Who are you?
The passenger, sat on the other side of the windshield, his calm a relative balm to my restlessness, tilted his head in my direction. His brow, set so serious above the glint of mirrored aviators, dipped further still. It caught me. What could be so troubling in the middle of paradise? I nearly turned to look behind me, until I noticed the small tease of heart hands he’d flashed in my direction. I erupted in laughter, and he broke into a smile, so bright it rivaled the sun.
My heart flickered a beat.
Then he was gone.
The helicopter cut away, veering across the horizon, splitting cloudless sky from cerulean sea. My pulse raced after as the palms dotting the edges of the white sand shore bent in the wake, waving him goodbye, beckoning me forward.
What I wouldn’t give to disappear too.
I closed my eyes and breathed in deep, the salt, the sunshine, heavy on the wind. My mother would be lecturing me about the whole exchange; about my posture, about my bag, my hair, my clothes.
I smiled. My mother wasn’t here.
Having visited this beach since childhood, I made my way easily through the maze of resort pools, my dated swimsuit and cut-offs a curious contrast to the half-clothed spring breakers writhing to the music pulsing overhead. The air, buoyant and light, ushered in thoughts of my grandmother and the lilt of her voice urging me forward. Go, be free while you can. This brought another smile to my lips as I twirled and danced my way through the crowd, enjoying their energy as I headed down the path.
It drove my mother crazy that I visited Mexico so often. Every time I returned, she marked it as a lost opportunity to further my exposure to different parts of the world. Correction. Her self-designated and pre-approved parts of the world. She’d worked—no, clawed—her way to the top of a society in which I had no desire to be a part. The money, the politics, I turned away from it all as much as possible except in the case of Mexico. One of her contacts offered us unlimited resort access, and I visited as often as possible. It was an escape.
My only escape.
I veered off the public path, pushing past the greenery that hid the entrance to the trail I’d carved out long ago with my grandfather. My backpack, filled with worn-covered favorite books, grew less heavy as I neared my destination. Brushing a curl from my face, I reached up and yanked at the purple ends of my bandana, tightening it into place. My hair was ridiculously knotted, but I didn’t bother to detangle it. This was the one place I didn’t have to worry about how I looked, how I presented myself to the world.
A blush pulled at my cheeks. What had the helicopter passenger thought of me, standing barefoot on that warm stretch of patio, my mass of blonde curls whipping wildly in the wind? I couldn’t escape the gnawing notion that somehow, in that instant, he’d seen more than most.
I was used to being looked at, but rarely seen.
My mother was a near mirror image of my grandmother, glowing warm brown skin, flowing ebony hair. While I too had my grandmother’s wide smiling lips and rounded cheekbones, I favored my father, though I’d never met him, and my grandfather, having inherited not only his jade green eyes but his fair hair and complexion as well. Growing up with my grandparents, I’d learned to embrace my ambiguity—liked not fitting a label—even if people spent more time trying to figure me out than they ever did getting to know me.
I stomped down the trail, heels digging into the sand. Not that there was much to know.
Except . . . Except I wanted there to be.
Wasn’t that worth knowing?
My grandfather always thought so. It had been two years since he passed, since my quiet nature became a shell of books and my mother tore me away from my grandparents’ home in Brooklyn and into her well-staffed Manhattan brownstone and the most elite private school in New York. No looking back.
I had so many happy memories on these beaches, running and laughing with my grandparents. This outdated resort and my grandmother’s apartment were the only two places I truly felt at home.
Well, and the community center with the kids. My normal Saturday haven. The sound of their energy-fueled chatter stayed with me, carried me through the scathing halls of school each day, the obligatory social engagements at night, the weighted vest of my mother’s life fastened tight.
But not there. And never here.
I walked into the opening of my cove, with its perfectly lit sand and pockets of heavy, shade-bearing palm trees. The deep blue waters had long been my own personal paradise, an escape of peaceful solitude, encircled by craggy rocks and tall tropical brush. Carlos, the resort manager, had staged the area with beach chairs and tables, bottles of chilled water, all ready and waiting. He knew after so many years where I would spend my time and never disappointed in his preparations.
I’d no sooner settled into a chair, book in hand, when a melodic whistling came close and a guy appeared on my beach, from my path, wearing basic black swim trunks, a messenger bag hanging at his hip. He strolled toward the opposite side of the cove, unrolled a towel onto the sand, and lay down, his already tan back gleaming in the sun. I couldn’t help but stare, certainly because he was beyond attractive, but also because he had such an ease about being in what I thought had been my secret spot.
Reading soon became impossible. I couldn’t keep my eyes on the page and kept glancing over at my uninvited guest. He lay near motionless, soaking up the sun, his broad back rising with slow even breaths. It was a little odd being alone on a distant beach with a stranger. He seemed harmless enough though. And Carlos knew I’d be here. I left my chair and went to wade in the water, turning my face to the sun, cooling my body with the gentle waves.
I glanced his way again. Still he didn’t move. I waded out further, more comfortable now with his presence as mine seemed to hold no interest to him. I’d just reached the drop-off when a sharp edge tore at my foot.
“Really?” I cried out, gripping at my ankle, half-laughing as I stumbled about searching for balance. Nice, Bria.
My senses spun further as the stranger popped up and splashed a trail straight into the water. “Are you alright?”
I said nothing, struck silent by his presence. His eyes, a beautiful warm brown, with flecks of green and gold, peered into mine. I’d lost my sunglasses in my hopping fiasco and had nothing to hide behind.
“Are you hurt?” he pressed.
“I’m fine. I just—” I glanced away from his worried frown. “I think I cut my foot on a shell.”
He nodded and without pause, lifted and carried me to the beach chair I’d occupied, deftly wrapping me in the towel before stepping back. “Your injury, may I attend to it?”
I buried a smile with the back of my hand, his formality beyond endearing, but no words would form on my lips. I could only stare at the water dripping off the ridges of his torso, tight and defined. He was built so differently from my boyfriend, his chest and shoulders wider, and he moved with a greater fluidity. While Jon spent countless hours at the gym and walked with a stiff, practiced gait, this guy used every muscle he had with every move he made. Even his jaw flexed when he spoke, the dark scruff of his beard punctuating every word.
My lack of response only encouraged further action on his part. He jogged over to his towel and retrieved his bag, shaking the water from his hair as he ran back, his brown curls falling into place, framing his eyes. He reached toward my foot, looking to me for permission.