Page 3 of Bad Decisions

When she wasn’t here yesterday, I worried, then promptly swore to myself that if I saw her again, I’d stop to talk to her. A pretty young woman should not be out here alone, looking like she’s carrying the weight of the world on her narrow shoulders.

I stop before drawing level, then smile at her from a distance because I don’t want to scare her. She doesn’t smile back. In fact, I’m not even sure she notices me, her eyes remaining focused out to sea. A faraway look that speaks of other times or places, not here on this chilly, deserted beach.

Long, dark strands of her hair fly free in the crisp morning breeze. She snags them in her hand as she finally looks up, and our eyes meet. Her pale blue-gray eyes are the color of the ocean on a stormy day and brim with melancholy. I want to dive into their depths and rescue her from whatever has put that hurt there.

Clearing my throat, I search for the right words to say to the pretty stranger. “It’s unusual to find another beach lover on a morning like this.” I smile—the smile that usually puts people at ease.

Her eyes clear a little, and her rosebud lips tick up at the corners. “This icy wind is only for the truly determined beachgoers.” She turns to look out to sea again, and it’s hard to know if she welcomes my interruption.

“I’m Will,” I offer. “Just so you know for when we say hi tomorrow.”

She turns to face me again. “Hi, Will. Would you like to sit for a moment? You know, to get the full effect of another chilly blast.” Her smile is less tentative this time. “Oh, and I’m Jewel, as in jewelry,” she introduces herself with what sounds like a well-rehearsed line, then gestures to the sand beside her. I drop down onto it, leaving more than an arm’s length between us.

Up close, she’s petite and even prettier than I’d imagined from a distance. Her unusual eyes dominate her delicate features, including a small, thin nose and bow-shaped pink lips. She reminds me of a doll, not the flashy Barbie kind like my sister had as a child, more the darker-haired cousin who no one remembers the name of. Though I’d never forget this beauty’s name.

Jewel perfectly describes the intriguing, luminescent quality of her eyes, which remind me of an opal pendant I’ve often seen my mother wear.

She leans her chin onto her bent knees as another blast of frigid air hits us. The tilt of her head and narrowed gaze turned my way are full of curiosity, like I’m some previously undiscovered sea creature that just swam ashore. “So, Will, what brings you out this early? I see you here every morning running miles. Are you training for a marathon or something?”

Her directness is refreshing, although it’s at odds with her softly spoken words and delicate frame. Another strong gust of wind threatens to carry her off, but she stays rooted to the spot, waiting for an answer.

With a brush of my hand across the beads of sweat on my forehead, I smile. “I could say the fresh air, but it’s too cold for that to be plausible, so I’ll go with the truth. I can’t sleep.”

“I prefer to hear the truth,” she says matter-of-factly.

Strangely, I find myself silently committing to always be honest with her. A ridiculous thought when we’ve only just met.

“And why are you here?” I ask in a hushed tone, like we’re sharing secrets.

Her eyes shutter closed briefly before replying, “It’s the same. The nights are too long.” She draws in a deep, shuddering breath. “Most nights it feels like I’m the only person awake.”

“I guarantee you that’s not the case.”

“Good to know,” she mutters almost to herself. This young woman is an enigma. In one breath, she’s comfortable demanding answers to her questions, and in the next, she looks completely vulnerable, like she’s about to crumble into a million pieces.

Folding my arms around my knees, I mirror her posture. “So, you’re a local?”

“For the moment. I grew up here … but I’m just visiting.” Her voice drops to almost a whisper, and I lean closer to catch the words before the wind whips them away.

“Are you staying at the Carlsons’ place?” she asks, with more strength and volume.

It’s like she has to work hard to hold a conversation with me. It’s not something I’m used to, as women usually enjoy talking to me.

“Yes. Do you know them?”

With a shake of her head, a few more wispy strands of hair escape the confines of her ponytail. “No, but I know of them. It’s a nice place.”

“It sure is. I’m a friend of Blake Carlson, we served together in the military.”

She nods, and for some reason, I elaborate, though I’m not usually forthcoming with my life story. “I’ve just returned to the States, and he offered me his family’s place to take a break before I start a new job in DC.”

“Nice. Though I have to say the weather is much better in the summer.”

The gentle smile softening her lips ticks up into a cheeky grin, and I’m encouraged to ask, “What about you? What brings you home for a visit at this time of year?”

Like a light bulb blowing, her smile is instantly extinguished. Fuck! Jewel’s eyes are now like looking into a smoked-glass mirror, and a crease pulls her brows together.

But just when I think she isn’t going to respond, she says, “My dad … my hero … was killed. I came home to bury him.” Her voice cracks on the words.