Baewatch - Xavier Neal Page 0,15
need to announce our ages to the entire world like we’re contestants on a reality show they’re secretly filming?”
She snickers and proceeds to putting away her license.
“Does the age gap bother you?” I toy with the plastic card, wishing it were her fingertips instead. “Is me being almost forty a problem?”
“It’s only a problem if you stop being you and start being some stick in the mud that wants to know my political affiliation because you can’t stand someone who doesn’t agree with everything you vote for, my financial class which will determine who gets to wear the outdated term ‘breadwinner’, and how fertile the women in my family are since you refuse to have less than six kids.”
“Six kids?!” My voice croaks in a high pitch. “What are you raising, a family or a surf team?”
Brooklyn’s head tips back in laughter, which encourages me to promptly put away my license so we can link our fingers again. Once it’s securely back in my pocket, I place my hand palm up, instantly pleased when she places hers on top.
Damn.
There’s just something about this that feels too right to do anything else.
“I’m less of check-list guy and more of a ‘do what wetsuits you best’ kind.”
“I’m picking up on that,” Brooklyn states and flops her face into the open palm of her other hand. “And I like it. A lot.”
“What about you?” My voice softens. Gets dreamy. “You more of the ‘where the tide takes you’ type, or should I be preparing for an official husband interview complete with a two-page written essay requirement in the coming days?”
There’s no mistaking the mirth in her tone. “You interested in the position?”
“I’m interested in being the only one you deem qualified.”
The thoughtless confession has us both momentarily stunned silent.
Oh shit.
Did I really say that out loud?
On a second date?!
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Did I get too much sun?
Is that a thing that can happen to me?
I mean, I know it can happen to other people, but I didn’t think it could happen to me.
Tammi arrives quicker than we anticipated; however, I welcome the segue to a new subject. “Here ya go!” She maneuvers the large drink onto the table and announces, “Most people like to use the extra straws to ‘go fishing’ while they’re sucking this thing down.” Our gazes admire the bright blue-colored beverage filled with liquid, ice, orange slices, candy fish, and a layer of Nerds at the bottom. “It’s like a fun thing that only grows in funness the drunker you get.”
We each shoot her a polite smile that sends her strolling away.
Brooklyn doesn’t look my direction as she removes her hand from mine. The action prompts me to shift unhappily in my seat, fear that I’ve royally screwed up doggy paddling in the front of my mind. Just when some sort of poorly put together explanation is finally formed and ready to jump off my tongue, she yanks up a straw and asks, “How good are you at fishing?”
“We talkin’ Swedish or big ocean game?”
The comment causes her to look at me with a crooked grin.
Relieved to see the humor I’ve come to enjoy floating around, I mimic the action and prepare to play with her. “How many do you think you think can catch?”
She hums and sends her stare back to the drink. “Without just sticking my whole hand in there?”
“Don’t do that.”
“Why? You don’t want me to add a salty, oceany flavor to it?”
“Pass.” More laughter pings back and forth between us. “Hard pass.”
“Fine. Fine. Then, Imma guess…I can scoop out at least three.”
“And I’m gonna rise to that number.”
The two of us embark on an exhibition to scoop out the fish candy. To no surprise, the liquid is splashed around, yet every splatter is welcomed with snickers or giggles or laughs. We take turns rushing our mouths to the rim to awkwardly scoot the treat inside, our shared amusement growing louder with each attempt. There’s an equal amount of good-natured taunting and encouragement, and the balance, something that I love having, solidifies my previous sloppy declaration. In between creating a sticky mess and snacking on an order of coconut shrimp, we exchange hilarious stories regarding our ugly competitive side that doesn’t always have the best timing.
About halfway down of the flavorful drink, Sal starts strumming a classic tune that causes my chest to swell in an unforeseen nature. I abandon my hunt for one of the last fish at the bottom of the bowl