What word?” He asked, his forehead creased, “Moist?” Again she cringed.

This time his brow relaxed and he released a loud laugh that reverberated off the kitchen walls. His reaction startled her. And he kept on laughing, and laughing and laughing. Eventually he turned his back to her, forearms resting on the sink. He remained hunched over the sink, his laughter echoing off the dishes until eventually he turned back around, wiping tears from his eyes.

His laugh was infectious and she could not help but laugh at the stupidity of the whole situation. Normally she'd have been embarassed by someone belly laughing at her expense, but today his laughter gave her something that felt like permission He let out a long breath, as if he had been holding his breath that whole time.

“ I have never met someone that hates the word…. That word.” He caught himself.

“It’s weird….I know. But I just hate how it sounds.” She laughed, not quite meeting his eyes.

He rested his palms on the edge of the sink behind him, leaning casually.

“Do you laugh this hard with anyone else?” He asked, still smiling, “ Because if there is one thing you should be able to do with someone, it's laugh.”

She wanted to say that many people made her laugh that hard, but she would be lying. She didn’t have to tell him about the knot in her stomach or the tears waiting just behind her eyes. He knew about them. He could sense her feelings regardless of physical signs. He always could.

As he pulled the steaming cakes from the oven, she felt the knot loosen, and she smiled from deep down in her gut. She watched as he removed the cake from the hot pans, and with the rising steam came two certainties: she loved him, and she felt like crying. 

I walked behind you today as we exited the room and my heart got caught in my throat. My lungs pulled tightly inside my chest and I had to mentally will the tears away. Normal people don’t react to haircuts like that, do they?

But we do.

Because what they see is honey blonde hair, hanging lose, longer down your neck.

What they see is silky waves that you occasionally tuck behind your ears.

What they see is floppy locks falling through strong fingers, when you run your hands through the cascade of hair creeping into your eyes.

What they don’t see is that every inch of that hair is one more inch since she’s been gone.

They don’t see the hair that fell like tears on your bathroom floor as you shed it, a snake in skin he no longer recognizes or wants; marking the moment between before her and after her.

Where they see a haircut, a tiny change, you see the end of everything - a new beginning you didn’t ask for or want in a million years.

The buzzed head told them something has changed. But it told you that everything has changed and there are no words adequate to express that.

No way to help them see that the lost hair was nothing to the loss of the wife, mother, sister, friend, aunt, cousin, neighbor - companion - making her glacial year-long exit before your eyes.

You’ve been told that Jesus is your homeboy, but you’ve never met him, so you aren’t sure. You aren’t Jewish enough for Shiva; Is there such thing as a wake for the dying but not yet dead?

No one tells you how you should grieve, so you control the one thing left in your power; the only thing you get to choose that slips through your fingers.

So today, looking at your long hair, I see more than meets the eye.

I see your courage to keep living and your committment to keep loving and raising your kids; I see your heartache and your love.

And I hope your hair keeps growing, because it means you are still here, and even though it hurts - I know she wants that for you, too.

For five years I've wondered what my life, our life would look like if I hadn't left. If I hadn't driven away, crying until Memphis. If I just stopped right there and said I'm home.

I have a hard time believing we'd be anything but together. Wasting away on quiet Saturday mornings on the balcony of Square Books, you, with an iced coffee in a mason jar in one hand, a book in the other, reading aloud as I lick the remains of our pastry breakfast from my sunburned lips.

I'd nearly doze to the bass of your familiar voice, the sun dancing on my crossed shins. You'd set your coffee down, rest one chilled palm on my warm leg making me jump awake from my near cat nap.

I don't know what you're reading, but it's my new favorite book.

As is the natural order, books are followed by thrifts and antiques. We are in dire need of nothing and we both know we'll leave empty handed, the only evidence, a few photos of a girl in a floppy easter hat.

The difference between old thrifting and today, however, is that instead of flying ahead of you, awaiting your slow molasses saunter to round the corner, you've slowed me down with you - your baseball mit hand dawrfing mine in a way I've only dreamed about. I'm a little more patient these days - but only slightly.

I'd still scowl at your need to walk every single isle at the grocery store "just in case", when we only need milk. I still grab the expensive brand while you do the math in your head to discover you'd have saved us 7 cents had I been a little more patient.

I'd still sick smack in the middle of the couch, but instead of flinching, you'd lean in and pull me closer to you, calm as a Mississippi sunset.

We'd both get a little drunk on the scent of cedar and flowers dacing between us and around us. But this time, we won't have to wonder where it's from.

Out on the porch, the shadow trees sit black against the cotton candy sky, as we rock back and forth on the porch swing you built with your own hands; my favorite kind of evening that makes me dream of another day exactly like this. The kind where to go home, means a slightly inconvenient commute up a few stairs; where the day ends blanketed by your accent, as you sit watchful over what is yours, what is mine, what is ours.

But the thing is, I cried until Memphis. And even once the tears stopped, I didn't; I kept heading west and you didn't stop me.

Lake Mavis, a stone's throw outside of Memphis, was really just a dammed stretched of the Tallahatchie River. Upon first glance, the chocolate milk water, with its faint aroma of pond fish and pine, was at the least unappealing and nothing like the cool gray of the Pacific Lucy was accustomed to. Everyone on the beach seemed to be equally put off, the water deserted, opting instead to lay on beach towels or lounge on short chairs, their toes sinking into the warming sand.

" Welcome to Satan’s mouth," Yoshi smirked, squinting into the already too-hot Sunday sunlight.  It seemed the whole school had the same idea, the lake shore congested with oily bodies in tiny swimsuits, girls in large glasses and floppy hats, and in almost every hand, regardless of age or the fact that is was barely 9:30 AM, a cold alcoholic beverage rested.

Lucy spread her towel on the sand,  her flip flops flinging sand all over its clean surface. Duncan laid his towel beside her. Lucy could not help but notice the way his tanned quad muscles flexed, his shorts riding up his thighs as he bent to pull something from the cooler. Turning, he handed a drink to Lucy. Pilsner. Luckily the disgust and horror Lucy felt was hidden behind her aviator shades. Without saying a word, she handed the sweating can back to Duncan.

"No? Suit yourself."

It wasn’t that Lucy never drank. She had - twice. Both times ended with vomit and a collection of blackmail photos. Besides, she had standards. Her mother's voice echoed in her head. "Trashy people drink before 11 A.M. - not Heim's." She smiled at that memory.

"What are you smirking at?" Duncan was watching her, the beer resting between his legs.

"Nothing. Just a funny memory from my mom."

"You've never told me about your mom."

Lucy shrugged and adjusted the edges of her towel. "Not much to tell."

"Not very close, huh?"

When Lucy didn't say anything, Duncan backtracked, his discomfort palpable.

"Sorry, you aren't obligated to tell me anything. I shouldn't have asked."

"No, "  before she could register, Lucy's hand was on Duncan's thigh, "things are just a little weird since my parents split up."

"Shit, Lucy, I didn't know, I'm…"

"Let me finish.." she removed her hand from his leg. "My mom took a job in LA. She's a doctor. But she didn't want us to come with her. It's like she woke up one day and just wanted a new life, a do-over."

"And your dad?"

"He just let her."

"I doubt it's that simple."

The boat Lucy had been watching suddenly became blurry, the heat of unshed tears pulsing behind her shades.

" I don't know. But now I'm here. In the middle of freaking no where drinking cheap beer at 9 AM." Her tone hit Duncan like a slap and he turned his head, hurt.

"That must really suck." He clutched his sweating drink. After 5 huge gulps the can was empty and lay crushed between them, sand clinging to the surface like skin.

"Yosh, want to play catch?" Yoshi jumped up excitedly and followed his friend down the beach, a football gliding effortlessly between them.

She knew her reaction had been childish. She knew her words would hurt Duncan, so why had she said them? She was too hurt to dwell on him for too long. Her life was hard. She deserved be a little pissed at the cards life had dealt her. How could small town Duncan Jones even know what it was like to be her?

By 11, the beach, buzzed like a hive. The once revolting water suddenly called to them, inviting them to escape the ceaseless attack of the sun on bare skin. Eager to make her way slowly into the water, Lucy dipped one foot, then the other. The cool water lapped at her ankles, two more steps found Lucy knee- deep in the thickest mud she had ever felt. Quicksand. She knew the thought was insane, but she could not convince her heart of the irrationality of the thought.  Violet beckoned to Lucy from the tubes she and Yoshi were floating in some 20 feet out.

"Get your butt out here you wuss!"

"I would but I think I'm stuck!"

"Mississippi mud aint no joke!" Yoshi hollered, a fake thick southern accent dripping with twang.  A few kids hollered and whooped in response. With a final pull and a less than graceful belly flop, Lucy was free, face down in the water, but free. Before she would even stand up, someone was lifting her by the arm.

Sputtering water from her face, Lucy eyes went from red shorts, to the soft fuzz of a happy trail, up tanned torso, where a whistle hung, gleaming silver. Her own reflection stared back her from the panes of nearly-identical aviator glasses.

"Woah there! How we doing, Lucy?" the figure asked, pulling Lucy to her feet.

"The mud is a real pain, then drops about 10 feet right here."

"I noticed."

" Can you swim?"

"Yes." Even with sunglasses on she could feel his skepticism.

"it's more of a float, but it works out."

"Right…"

"I was just startled by the mud. Given a few more seconds I'd have been fine."

"Of course you would have. But I had to check."

"I appreciate it."

"No problem. Maybe you should take a floatation device with you."

Lucy glanced toward Yoshi and Violet, both now laughing so hard their tubes teetered and tossed, almost flipping with each guffaw.

"My friends have me covered." He followed her gaze.

" Yoshi sucks at swimming, but Violet isn't bad." he commented.

"I'll be sure to tell them."

"No need.” His grasp of sarcasm far worse than his grip on her arm.

"Can I go now?"

"Oh," he dropped her arm, apparently unaware that they were still intertwined.

"Sorry about that."

Embarrassed but unscathed, Lucy swam the remaining distance to her friends.

"Saved by Mr. Baywatch himself." Yoshi nearly sang as she pulled herself onto the tube.

"He knew my name."

"Of course he did…does. You only have so many next-door neighbors."

Her gaze roamed the beach until it found its target. "Clayton?"

"Bingo."

"He's a lifeguard? And a store clerk?"

"Don't forget arch nemesis to Duncan." Violet added. All of them swiveled to see where Duncan was. He was nowhere to be seen, but multiple crushed cans glistened in the sunlight near his vacant towel.

" About that…"

"NOPE. My lips are sealed." Yoshi blurted immediately.

Violet trailed her fingers through the water. "I promised I wouldn't either. You'll have to ask Duncan."

"I will tell you this though, I think Duncan is just jealous of the kids abs. Incredible." He admired. Though Lucy did not admit it, she had to agree. She's never seen such a fine specimen in her entire life. As mysterious as her new neighbor was, one thing was not a mystery- he was fine.

The orange ball of Mississippi sun still peeking over the now navy water, left a few final warm kisses across sunburned shoulders, freckled noses and chapped lips. Yoshi lay sprawled out on his back, Violet's head resting on his stomach, rising and falling like a pillow of waves. The once-lively beach now lay nearly deserted, a smattering of people here and there. Hours had passed and still no sign of Duncan. His trail of crushed cans and his towel were the only signs that he had been there.

A dozing Lucy was jolted awake by a trickle of something on her face.

"Wakey, wakey sleepy head." Duncan knelt above her head, sand pouring from his hands straight onto her forehead. Sputtering, she shot up, swiping at the sand before it could fall into her eyes, spitting the dirt from her mouth.  

"What do you think you are doing?!" she yelled, now on her feet. Duncan stood, teetering toward her. His hair was disheveled, his eyes wide.

"Sand confetti!" he threw another handful of sand into the air and actually giggled as it rained down upon them both.

"Are you insane?!" Lucy sputtered. "What adult throws sand?"

Duncan looked around, checking behind him as if he were unsure she was talking to him.

"Yes, you, Duncan. And where have you been all day?"

Stepping closer toward him, the stench of alcohol hit her, and this was more than the cheap beer they'd brought in the cooler. She recognized the vodka, and the sweet hint of rum, similar to the kind her father served other doctors and hospital administrators when they visited.

By then, the noise roused Yoshi who stood, with Violet shielded protectively behind him.

"Dude, you look like crap." Yoshi laughed.

"At least I don't look stupid." Duncan responded, the light-heartedness absent.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Yoshi stepped forward, ignoring the tug on his arm from Violet.

"Exactly what you think it means. Stupid. Asian. Eyes." Then he made a gesture, pulling his eyes taught.

Without hesitation, Yoshi was on him, knocking the already unstable Duncan to his back. Duncan had 60 pounds on Yoshi, but his movements were slow and uncoordinated. A fistful of sand met Yoshi's open mouth, forcing him to fall back, spitting. Duncan rose to his knees and lunged for Yoshi, who rolled just out of his grasp and to his feet.

"Stop!" Violet's squealed.

"Guys, seriously!"

The boys ignored the audience, Duncan's skull making contact with Yoshi's stomach. Yoshi, still upright, hugged Duncan's head, twisting as if trying to decapitate him. Duncan struggled for breath, his hands reaching blindly, making contact with Yoshi's swim trunks, which he fisted and tugged until the shorts fell past his knees.

Violet screamed, and Yoshi dropped his hold, to cover his suddenly nude body.

Duncan took one more swing at his preoccupied friend, missing his cheek and making contact with just his nose, the momentum from the punch spinning him, and carry Duncan to the ground with a thud.

A fountain of blood erupted from Yoshi's nose. His hands' instinctually attempted to stem the flow but his bare hands were quickly stained red. His tanned face turned white as blood pooled into the sand between his feet.

Above Violet's shrill screams, the unmistakable cry of a whistle could be heard.

Clayton came running, sand flying behind him with each step. His silver whistle pressed between his lips.

Before he could make sense of the ridiculous scene before him, Clayton examined Yoshi.

"Definitely broken, man. You should have that set."

"No shit!" Yoshi yelled, holding his bloody hands out as evidence.

He handed yoshi a towel, which he pressed to his face, allowing himself to be led up the beach to his towel.

"Sit. I'll get you some ice."

Clayton turned next to Duncan, who's burnt back revealed an irresponsible lack of sunscreen. Squatting next to Duncan, he asked "So Yoshi knocked ya out huh? I always knew he was tougher than he looked."

Duncan groaned and tried to push himself up, but collapsed under his own weight.

Clayton let out a low whistle. "Harsh man."

Just then he noticed Lucy. Her arms crossed, an anger so palpable he was tempted to step back.

"So what happened here?"

"Male ego."

"Seems like it."

"Why are y'all such idiots?"

Clayton grinned. "Did you just use your first 'yall'?

"Shut up. This is serious."

"I agree. The yall is the first sign that one is acclimating to the southern ways."

Lucy scowled, suddenly fascinated by the sand at her feet.

"Hey." Clayton rested a warm hand on her shoulder. "I'm teasing." He dropped his arm and squatted to assess the kid on the ground.

She rubbed her shoulder where his hand had just been.

"Someone's had a little too much to drink."

"Seriously."

"Help me will you?" Together they lifted and carried/dragged, the teetering but still conscious Duncan to his car.

"It’s best if one of you drives. Yoshi has a face so swollen he probably can't see into tomorrow. You drive manual?" She shook her head, remembering all the times her dad warned her about the zombie apocalypse scenario where the world is ending and the only car is a manual.

"No problem. I'll just clock out."

"You don't have to…." but he he'd already jogged off back to the lifeguard station.

Yoshi and Violet ambled up the beach, the ever-pale Yoshi still holding a white-turned-crimson towel to his nose. Alice, carried the empty cooler in her arms.

"Well, that was….something." She smiled half-heartedly.

"Yeah, it was…"

"Boys…"

"See you Monday?"

"If I survive"  was Yoshi's muffled response.

"You'll survive. Drive safe."

Clayton returned fully clothed, Lucy noted, with disappointment.

The strange trio drove in silence,the wind through the open windows the only movement. When they pulled into his driveway, Lucy realized he'd driven all the way to their destination without any directions. He knew where Duncan lived. Lucy was hit with the sense that these two knew each other far better than they let on. Her suspicions were confirmed when the front door opened and Mrs. Mathers  answered with a familiarity reserved for close friends.

"Clayton! It has been too, long. My you are tall these day! " Mrs Mathers boomed embracing Clayton in a motherly hug.

"Clayton?" a short broad man with thinning brown hair and a low voice stepped onto the porch.

"Yes, Phil, isn't it nice, Clayton came by?"

"Well what brings you here," Phil asked, shaking Clayton's hand.

Silently Clayton and Lucy pointed toward the car in the driveway, Duncan's legs hanging out of the passenger door, his head slumped back, snoring.

"Oh goodness." Mrs Mathers cooed.

"I see." Mr Mathers dropped his voice an octave. "Thanks for uh…. Bringing him home."

"Of course."

"You're a good boy, Clayton. Sure wish you weren't so busy so you two could get back to your old shenanigans."

"Right." Clayton mumbled. Stepping from the porch. "I'll just go help get him inside."

Lucy stood awkwardly on the porch, not sure whether she should help or introduce herself, opting instead for an exchange of uncomfortable smiles followed by silence.

"yall want a ride home?" Mr Mathers offered, once his son rested on the living room couch.

"No, sir. It isn't far."

"Well thanks again." He clapped Clayton on the back, the click of the front door marking his exit.

Distance between Duncan's house and Elm street (or whatever their street is named) was approximately 4 stop signs, one fence hop and a creek apart.  They'd met and parted ways with 2 stops signs before either of them spoke.

"I'm sorry you had to see that."

That was not what she had expected him to say. "Excuse me?"

"Back there. Duncan."

"You think I haven't seen a wasted teenager before?"

Clayton rubbed at his eyes, as if to force the embarrassment from them like tears.

"That's not what I mean. I know you have. But that still doesn’t make it right. No lady should be asked to drag her date's inebriated body from a car."

She smiled, heat creeping up her neck. That was cute.

"You thought I was on a date?"

"Am I wrong?" He'd stopped walking at this point and was watching her. Why did she get the feeling that she was an adult about to reveal the identity of Santa to a child?

"Does it matter?" A question in response to a question seemed safe.

"It might."

The weight of Clayton's gaze made Lucy feel unsteady, popping her weight from leg to leg, eventually opting to start walking again to cut the electricity in the air.

Before Lucy could answer, he continued. "I know Duncan. I've known him since we were in diapers, and

he isn't your type."

They'd rounded the corner, their houses within view. The purple of dusk was creeping slowly up the skyline, making Lucy itch to go grab her paints, but she resisted the urge. "I'm not sure i have a type."

"You do. Any maybe you don't know it yet, but it sure ain't Duncan."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because Duncan didn't walk you home."

Without realizing it, she found herself on her porch, the swing creaking in the cradle of a gentle breeze. Without another word, Clayton ran up his own porch steps, leaving Lucy in a stormy sea of thoughts and evening cicadas.