by Suzan Colon
Table of Contents
Beach Glass
Dedication
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Gratitude List
About the Author
Beach Glass
Finding love means taking risks, letting go, and believing in second chances . . .
A devastating break-up—
YES, I’M READY to be your wife after five years together. I’m ready to marry you, to do laundry together, to have kids with you and wake up in the middle of the night when they cry, and try to find time for sex and laugh about it when we can’t. I’m ready for all of it, Daniel.
Katy McNamara’s ready, but Daniel, her devoted but commitment-wary boyfriend, isn’t. When her thirtieth birthday comes and goes without a marriage proposal she leaves the dull safety of an east coast freelance job for an assignment in Costa Rica, hoping the distraction of writing about yoga and surfing in a tropical paradise will help her heal.
Enter Carson Richardson—tanned, tall, and handsome, a world-class surfer who also happens to be smart, wealthy, and a very nice guy.
Carson the surf god teaches me how to ride the waves. Carson sits with me on a surfboard, and we kiss as the sun sets behind us. Carson looks on with approval as I send a postcard home with one sentence that reads: I’m not coming back.
Loving Carson opens a world of adventure for Katy, though the dangers of his sport always lurk at the edges of their happiness. If the unthinkable happens, will the fantasy be enough?
Falling in love means trusting, hoping, sharing—and learning to survive when you must go on alone. Falling in love means realizing that life is as fragile and as beautiful as beach glass.
Beach Glass
by
Suzan Colón
Bell Bridge Books
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.
Bell Bridge Books
PO BOX 300921
Memphis, TN 38130
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-435-8
ISBN: 978-1-61194-401-3
Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.
Copyright © 2014 by Suzan Colón
Printed and bound in the United States of America.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
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Cover design: Debra Dixon
Interior design: Hank Smith
Photo/Art credits:
Couple (manipulated) © Dmitry Ersler | Dreamstime.com
:Mgbh:01:
Dedication
For Mom, Dad, and the man I want to walk a thousand beaches with, Nathan.
1.
“ARE YOU READY, Katy?”
Daniel asks me this question as he embraces me, and being in his arms feels the way it always does. Like home, a place I want to stay forever. I push back the flop of dark hair on his forehead and gaze into his eyes, a comforting shade of dependable brown, and I think, Yes. Yes, I’m ready to be your wife after five years together. I’m ready to marry you, to do laundry together, to have kids with you and wake up in the middle of the night when they cry, and try to find time for sex and laugh about it when we can’t. I’m ready for all of it, Daniel.
But I don’t say any of this, because we’re standing at the doorway that leads to the garden of my favorite Italian restaurant in the village, and because Daniel must know how I feel. Besides, that answer doesn’t seem to match his question, and before I can ask ready for what? he gives me a quick kiss, shmushing my carefully-applied lip gloss, and leads me out the door.
“Happy birthday, Katy!” That would be the sound of ten of our friends shouting at us.
Daniel turns and beams at me. “Surprised?”
Totally surprised, because this isn’t what I was expecting. I love Daniel for planning this thirtieth birthday party for me, but he was so good at keeping it a secret that I was convinced he’d arranged a romantic dinner for two, something quiet and private. Something where he could get down on one knee and finally, finally ask me to marry him.
But hey, this is great, too! Maybe he’s going to make this a public proposal, a combination birthday and engagement party? Well, that’s not really like my shy guy. My guess is he’ll do it privately, when we go home—I mean, back to my place—and hopefully before midnight. I really don’t think I’m going to have to stick to that silly vow I made on my last birthday, when I promised myself that if Daniel and I weren’t at least engaged, if not married, by the time I was thirty, I’d have to move on. Being a mom is one of my lifelong dreams, after all, right up there with being a writer. And as hard as it is to get my foot in publishing’s door, I might have an equally tough time getting pregnant. It took my mother a few years to have me and then my sister, and the same thing happened to my sister with my niece. I don’t want to wait too long. But I’m sure, I’m totally super-certain that Daniel won’t make me wait past tonight. I have faith in him. He’s going to propose. I just know it.
Thrilled that I’m so surprised, though not knowing the whole reason why, Daniel gives me an impishly handsome grin, the one where the dimples that embarrass him come out in full force. Our friends hug us hello and wish me a happy birthday, and someone hands me a glass of champagne. Then Daniel leads me to our seats at the middle of the long, candlelit table under the white-tented garden. Small bouquets of iceberg roses decorate the white-clothed tables. Daniel pushes his hair away from his eyes and asks, with a smile so eager to please, “Are you happy, Katy? I wanted this to be special.”
“It is special. I love it. I love you.” Our kiss is soft, sweet. This little PDA gets a round of applause from our friends, all couples who are engaged, married, married and pregnant, married with kids, married to their second spouses and expecting their second kids. I look around and think: Soon, Katy. Possibly within hours.
No, I mean definitely. We’ll be like them. Really soon. I stop myself from rubbing my ring finger, a nervous tic that started a few months ago. Or maybe a year ago, on the night of my last birthday, when the expected proposal didn’t come and I made the stupid vow. I never, ever wanted to be one of those engagement ring-obsessed women who feels she has to strategically place magazines open to ring ads, hint heavy-handed hint, where her boyfriend can see them. Or worse, the kind who makes ultimatums. I used to be one of those optimistic idealists who thought love was way more important than a piece of paper
, blah blah happy blah. But people like that usually have some tangible sign of commitment, like living together, starting a family, and oops, we were just having so much fun we forgot to get married. But Daniel and I don’t have any of those things.
Yet, I remind myself. All that could change in the next few hours, even though right now that seems like a lot to ask for. Maybe I should’ve had a talk with him about it, as unromantic as that might have been.
“Hey, pretty Katy.” Daniel is looking at me over his menu, as he always does.
“Hey, Darniel,” is my automatic answer, his nickname a result of me mixing Darn you with Daniel during a long-ago argument. The mashup made us laugh so hard we forgot what we were fighting about. He crosses his ankles behind mine and pulls my feet toward him. I look down and shake my head. “You’ve got to get rid of those sneakers,” I say, even though they kind of go with his drainpipe jeans, button-front shirt, tie, and leather jacket, his mix of rock n’ roll dressed-down dress up.
“Why?” he asks. “I’ve had ’em forever.”
“That’s no reason to keep them.”
“Sure it is. You don’t toss something that still works just ’cause it’s been around for a while.” He nudges my brand-new rose-colored patent leather pumps, my sister’s birthday gift to me, and nods at his menu. “What do you want, birthday girl?”
I bite my lips until I can answer the question he’s really asking. “Will it bug you if I have the steak pizzaiola?”
“’Course not. Just means we can’t share,” he says, shrugging in a good-natured way. He gives the server our orders, making sure there’s no meat, fish, chicken stock, dairy, or slightest hint of animal in his because he’s vegan, and no avocado in mine because I’m allergic. He always does this for me. Daniel is so thoughtful, in addition to being a hot nerd with a cool job at a recording studio, and an animal rescuer. I’d be crazy to break up with him, and I quickly shake the thought from my head. What am I so worried about? I know I won’t have to. Before I can stop myself, I glance at Daniel’s watch, noticing that we’re only a few hours away from midnight. I feel like Cinderella, in danger of turning into a permanent spinster at midnight if my punk rock prince doesn’t propose.
After dinner, which sits in a clump in my nervous stomach, Daniel excuses himself to talk to a friend from work. “Hey,” says my friend Marisa, patting my hand. Her diamond-studded wedding ring twinkles in the low garden lighting. “Were you really surprised about the party?”
“Totally,” I say. “I was expecting something else.”
“Aw, look at that,” Marisa says, nodding toward Daniel, who’s dancing with her five-year-old daughter. He holds both her hands as he does a funny dance with her, making her giggle. Then he lifts her up to twirl her around, and she throws her arms around his neck. “He’s going to be good with kids,” Marisa says with a knowing smile.
Daniel comes back with a glass of champagne. “For the birthday girl,” he says, touching my back affectionately. His hand feels so warm and smooth, and my skin drinks it up. I look up at him. “This is all amazing, Daniel. Thank you.”
He sits, turning so that we’re knee to knee. “It’s not over yet.”
Calm voice, Katy. Don’t ruin his big surprise. “Really? There’s more?”
He nods and gazes at me intently. “Katy, I just want to tell you—”
“How’s everything over here?” asks our waitress, who has magically appeared at exactly the moment we don’t need her.
“We’re good, thanks,” says Daniel.
“Great!” she says, smiling at us like we’re her BFFs. “And how was dinner?” she asks me. “No avocado, right?”
“Fine,” I say, shooting Go away! rays from my eyes. And yet, she lingers. Oh, God, at probably the precise moment that Daniel was going to restore my faith in him and humanity, the waitress lingers. She’s not only lingering, she’s grinning, like she’s in on some great secret.
Wait, maybe she is. Maybe Daniel is going for some sort of public proposal! Hey, if this interrupting waitress turns out to be part of my engagement, I’ll forgive her. She can be my new BFF for real. She can be one of my freakin’ bridesmaids if there’s going to be a question popped right now.
Daniel leans toward me and whispers, “Classic case of Server Interruptus,” our code phrase for the phenomenon of wait staff checking on you only when you’re in the middle of a serious discussion. “Never mind her,” I say. “What were you going to—” Suddenly, the lights are dimmed, and Daniel smiles. I take a deep breath. This is it!
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you . . .” A cadre of servers leads the song as they approach our table, holding a big platter of cake. Sparklers and candles fizz and glow. All of our friends join in the song, everyone focused on me. And all I can focus on is what Daniel was going to say.
Until, that is, I see the cake. The giant slab of tiramisu, my favorite, has been decorated with a perfect replica of my first major writing triumph, a blog on Now News. My story about my friend Annabelle’s fishing family struggling after the hurricanes in Louisiana, right down to my byline, has been recreated in cinnamon. It’s beautiful. I look at Daniel with tears ready to spill. He grins back at me, thrilled that I’m pleased. “Go ahead,” he says, “make a wish.”
I squint my eyes closed and hold my breath, the same way I have for the past five years. In my mind, I see so clearly how handsome Daniel will look in a tux, me in a poufy dress my mother and sister helped me pick out, the matching wedding rings on our joined hands, and that I’ll be able to stay in the home of Daniel’s arms forever. I’ve made this wish so many times I can see every detail of our wedding.
Then I realize that this is the last time I’ll be making this same wish . . . For better or worse.
The sparklers fizzle just as I blow out the candles. For a moment, the world seems darker. Then the lights are turned up again, and everyone applauds. “Speech!” someone yells. “Speech!” For a writer, I’m surprisingly without words, partially because I’m choked up and partially because I’m so nervous. What can I say? I love Daniel. He’s the best boyfriend in the world. And I hope I’ll be calling him the best fiancé in the world before midnight.
Thankfully, Daniel rises from his chair. “Before Katy says anything, I’d like to say a few words.” Just four, I think, gulping my champagne. A split-second thought: I didn’t look in the glass, where Daniel might have put the ring! But I’m not choking on anything, and I’m so birthday-engagement-ring-obsessed that I’m actually disappointed that my ring isn’t being Heimliched out of me by a life-saving server. Then again, if our theory about waiters only showing up when you don’t want them to holds true, my ring would choke me to death. But I’d die happy, dammit.
“Thanks, everyone, for coming out to celebrate Katy’s birthday, which I think is one of the most important days of the year,” Daniel says. “Besides Halloween, of course, because there’s more candy.” Mild laughter; my normally shy Daniel, who tends to mumble when he’s nervous, has just enough champagne in him to be able to make a speech in front of an audience.
“Most of you know I’m already Katy’s biggest fan,” Daniel continues. “And if you’re here, you know why. She’s the best friend a person could have. She makes me laugh harder than anyone can—intentionally,” he adds, to a smattering of chuckles. “She can almost beat me at chess, she’s smart, and I don’t think I have to mention that she’s really hot.”
“You don’t deserve her!” hoots one of Daniel’s friends. Everyone laughs, and Daniel nods and blushes in a way that sends a tremor through my heart. “I probably don’t,” he mumbles, “but she’s kind enough to put up with me.” When he touches my cheek, I press his hand to my face and kiss his palm. The women at the table make Awww sounds.
“Anyway,” he continues, “among the many things I love about Katy is that she’s a really talented writer. And as most of you know, she just got her first Now News blog.” Everyone starts applauding. “On the homepage!” D
aniel adds, and the applause gets louder, with shouts and whistles.
“So everyone, please raise a glass,” Daniel says, holding his champagne up high. “To Katy, my favorite writer, my best friend, and my beautiful girlfriend.”
Everyone says, “To Katy.” At least, I think they do. All I can hear is the word girlfriend.
HOURS LATER, I am a combination of slightly drunk and really, really full. I ate two pieces of birthday cake, carefully pressing each bite into the roof of my mouth as I scanned for baked-in jewelry. I let this go after Daniel looked at me strangely and asked, “Do your teeth hurt or something?” After that, I shoveled cake in with dejected abandon.
Now, back at my apartment, Daniel comes up behind me, takes my coat off, and starts massaging my shoulders. “Wow, birthday girl, you’re really tense,” he says.
“I’m happy-tense,” I answer, glancing at the clock. Less than two hours left.
“Can I make you a little happier and less tense?” he says.
His full, soft lips touch my neck. Instantly, my shoulders relax. I love making love with Daniel. After five years together, we know each other so well, but maybe because we don’t live together and see each other every day, sex is still really exciting. I’m sure it’ll be even more exciting when we’re engaged and newly married. And, just like what happened to my friends and my sister, the moment things get a little, well, predictable, there will be a baby to shake it all up. I can’t wait to experience that. But now I have to lasso my mind back from my imagined future and return Daniel’s kisses, which are becoming insistent because I’m kind of ignoring him while I fantasize about, ironically, him. The husband and father version of him, that is.
Daniel walks me to the bed, a very short walk considering the size of my studio apartment, but as usual, we don’t lie down yet. We have a sweet pre-sex ritual where I stand before him and he slowly undresses me. He loves doing this. It’s part visual stimulation, I’m sure, but the bigger feeling I get from it is nurturing. Somewhere along the way, two pieces of our puzzle fit naturally together; I like being cared for, and he likes taking care of me.
