Delaney James has it all: a handsome husband who just made partner at his law firm, a gorgeous townhouse in NYC's Upper East Side, and a blossoming career in fashion journalism. Life is perfect - until her husband leaves her for another woman. With...
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As soon as I get to Dawson's Beach, I park Mrs. McKinnie's car on a patch of grass and drop her keys in the cup holder. Out-of-towners might call me foolish for leaving her car unlocked with the keys inside, but South Grove is as safe a town as they come and there's not a soul here – except for the beautiful, suit-clad, brunette-haired man in the distance.
When we were younger and Greyson would pitch a bad game, or have a bad day, or simply needed some time to think, he'd climb out his bedroom window and run to the beach. He never told his parents where he was going, or that he was even leaving, and inevitably, Mr. or Mrs. McKinnie would always come knocking on our door looking for him. After I searched the town and found him at Dawson's Beach for the third time – his rear-end on the sand and toes in the water – I knew this place was his secret escape. When I asked him why the beach and not a batting cage, he said the sound of the waves made him feel calm and relaxed and gave him a sense of clarity.
Needless to say, I knew exactly where to go after he'd stormed out of his parents' house.
I step out of my heels – the soft sand slipping between my toes – and walk toward him. His knees are up, his arms wrapped around his legs, and his head is hanging between his slumped shoulders. He's taken off his shoes and socks and they're placed next to him in the sand. I can only see his profile, but I don't need to see his entire face to know he's upset, and my heart breaks as I watch him wipe his wet cheek on his shoulder. He's the picture of defeat.
"Hey, you," I say.
"I'm sorry about that. It's just...she keeps saying how happy my dad would have been to see everyone today, but he's dead. You know? I doubt he's happy about that."
Dragging my fingers through his hair, I sit down next to him. I cross my legs underneath me and set my hands in my lap. "Well, as if today wasn't shitty enough, Mrs. Flynn brought her ambrosia salad. Why does she insist on bringing that everywhere? I mean, someone must have told her how disgusting it is by now. Right?"
I laugh awkwardly.
I was hoping my stupendous ability to make a joke during an awkward moment would get me a smile, or at the very least, a snicker, but he doesn't flinch. He doesn't even blink. He just sniffles and wipes his nose with the back of his hand as he stares out into the ocean.
I've seen Greyson cry more times than I can count. When he broke his wrist practicing a frontside 180 on his skateboard when he was nine. The time some boys dared him to do a front flip off the high dive at the township pool and he belly-flopped. When the South Grove baseball team lost the State Championship our sophomore year of high school. The day of his grandfather's funeral. Last summer, when he found out his father's cancer had come back, and it was terminal. I've never been able to fix what made him upset, but I've always been able to comfort him.
I sigh and pull my bottom lip between my teeth as I try and think of ways to get him to open up to me. Finally – as if a switch had been flipped in my mind – I know exactly what Greyson needs. "Do you remember the prank we pulled senior year?" I ask. "Your dad had that friend who owned a farm – Hank Cleary I think his name was – and was gracious enough to supply us with an obscene number of chickens. You stole the janitor's keys after practice and when your dad found out, instead of telling us not to, or turning us in, he helped us load the chickens into the school gymnasium."
