Page 66 of Cuts like a Knife
“Go on,” he says. “Stick a toe in. Drink your coffee. I won’t bother you. I’ve got emails to answer anyway.” He pulls out his phone and starts pointedly looking at the screen, so I kick off my flip flops and amble off toward the shore line.
Oh god, the water is amazing. Warm, but refreshing. I wish I had time for a proper swim.
I walk along the edge, feeling the wet sand squish between my toes and the warm sun on my face and shoulders, taking sips of my hot coffee, and something starts to unwind in my chest. More fully this time. The tension I’d been feeling ever since opening that email — tension that got worse after coming face to face with the people from Flash yesterday — starts to fade216.
The beach is deserted. I examine the houses I can see from the shoreline and all of them are quiet and still. Maybe they’re empty, or maybe it’s just too early in the day for most people to be out on the beach.
Eventually, in the distance, I see boat go by. It’s pretty far off on the horizon line, but still distinct. White and shaped like a yacht. It must be enormous.
I shake my head.
Rich people and their toys.
That thought reminds me of Petar Timber. He’s probably the biggest name attached to this cycle of Hot Slice, even if he’s never done anything to earn it. I should probably try to get a one-on-one with him. Lars would probably pee his pants with joy if I were to manage it.
I resolve to try to talk to old “Pete” later today. Who knows? Maybe if he’s drink enough he won’t care that I work for a crappy little pub like Citidaze. Anything’s possible, right?
And Savannah Jack and that Canadian chef with the sleeve tattoos. There’s definitely a love/hate thing happening there. Or a hate/hate thing that I might spin into a love/hate thing.
But there’s also mousy Maylee Wise. Maybe she is writing a book, like Claire said. But a book isn’t really news. Not without a profile to back it up. And I’m not sure Maylee warrants the coverage. It’s been too long since she’s been somebody. It’s so weird that she’s even here217.
Then again … she looked really cozy with Danny the chef last night. If she and Danny actually like each other — like if they end up doing more than just hooking up, would that be a good get for a How They Met or couple profile? They’re in line with the sort of essential-nobodies we usually put in that space.
My mind races with possibilities as I think through spreads and features and columns for the next several months218.
As much as I hate this job, I can’t help wanting to do it well. Or wanting to be perceived as doing it well. Callum and Lars are such pricks, but I want them to be impressed by me, even if it won’t save me from the mystery emailer. What is that about? I probably need therapy219.
As I kick along in the shallows, being careful to avoid stepping on any spiny sea urchins (there are quite a few of them on this beach), I make a loose plan for the day. A content-gathering plan.
I’ll write up a loose draft about Maylee and Danny. Something that I can fill in the blanks on later as the situation develops. And I’ll try to chat up Savannah today. Ideally after she’s had a few drinks, but not too many. Maybe around lunch. Then we’ll see if she really is the girly girl type she seems to be.
Girlies love to spill secrets to strangers. I was in the bathroom of a bar once and an absolutely plastered girl came up to me out of nowhere and said “You are so pretty! Can I borrow a tampon?”
“No,” I’d said, “But you can have one.”
She’d loved that. Cracked right up. Then she’d spent the next ten minutes telling me everything about her boyfriend and their impending wedding. By the time I left the room, I knew that he was a plumber who’d gone back to college to become certified as a general contractor, and that they’d been arguing because she wanted to live in a condo after they were married, but he was keen on a house with a yard, you know, for the kids.
“As if I’m having kids in the next seven years!” She screeched. “I’m only twenty-three! I told him so too, but you know men. Stubborn. He’s gonna have to wait before I start popping them out.”
By the time I left the bathroom, I felt like I knew everything about that girl, from her mother -in-law-to-be’s first name, to her menstrual cycle220.
Every little while, I look back at Drew and the towels, expecting to find him watching me, but he never is.
He must be trying to give me space. Probably because I acted like a skittish deer this morning when I found him cooking breakfast.
I just … ugh.
I need to make sure he gets it. Whatever may or may not happen between us in the bedroom, nothing has changed. I have told him that.
How can I make him believe it, without having to give up this thing we have, which is working fine if it stays a secret. There’s no reason for us to change anything!
We’ll have to have yet another conversation. A serious one, this time. I will be very firm. Very explicit. Very clear. I’ll make sure to do it with my clothes on. In a public place, maybe. That should help221.
As I amble along, ankle-deep in the water, I see schools of tiny fish darting through the shallows and bits of shells and drift wood, and even what looks like coral, a little ways out, just beneath the surface. This beach looks like a good sport for snorkeling. Maybe later, in a couple of days.
As the sun rises higher in the sky, I can practically see the haze burning off. The growing heat is tempered by a light breeze, blowing in off the sea. I bend to pick up what I hope is a sand-dollar, half-buried in the sand (it turns out to be just a fragment of one) and surreptitiously turn my head to scope Drew out from the corner of my eye. This time, he’ll be watching me, I bet.
But again, he isn’t. He’s engrossed in his phone. He isn’t looking in my direction at all.
