But Henry is so intense, and that intensity is completely disarming. I'm tempted to make light of this, but I don't wanna ruin the moment. He wants to know something about me. He's the first person in a very long time who has not seen me as an heiress, a trophy, or simply an extension of my parents. Why does this scare me so much?
“I know that I want to do something important with my life, but I don't know what that is,” I finally say. “Everyone wants me to be somebody. My parents want me to be the perfect daughter and the perfect heir to their fortune. My friends want me to be the perfect girlfriend, someone who laughs at their jokes even when they're stupid, and drinks way too much and gossips about what everyone else is wearing. I try to be these things to the people in my life, but most of the time doing that just makes me sick to my stomach. And the more time that passes, the more afraid I get that they're going to find out the truth about me.”
“Which is what?”
“That I'm not their perfect daughter or friend, and I'm not interested in running Tate Media.”
“Let's say, that they do,” Henry says. “What happens then?”
I shrug. He waits.
“I don't know,” I whisper. “I just feel this enormous pressure on my shoulders all of the time to be this person for everyone else, this person that I am not really at all. I'm afraid to tell anyone any of this because the truth is that I don't really know who I am except that I'm not her.”
“How can I help you?” the cashier asks through the glass.
“We’re back,” I say.
“It happens,” she says, completely unfazed and unimpressed.
Henry orders two tacos each this time and refuses to let me pay.
“I may not have much money, Aurora. But I can certainly afford four dinners at Jack’s Crab Shack.” He smiles and I laugh.
“I wasn't insinuating that you couldn't, I was just trying to be nice.”
“Well, you're on a date with me, why don't you let me worry about being nice. Besides, we're going to a bar after this, so you can cover that tab if you want.”
He drapes his arm around my shoulder, pulling me closer to him. When I look up, his lips collide with mine. The people behind us have to physically nudge us to get us to move. A part of me is embarrassed at all of these public displays of affection, but another part of me could not care less. I want to kiss him as much as I want to and I want him to kiss me for as long as he wants to.
When our food is ready this time, we are not as lucky with finding a table so we take our tacos to the beach. The breeze coming off the water is soft and warm and the roaring ocean of only a few months ago is nothing but a memory. We walk past the grasses and bushes that scatter along the coastline and find a quiet dune where we can be alone.
I only manage to eat one taco this time, watching him polish off the other three. After we are both satiated, I lean against his shoulder and watch the waves break in front of us. They aren’t very big today, nothing worthy of surfing, but that’s what also makes them calm and relaxing.
“What are you doing working on my father's boat if you live in New York City?” I ask.
“Jobs for summer people pay quite well and I’m off anyway during this time. So, I figured I’d come home, spend some time with my mom, and make some money.”
“Off from what?”
“I teach high school during the year.”
“Why haven't I seen you before? Is this your first summer?”
“The job on your father's boat is temporary. I'm filling in for someone. Normally, I work at the Southampton Yacht Club.”
“What do you do there?” I ask.
“A little bit of everything, but mainly bartend. I've been working there since I was fifteen. So I get to bartend as much as I want.”
“Is that the best thing to do?”
“Yes.” He nods and laughs, probably at my naïveté.
“That's where you get all the tips. And summer people, the good ones anyway, tip pretty well.”
Suddenly, I have an overwhelming urge to find out as much as possible about him. I want to know where he was born. I want to know what he was like growing up. I want to know if anyone has hurt him or broken his heart. I want to know about his mother.
But when I turn to face him and open my mouth to speak, he kisses me. The kiss is soft and airy, moving along with the waves. I curl up snugly into his armpit, noticing how nicely my body fits into his.
He wraps his arms around me and I intertwine my legs with his.
His fingers run down my side as his tongue finds mine. I arch my back against his strong lean stomach. I feel the bulge in his pants growing in size as I press my butt against it.
I'm about to say something when his hands start to make their way down my breasts. My nipples perk up as if they have been awakened from a deep sleep. My whole being gets energized. I arch my back again and again as his fingers start to massage me. His hands are soft yet firm and knowing. They're deliberate like the rest of him. He knows his way around my body as if he has done this a million times before. There is a strength in that and the feeling is completely disarming.
The sound of loud laughter interrupts our solace. It comes from the gaggle of teenagers rounding the dune and setting up their blankets right next to ours. All are too drunk to notice or care about our presence. One of them builds a fire and another one blasts house music from a speaker. The rest start to dance by swinging their hips and shoulders from side to side, in the same direction.
“How about we go somewhere else?” Henry asks.
I nod.
He holds out his hand to help me up to my feet. I want to go somewhere private, where we can be alone and together. I want to feel his hands all over me and me all over him, but he doesn't suggest a place like this. Instead he takes my arm and walks me around the corner to a rowdy, loud bar.
“This place makes cocktails as good as any of the ones I had in those craft bars in Manhattan. And they don't cost eighteen dollars a pop,” he says.
I don't want to go inside because I want to keep him to myself. But it's too soon. We have just met. I look at the menu that the bartender hands me and quickly order the first thing I spot, a cucumber margarita.
The bar is busy but we manage to find a seat in a dark corner, somewhat away from the music that's blaring out of the speakers. Everyone else is straining to talk, screaming at the top of their lungs to barely make themselves heard.
But here, in our little space, the music is at just the right level. It sets the ambience without being overpowering or obnoxious. When our drinks arrive, I watch him take a sip of his Old-Fashioned before trying my margarita.
“Wow, this is really good,” I say, nodding my head and noting that all of the ingredients are fresh. Nothing is prepackaged or processed.
“They make everything from scratch,” he says.
“I am shocked that they have the time to do this given how busy this place is.”
“A little known secret of the restaurant trade is that it's actually much cheaper to make things from scratch,” he says with a shrug. “But it does take a little bit more time. I know the owner of this place, I went to high school with his son, and he's very old-school. That's why this place is as popular as it is.”