Summer's Kiss (The Boys of Ocean Beach 1)

By the time the sun starts to set, everyone has pink cheeks and shoulders, even the year-rounders.

“Need any help?” I ask Anita as she and the other moms shower their kids off outside. She gives me a grateful smile. “Take Sibley up to Bobby, please? I’m going to rinse off once everyone clears out.”

“Sure.” I take a fresh-smelling Sibley up to her dad, passing her over the porch railing. “Da,” she says, smiling and grabbing when she sees him.

Like a local, this time I brought clothes to change into after the long day. I make it to the shower just as Anita turns off the water and gets out. “Perfect timing,” I say, passing her.

“Hope there’s still hot water left.”

The shower can only be described as rustic. The door latches with a rusty eye-hook, and wooden boards with wide slats make the floor. The walls are made of a wavy, cream-colored, plastic material that provides enough light but also a sense of privacy. I say sense, because I can easily hear the others laughing upstairs and the roar of the ocean in the distance. Anita was right, there’s not much hot water left, but it doesn’t matter. It’s still warm out and my skin needs cooling. Paranoid about so many people around, I step under the water in my bathing suit. I’ve got shampoo in my hand when I hear a knock on the door.

“Yeah,” I call out.

“It’s me.”

I see Justin’s bare, tan feet under the door.

“Um…I’m in here?”

“Can I come in?”

I unhook the latch and open the door. The rusty springs holding it to the wall groan. He’s standing on the other side, looking guilty and I ask, “What? Is this some kind of last chance booty call or something?”

“No, I just need to rinse off—thought you may let me share the last of the not-so-hot water.” He holds his hands up innocently. “Anyway, you’re the queen of the booty call, not me.”

I push the door open enough for him to slip inside.

“You’re not even naked,” he scoffs.

“There are a lot of people around. I’m afraid one of these walls is going to blow away with the next strong wind.” I step back under the water and wet my hair. He also steps in, lifting his face into the water. He takes the bottle of shampoo off the small bench and pours some in his hand. Instead of washing his own hair, he bumps me out of the water and starts lathering mine.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” He continues, scrubbing and massaging my head. I want to protest but it feels nice. He pulls me into the water so my back is to his chest and rinses us both of us. When he wrings my hair out and washes the soap off my arms, I blame the chill of the water for the goose bumps.

I turn around and see he’s washing his own hair now. It takes half the time and he uses the extra soap to wash his face and body.

“What is this?” I ask, talking about the two of us sharing a shower. I hold my hand up to his chest but stop short of actually touching him. He catches it in his own as I drop it to my side.

“I don’t know.” His eyes drop to my lips and then my chest and back up. I can see a hint of playfulness but something else, too. Confusion? Possibly, but then again, maybe that’s just what I’m feeling.

He drops my hand and turns around, getting a face full of water. With a glance backward and a smile he says, “You better turn around if you don’t want to get flashed. I gotta get rid of all this sand.”

I’m not sure what his game is, but he never really makes a move. Instead of hanging around for things to get complicated, I grab my towel and clean clothes off the hook. I dart out the squeaky door, but not before I hear him say, “Thanks for the shower.”

* * *

Fireworks over the ocean are the highlight of my summer vacation. The local business association puts on a display from the end of th

e pier, and although they aren’t as grand as other shows I’ve seen back home, overall, it is a perfect night.

Strangely, the shower broke the ice between me and Justin. We relaxed back into the easy relationship we’d had before things heated up between us. We eat dinner side by side, laughing at the stories Bobby tells about past Fourth of Julys. Apparently when he was fifteen, Justin singed his eyebrows on a roman candle.

“I still have a scar,” he says, leaning over for everyone to see.

He shares his non-crappy beer with me. He and the others tell stories about how afraid of the water I am, about how skittish I was when I got here and a million other tales about Summer that pulls me in and makes me one of their own.

There seems to be an unspoken agreement between the guys to give Justin the night to work through his emotions. They don’t ignore me but they’ve given us space to reconnect. From the outside it would look like I was here with him, and when the fireworks start he doesn’t hesitate to pull me into his lap and share his blanket.