Page 35 of Love Out Loud

“Get ready for it,” he warns, and before I can ask what I’m supposed to be getting ready for, he sets me down in the water. It licks my ankles and soaks the cuff of my jeans. And it’s freezing.

“Holy shit.” I’m breathless, from the shock of him carrying me, from the explosion of emotions, from the cold ocean water on my bare feet.

He reaches down and splashes me. I throw my hands out in front of me with another laughing shriek. “It’s invigorating, right?”

“Something like that.” I splash him back.

He laughs heartily as the water turns his sage-green shirt darker where it lands. “You gotta jump in, though. Standing on the sidelines doesn’t have the same effect.”

I fold my arms and kick water at him this time. “Sounds like a very pointed metaphor.”

Lennon tips a shoulder up. “It probably is.”

“Well, aren’t we full of clichés today?”

His only response is to twist his mouth into an unamused thin line and splash me again.

“Stop!” I yell, laughing and putting my hands up to ward off the spray of water. “I get it. Message received.”

“Good. Now can we get out of this fucking cold water and eat, please?”

I throw my arms wide and tip my face to the sun. Its warmth loosens the tight strings inside my chest, and my face stretches into a smile. The tang of the sea air stings my lungs as I breathe it in. “Yeah,” I say. “Let’s eat.”

We spend the next hour or so munching on meat and cheese and chatting about mostly unimportant things. The nerves I had about starting to record tomorrow fade and are replaced with an old, familiar confidence I haven’t felt in a long time. It’s going to be fine. Whether it’s because of Lennon’s demonstration in the ocean earlier or because of his general presence or because of the sun shining on my back as I lay on my stomach, I can sense it now.

Eventually, we fall into a companionable silence, which is novel for us. Being silent on the phone usually means the conversation is over, and we hang up. But the luxury of being silent in person seems special as Lennon lies on his back with his hands clasped over his chest just a few feet away from me.

Unwilling to break the silence, I pick up the book and start reading. It’s a different sensation, reading it and no longer being consumed by nerves. I can actually enjoy it.

Or at least, I try. It isn’t long before I snort loudly, and Lennon rolls his head to squint at me, one eye closed.

“What?” he asks, amused.

I don’t look up from the page. “Nothing. Sorry.”

He tips his head back to the sky and closes his eyes again, but it only takes a few minutes before another sound of disbelief makes its way up my throat.

“It’s not that bad,” Lennon says without looking at me.

“It’s not that.” I flip back a few pages and find what I’m looking for. “I know you insisted you don’t want to sleep with her—”

“I don’t.” He still doesn’t look at me.

“Right. Fine. But it’s pretty clear that’s one-sided.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, his voice edged with disbelief.

I flip back a few more pages, confirming what I’ve already seen clearly throughout the entire book. “Oh, come on. Marcus is you, Lennon.”

He faces me again, then, shading his eyes against what’s left of the sun. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

I pin him with a skeptical look. “Sandy hair, backward baseball hat, chino shorts…”

“You’re describing half the people on this beach.”

“‘His biceps ripple around me as his arms encircle me. I run a long finger over the tattoo of a mountainous outdoor scene on his shoulder,’” I quote. “Come on.”

Lennon cranes his neck to look at the tattoo of an outdoor scene on his shoulder, then tips his head back to the sky and closes his eyes, the picture of relaxation. “Still could be anyone.”