“Hours, sometimes,” Jonquil interjected. “If the drawbridge between here and Whispering Key is up.”
Beale leaned back in his seat, and his bicep rubbed against mine which was annoyingly thrilling. “It’s restricted tourism and made deliveries tricky. Made it real hard for people to live on the island and commute to the mainland for work, too. You probably noticed that when you came in from the airport that it was kinda roundabout.”
I shook my head. “It’s the first time I’ve been here, so I never dreamed there’d be a different, faster way. I bet most tourists just figure this is the way it’s always been, too. Why hasn’t it been fixed? Isn’t that up to the state?”
“Should be, but there’s so few of us out here, and so many bigger fish to fry, it’s been a nightmare getting the government to approve the funding.” Dale shook his head. “Big Rafe’s tried a billion times, but no dice.”
“So now a few of us private citizens are taking the situation in hand. The Bridge Committee meets every second Thursday morning at the Bean to talk fundraising strategy.” Jonquil set an enormous coffee can wrapped in construction paper in the center of the table beside the fliers. “No donation too small.”
“Wow.” Dale nodded, impressed. “Great idea.”
I blinked.
“I can give Bubba and Lety a stack of fliers and a can for the Concha, and I bet Scotty will put a can at the Bean,” Lorenna said.
“Wait.” I frowned, shaking my head. “Wait, sorry, how much is the bridge going to cost?”
“Big Rafe says it’ll be about six million, give or take? Plus a couple thousand to get a survey done and whatnot,” Jonquil said cheerfully. She refilled her margarita glass from the pitcher. “But he’s fronting half a million of his own money from the treasure, and he’s paying for an architect to design it all up, so we’re halfway there, really.”
“Hmm.” Math wasn’t my strong suit, but I felt like it wasn’t Ms. Pepper’s either. “I know some people back in the city who might be interested in donating to a good cause.” For example, me.
“Really?” Jonquil’s face creased with a smile. “Trey, that would be amazing!”
I waved this away. “But I don’t see your website on this flier. Or how to donate.”
She tapped the can with the bottom of her glass. “This can right here!”
I pursed my lips, trying to figure out how to say this nicely. It was safe to say that “nice” was not my specialty.
“Jonquil, precious, you can’t collect 5.5 million dollars a quarter at a time unless you have over twenty million people donating. No one in their right mind will make a big donation to an organization spearheaded by a retired kindergarten teacher with a coffee can. You need an actual board of directors. And you might need to talk to a legal representative about becoming a recognized charity so that donors can get a tax deduction for their trouble. And while you’re at it, I think getting an artist’s rendering of the actual proposed bridge would add an air of legitimacy and generate considerably more interest in… um…”
I looked up to find the entire table staring at me with wide eyes. Possibly I’d underthrown to hit “nice,” but Jesus, what did people expect from me?
“Sorry,” I began. “I have a habit of giving advice—”
Jonquil interrupted me. “All in favor of having Trey be the head of the Whispering Key Bridge Committee, say aye!”
A chorus of ayes filled the bar, including some from the Cooter Key table which should totes not get a vote.
“Oh, but I… um… I’m not a resident here,” I reminded them. I looked at Beale a little desperately, hoping for a save. “I’m only here for the week.”
“Psssht. You’ll be back,” Dale said confidently, just as he had when I tried stepping away from the Facebook group, and I felt overwhelmed both by the feeling that I was not remotely the man they thought I was… and also the feeling of really wishing I were.
Needless to say, margaritas were my friends after that—my very, very best, best friends, and I loved them above all things—and the rest of the night passed in a blur.
I got a bunch of trivia questions right. I also got a couple wrong.
I vaguely remembered arguing that no normal human knew what a neap tide was and doubling down when Beale said he did by loudly proclaiming that Beale was a “fucking big-dicked superhero and mortals can’t be judged by your standards.”
I was also pretty confident that at one point I told Lorenna obnoxiously that we could not be friends if she didn’t know the words to at least one song from Hamilton, then leaned over and gave her the login information for my music account so she could “educate herself.” She’d laughed and called me a good egg.
I knew for sure, though, that with every question I leaned a little further into Beale’s side and enjoyed the scent of his cologne a little more. I knew for sure that I was transfixed by the way his thumb rubbed soothing circles on my neck, and the way his breath felt against my ear when he whispered that he couldn’t wait to get me in bed. I knew for sure that I hadn’t felt this comfortable or safe in approximately ever, and that I was going to miss the fuck out of this when it ended.
So, when CelebTV News flashed on the television above the bar during a commercial break, showing the back of my head and that ridiculous tattoo poised above the crotch of “pop-folk star Jayd Rollins,” and some helpful patron said, “Holy shit! It’s Jayd again! And who the heck is Tommy?” I may have panicked just a little at the idea that Beale would see it, not because I was afraid he wouldn’t keep my secret, but because I was afraid of… something else entirely.
So I very deliberately moved back to Beale’s lap, delighting in his surprised, welcoming smile, wrapped my arms around his neck, and kissed him with every ounce of the foolish yearning I’d accidentally allowed myself to feel. And in that second I truly hoped every person in the bar was watching us… because this was the version of Toby Elford I wanted them to see.
10
Beale
Czarina’s StarCharts for Today:
Patience, Virgo! The best teachers listen as much as they speak.
“I know what I want to do with you today.” I threw a jingling cat toy into the hallway, and the second Marjorie ran after it, I grabbed the swim trunks she’d been “protecting” off the bed and pulled them on.
Toby, who was picking up our assorted clothes from the corner of the guest bedroom, paused to give me a flirtatious grin. “Oh, really? You ready to go again already, Goodman?”
I snorted. God, he made me happy.
“Not that.” Although, you know, these days I was always down for that. I had zero hesitation when Toby was involved. “I meant an activity where you can work on your tan.”
We’d been so busy for the last couple of days, what with trivia, and town meetings, and me taking a couple of shifts running Goodmen Outfitters’ tour boat around the island, and Toby being the unofficial social events coordinator for Whispering Key, Toby had joked the night before that he was the only person in the world who’d leave Florida paler than he’d arrived.