On the Rocks(42)

“I am! You must be Abby. Wolf told me a lot about you, it’s great to meet you!” he said, seeming at once friendly, easygoing, and, in all likelihood, contagious.

“He told me a lot about you too,” I said, which wasn’t exactly true. He did tell me that his name was Paul, but he failed to mention that Paul might or might not have some form of herpes.

“Do you want to get a drink? Pull up a stool,” he said, motioning to the seat next to him. I sat down and smiled nervously before ordering a very stiff vodka tonic. “So Wolf told me that you’re a teacher, is that right?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied. “I teach kindergarten. I love it, but it does leave me a good bit of spare time. I’m working at a little store down the street two days a week this summer to stay busy.”

“You’re lucky. I work in advertising, so I’m pretty busy all the time. I’d love some time off to concentrate on other things.”

“It’s one of the perks, that’s for sure,” I said. I didn’t know what to do. Did I ask about the mouth blisters to make him feel at ease? Or would that be considered rude? Was I supposed to pretend that I didn’t notice them? These were so not normal questions to ask oneself on a first date. I realized that the next time I felt unfit to be seen in public because I had a zit I should probably reconsider, since there were way worse ailments running around this island.

“What do you like to do in your spare time?” he asked. I wanted so badly to not be grossed out by the blisters he had all over his mouth, but I couldn’t help it. I wasn’t a shallow person, but did guys these days think that mouth sores didn’t even warrant an explanation? I thought about asking if he’d had an allergic reaction to something, but I didn’t know the protocol for handling uncomfortable and potentially contagious medical conditions. If there was one thing I had learned from my mother over the years it was that sometimes honesty is really not the best policy.

“I read a fair amount,” I lied. Unless he considered the weekly tabloids or the latest edition of Coastal Living reading material, I hadn’t read anything in ages. “What about you? What would you do if you had more spare time?”

“Actually, I’m a beekeeper. I’d do it full-time if it paid the bills, but sadly, it’s just a hobby,” he replied, as if that was the most normal thing in the world to say.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I understand. What do you mean you’re a beekeeper?” I asked, completely convinced that I hadn’t heard him correctly. I was pretty sure I still had water in my ears from my morning at the beach.

“I have honeycombs in my backyard. Have you ever tasted really fresh honey? It will blow your mind. I’ve been doing it for years. I absolutely love it.”

“No, I get my honey from the plastic bear-shaped containers sold in the grocery store. I guess I’m a wimp that way. To be honest, bees scare me. I don’t even like Honey Nut Cheerios.” This was by far, one of the strangest hobbies I had ever heard of in my life. I wondered if maybe he was allergic to the bees, which would at least explain the blisters. It might be time to get a new hobby, Paul, I thought.

“You’re missing out! Few people appreciate how beautiful bees are. There’s so much more to them than most people understand,” he said, staring dreamily into space as if it made him happy to just think about his insect friends. I was going to kill Wolf.

“Really? Like what?” I asked in what turned out to be a very, very stupid decision.

“I’m so glad you asked! I’d be happy to teach you a few things,” he said. And he did. For the next hour and a half, I listened to him wax poetic about his love of bees and realized that Paul might have been a very nice guy, but he was oh so definitely not for me.





Chapter 11



A Lobster Named Snappy




WHEEZE, COUGH, WHEEZE, COUGH. My lungs once again battled through their oxygen assault as I trotted down Spring Street Sunday morning, dodging churchgoers leaving Sunday morning mass. I wasn’t as out of shape as I used to be, my jogs not only had gotten longer but didn’t feel quite as torturous as they used to, and I liked being able to actually clock the progress I was making in a tangible way. If only everything in life could be measured so easily. I had forgotten how much I loved the endorphin surge I got from exercising, one of many things I’d let Ben make me forget I enjoyed. Though I had a long way to go before I was back to pre-breakup fitness levels, I refused to let it frustrate me. There was a time not too long ago when I didn’t even know where my running shoes were. The fact that they were now on my feet and being put to use was something to be proud of; the fact that I’d just managed to pass the two-mile mark without seeing spots was something worth freakin’ celebrating. Baby steps, Abby, I told myself as I slowed and waited for my pulse to come down to levels that probably wouldn’t set off any alarms at a cardiologist’s office. Baby steps.

When I finished jogging, I walked down to the piers, where I quietly people-watched and enjoyed being inside my own head without wishing there was an escape hatch. Around noon, Grace, Bobby, and I grabbed our beach bags and headed over to the beach, dragging chairs and the essential cooler of beers with us. We were strolling along the sand, looking for a spot to set up for the next few hours, when I recognized the somewhat gaunt-looking woman walking toward us. It was Lara, flip-flops in hand and her mind somewhere else entirely, as evidenced by the fact that she almost ran directly into me before she realized who I was.