by Tara Sivec
“Campbell!”
My feet jerk to a stop in the sand, and I pull my hands out of my pockets as I turn around when I hear Birdie shout my name. She’s made it about twenty yards away from me down the shore, but I can still make her out in the darkness with a few of the beach lights in front of the cottages. It feels like it happens in slow motion, and everything else around us halts. The waves stop crashing to the shore, seagulls stop squawking as they fly overhead, the ocean breeze stops rustling my T-shirt, and my heart stops beating as I watch Birdie start slowly walking back in my direction, her feet sluggishly dragging through the sand and her flip-flips dropping from her hand as she moves.
And then she’s walking faster…
And then she’s jogging…
And then she’s full-on sprinting, and time speeds back up. The waves start crashing, the wind blows Birdie’s hair out behind her, my heart starts thundering rapidly in my chest, and I have just enough time to plant my feet into the sand and brace myself before she’s flying into my arms and her legs are wrapping around my waist. I hear a sob come out of her when she drapes herself around me like an octopus, my arms immediately going right where they belong, binding securely around her body and holding her as tightly to me as possible. Her long legs squeeze tightly around my waist and lock together at the ankles against my lower back, and my hat falls off my head as Birdie’s arms cling to my shoulders, her hands clutching onto whatever short strands of hair on top of my head she can grab as she holds my face against the side of hers. Not one millimeter of space separates us as I hold onto her for dear life, feeling the rapid beat of her heart against my own with our chests mashed together.
“I missed you so fucking much.” My words are low and gravelly, muttered against her cheek and filled with emotion I didn’t expect to come bursting out of me as soon as I had her in my arms again.
Keeping one arm secure around her waist, I slide my other arm up her spine and grab a fistful of her hair in my other hand, keeping the windblown strands out of the way as I bury my face into the side of her neck and breathe in the smell of home. I close my eyes, memorizing the feel of every inch of her body plastered to mine and wrapped around me, her arms and her thighs squeezing me tighter as I rock us from side to side in the sand.
“You’ve gotta stop staying away so long, Campbell,” Birdie whispers quietly, saying the words she always whispered in my ear when I got back to Summersweet and got my Birdie-launch hug, those words almost making me want to weep like a fucking baby when I hear them come out of her mouth.
All of a sudden, Birdie loosens her legs and arms from around me, and I have no choice but to do the same as she slowly and torturously slides down the front of my body, one of my arms still tight around her and the other still clutching her hair back at the nape of her neck until her feet are back in the sand. Her hands are resting on my chest as she looks up at me, our bodies are still pressed tightly together from the front of our thighs to our stomachs, and if I don’t move the hell away in about two seconds, Birdie is going to find out exactly how well I can find the hole.
A stray lock of her hair comes out of my grip and flutters across her face, and she takes a step back from me, my arms falling limply down by my sides while she reaches one hand up to hold her own hair back from her face before turning and quickly walking away.
If I didn’t still feel the weight of her body in my arms and pressed against me and the smell of her skin wasn’t still clinging to me, I’d almost think I imagined what just happened it happened so fast.
My heart starts slowing down the farther Birdie gets from me, and I watch her quickly scoop up her discarded flip-flips on her way back by them without stopping as I get ready to start slowly walking up toward the cottage yards to follow her.
“Almost thought you were gonna go another fifteen years acting like a sissy with that girl.”
I jump a little when I hear Murphy’s voice, not at all surprised he snuck up on me when I was busy staring at Birdie’s ass, and he’s now standing right next to me in the sand, watching Birdie get smaller and smaller down the beach. He smacks something against my chest, and I look down and realize it’s my hat that fell off when Birdie flew into my arms.
“Where the hell did you come from?” I ask, taking the hat from him, shaking the sand off, and then putting it on my head.
“I stopped in to get a late dinner, and Ed and I got busy talking at the bar while he was shutting down. Didn’t realize how late it, was since you know how he is, and he was waiting around to make sure Birdie got home okay before he closed,” Murphy replies, still looking off down the beach at her retreating form.
Ed Walton, or Eddy, the owner of Dockside Eddy’s, started going up to the Dip and Twist to get himself a milkshake every single night after Birdie and Wren’s dad flew the coop, because he didn’t like a single woman closing up a business alone at night when she had two little girls to go home to and there were so many strange tourists lurking around. Ed would sit there out in the parking lot taking all night to drink his butterscotch milkshake until Laura finished up, turned off the lights, and flipped over the Closed sign.
Under normal circumstances, I’d say it was a crush, but Ed has been happily married to his high-school sweetheart for forty years, and Karen would smother him in his sleep if he missed a nightly milkshake run and something happened to Laura Bennett. That’s just the way Summersweet Island is. Everyone looks out for each other. At this point, I think Ed goes up to the Dip and Twist every night more for his own amusement than for anyone’s security. He learned years ago that’s where Sip and Bitch takes place, and more often than not, he’ll see something much more entertaining and hilarious up there than he would watching TV at home or up at his bar.
“So, you didn’t like Bullshit Brad either, huh?” Murphy asks.
“Nope. Thought he was a dumbfuck the one and only time I met him, and he just continued to get dumbfuckier.”
I roll my eyes at my glowing use of the English language, but thankfully Murphy takes pity on me and doesn’t call me an idiot.
We both start slowly walking up the sand toward the cottages.
“He was a waste of her time. That yahoo only came to the island twice in two years, always making her go to him on the mainland, because he claimed it was boring here. He asked Laura why she didn’t try to find different work so she could afford to live in a nicer place and even asked her the same thing about Birdie when Birdie was out of the room one time. Laura never told her that. Didn’t want Birdie to know what a complete schmuck she was dating.” Murphy chuckles as we walk, shoving his hands in the pockets of his shorts.
What I really want to do is track down that piece of shit and punch him in the face, but since I can’t do that, I just continue walking. The joke’s on him anyway. Laura makes enough money during the summer months that she doesn’t even need to open the Dip and Twist during the winter months, but she does it anyway, because no one can go that long without her ice cream. And Laura, Birdie, and Wren all sacrifice the space they would have in larger houses they can definitely afford inland or on the mainland, for the luxury of living right on the beach, which is not cheap, even on a small island like Summersweet.
“Why in the hell did she stay with him for two years?” I mutter, both of us stopping right at the edge of a cottage yard, and I glance down the beach to make sure Birdie is still in sight.
Murphy sighs loudly, pulling my gaze away from her momentarily to look at him.
“At least some things never change and you’re still a moron.” He shakes his head at me before turning and walking back the way we came, shouting over his shoulder as he goes. “Open your eyes and finally figure it out, idiot! And don’t let her see you following her home or she’ll murder you before you pull your head out of your ass!”
CHAPTER 14
Birdie
“Grip it soft; stroke it smooth.”
Palmer: There are five golf carts left in the cart corral.
Bird
ie: Who is this?
Palmer: Seriously? I JUST left you in your office forty-five seconds ago and told you I would text you how many golf carts we had available while I walked to the lunch tents.
Birdie: A lot can happen in forty-five seconds. Also, this contact is listed in my phone as Dickhole Assfuck Piece of Shit Loser. Coincidentally, what I’ve also named a spam caller asking me about a warranty for a car I don’t own. One can never be too careful.
Palmer: You’re lucky you give good hugs.
Birdie: I gave you one hug that happened two days ago, and it was only because I felt bad for you.
Palmer: Sure. Okay.
Birdie: On account of how awful you are at anything other than golf.
Palmer: Whatever helps you sleep at night. You missed these big, strong arms picking you up and being wrapped around you.
Birdie: My fourteen-year-old nephew can pick me up. Let’s slow our roll there a little, Thor. Aren’t you supposed to be asking Ed if he needs any help setting up the southern boil he’s catering for lunch before your lesson?
Palmer: Aren’t you supposed to be grabbing the pins for the Longest Putt challenge? GOD, stop bothering me when I’m trying to work. You are the worst boss EVER.
Birdie: I liked you better when you were quiet and shy and did what I told you without any lip.
Palmer: You sure about that? I don’t remember you shivering much around me when I was quiet and shy.
Birdie: It’s called low blood sugar. Look it up.
Palmer: Still making up dumb shit in your head, I see.
Birdie: What?
Palmer: Never mind. Get back to work, slacker. I’ll see you at the Closest to the Pin competition at 5. Don’t forget to bring the baby powder from the storage closet. And a sweater for all your “low blood sugar” chills.
The first day of the three-day golf outing for the Summersweet Schools teachers and employees has gone off without a hitch so far, even though we had to postpone it from starting yesterday, because another summer storm popped up that wasn’t in the forecast. We’re supposed to be getting a few more scattered showers this week that I’ve been keeping a close eye on, but so far today, we’ve had nothing but clear blue skies.
Even though it was rainy off and on yesterday and there were only a few brave souls who came out to golf a couple holes instead of the two-hundred we planned on, I still had a ton of work to do, pushing the outing back a day. I had catering to change, food and beverage deliveries to rearrange, employees to reschedule, dates that needed updating on all printed items and all over social media, reservations to push back with the hotel next door, and a giant guest list that all had to be notified of the change. True to Palmer’s word after cornhole, he met me here at six in the morning and was right by my side through it all, helping me whenever I needed it, cracking jokes to calm me down when I was particularly stressed, and even ordered me my favorite chicken Caesar wrap with fresh-cut fries from the restaurant for lunch and put the plate down in front of me when I was on a phone call and realized I’d forgotten to eat, just like he’s been doing all morning today, when I’ve been even more frazzled now that the outing has officially begun.
The morning of day one is when teachers and school employees can bring as many family members as they’d like, and we set up a few fun children’s golf games with prizes, followed by recognition of all the teachers under the tents we set up, and then everyone eats lunch Dockside Eddy’s caters. After that, all minors leave, including anyone under the age of eighteen who still attends Summersweet Island High School who we employ at SIG.
For so many reasons, one of which I’m sure is about to be explained to me as the bell above the pro shop door chimes, and I look at the clock and realize it’s been over four hours since lunch.
“There are two golf carts that need vomit washed out of them, someone also puked in the 12th hole, and all the cart girls on the back nine are out of beer,” Mallory, one of the cart girls in question, says, popping her head in the pro shop door.
I look up from the counter, where I’m giving Mr. Flannigan, my third grade teacher, change from the bag of tees he needed to buy. Mallory holds the door open wider for him as he rushes out to the course for the Closest to the Pin competition starting in a little bit that I’m already running late setting up for.
“Again?” I sigh, grabbing the walkie-talkie from the counter.
“Which thing? The vomit or the beer?” Mallory laughs.
At this point, I don’t even know. This is now the third time since lunch someone puked on the 12th hole, although not actually in it. But it explains why the cart girls on the back nine have now run out of beer in the three golf carts that have been remodeled so it looks like the big silver industrial carts New York City hot dog vendors push around have been attached to the back end of them, minus the wheels. Those three beer carts can hold enough bottles and cans to hydrate this entire island, and they’ve now been emptied twice since lunch.
This is one of the main reasons why all minors or anyone who attends the school where these teachers mold their young minds absolutely cannot be at Summersweet Island Golf Course right now. These people, God bless their souls for what they put up with and do, completely lose their shit every year during this three-day event as soon as their own kids or the kids they teach are off the course grounds. They’re like stay-at-home moms getting out of the house for the first time with other adults, like Amish teenagers on Rumspringa, and like anyone ever on their twenty-first birthday in Vegas. It’s nothing but complete debauchery until the sun sets on the third day, awards are handed out, all photos and videos are quietly erased from devices, clothing is gathered from whatever hole it was discarded on, and everyone walks away saying “See you at work at the end of summer, Bob,” like Bob wasn’t just on the practice putting green four hours ago with his pants around his ankles, letting people try to chip balls at his crotch where he drew a big red circle with someone’s lipstick on his tightie-whities.
Pressing the button on the side of the radio as Mallory gives me a sympathetic smile, backs out the door, and it closes with a swish behind her, I let Murphy know about the vomit while I move out from behind the counter and head to the bar to take care of the beer.
When Murphy’s constant stream of cursing through the staticky radio gets to be too much for even me to take, I click off the walkie-talkie in the middle of his tirade right as my cell phone vibrates in my other hand. Looking down as I walk faster into the bar where a bunch of non-golfing school employees are hanging out, I see a text from Palmer.
Palmer: Hurry up. We’re not paying you to sit there and do nothing all day, sweet cheeks.
That’s just one more thing to add to the long list of things driving me crazy today.
I love that things are relaxed, comfortable, and easy between us just like old times, and seeing his name pop up on my phone again makes me a little giddy.
I also hate that things are just like old times, because just like in the olden days of long ago, Palmer still just wants to be friends when I’ve got hearts in my eyes, and no one is getting laid. We’re so relaxed, comfortable, and easy at this point I’m doing that stupid shit I spent years doing that I told myself I wouldn’t do again, where I analyze every little interaction with him, thinking I saw something I didn’t. I’m pretty sure I imagined the ear nuzzle, and the heat in his eyes, and that thing he said to me when I asked him what he was doing behind the Dip and Twist. What was it again?
“Absolutely nothing until you’re sober and remember every sweet goddamn second of it.”
Oh yeah, that’s right. How could I forget? It’s not like I haven’t been replaying those words every minute of every day since he said them to me behind the Dip and Twist. And it’s not like I haven’t specifically been avoiding any and all alcoholic beverages since that moment like all night long when we played cornhole, and all day yesterday when we worked together, and all night last night when we grabbed a few slices of pizza for dinner at Island Slice
. We were with Tess and Bodhi, ignoring the two of them while they made out at the picnic table across from us the entire time we ate, while Palmer and I talked about old times and I filled him in on my mom and Wren. Plenty of time for nuzzling, and growling in the ear, and the grazing of body parts, and a whole shit-ton of sweet goddamn things I could lucidly remember. But no, nothing!
Nothing but being helpful, and considerate, and making sure I got fed, and keeping my spirits up. And making me all tingly with his sarcasm, and dimples, wearing a white T-shirt with the SIG logo, the cotton material stretched tight over his chest and clinging around his upper arms and torso….
Setting the walkie-talkie down on the bar when I get to it, I quickly type up a reply to Palmer.
Birdie: Fuck off.
Hitting Send and setting my phone down on the bar, I don’t feel even a little bit bad about my reply as Tess takes one look at me and then tells the customer she was in the middle of taking an order from that he needs to wait a minute. Mr. Grega, the athletic director for the high school, just waves her off with a smile, content to munch on the bowl of peanuts in front of him and continue watching The Briars Open on the TV hanging above the bar. I look down at my phone and the text I just sent and sigh deeply and guiltily.
“What’s wrong?” Tess asks, pulling the white bar towel off her shoulder, lifting up my phone and the walkie-talkie, and quickly wiping down the sticky, shiny wood top before putting everything back and nodding for me to take a seat on the empty stool behind me.
“I don’t have time for a break. I need you to have someone stack up more beer by the backdoor so I can have Mallory and the girls pull up and refill the carts,” I tell her. “And what’s wrong is that I’m just being a whiny little bitch, the usual.”
I glance up at the TV when Brock Webster makes a killer drive off the 7th tee box, and the crowd cheers.
