The One I Want

“What about you? I’ve also been thinking about what you want.”

There’s always a bit of Andrew, even when he’s dressed casually. I slip my hand under the front of his button-up and run my fingertips over his abs. He doesn’t have to tense his muscles. They’re hard as rocks. He gives his body the same attention he gives his work. Both pay off for him. And for me. Don’t hate the player. Hate the game.

He leads me to a bench where we sit facing the ocean. We’re close, but with our eyes directed ahead, it’s easier to think clearly. “I was kind of playing it by ear. I’m happy to cover the front until Melissa returns. From there, I’m not sure.”

Reaching over, he slides his hand against mine. “Juni?” When I turn to look at him, he asks, “Do you mind if I ask about your parents?”

“I’m not sure how talking about a job got redirected, but sure.”

“I was thinking about something you said a while ago that hinted that you had little say in doing what you wanted when you were young. I’m guessing that had something to do with your parents. Will you tell me about them?” Our fingers fold together, and he brings my hand to his mouth for a kiss. “Anything you’re comfortable sharing.”

The waves are rougher today, not just choppy but angry. Sometimes, I can relate when it comes to my parents. But he has a right to ask, and he’s giving me all the space to answer. “Honestly, it’s a story I’ve told a million times to the press. I leave out a bunch of details because no one’s usually interested in those. Not when they’re trying to highlight my parents in a story.”

“I want to hear your side, not the one you tell other people. The one that lives inside you.”

I look at him, wondering how he always knows how to make me feel so special I lift his sunglasses so I can get a good look at his eyes. He chuckles, probably because people don’t normally do this. I’ve not found a lie hiding in his eyes yet, and today is no exception. Lowering them back down, I turn my attention to the memories I want to share, the facts that are out there, and maybe some of the in-between that ties it all together.

Sliding my sunglasses to the top of my head, I’m frustrated when they fail to keep the wind from whipping my hair around. I take the elastic from my wrist and twist it around until I have a knot on top.

He asks, “You said you’ve been interviewed by the press. Were they famous?”

“They were, but not like the Hollywood celebrities you’re used to. My parents were world-renowned botanists.”

When he tugs his sunglasses off, he reveals that look of the dots being connected. I’ve witnessed it before many times. No one thinks they know anything about botanists until my parents’ names are mentioned.

I know what he’s going to say before he says it because I’ve heard it so much in my life. I can quote it. Turning to me, he says, “The plants in the lobby, the dick cactus you gave me, the reason that fake plant in the break room offends you . . . That’s why. Your parents.”

Well, I didn’t see that coming.

“I have a gift for plants.”

Nudging with his elbow against mine, he says, “And you’re a plant gifter. See what I did there?”

“I sure did.” I try not to laugh. There’s literally nothing funny about what he said but seeing him enjoying that bad joke entices me to laugh with him. “And it’s not a dick cactus.”

“Does it matter what the official name really is?”

“No.”

Moving closer, I enjoy touching him and being as close as I can. “Sex does things to you.”

“Are we talking biology or botany?”

“No getting sidetracked. Let’s talk about botany, baby.” His arm comes around me again, and we sit like an old married couple on the boardwalk. “Teasing aside, my parents flew to every corner of every continent. They met in college, competing for the same scholarship. My mom didn’t need it. Her parents were well enough off, but she just refused to lose to my dad. I should say they hadn’t met until that point. Then they did, and the rest is history. Botany history, to be exact.”

“Jacobs.”

That’s it. That’s all he says.

A heavier emotion has taken hold of him, and standing, he paces. He stops, mumbles something to me, and then paces again.

“Are you all right, Drew?”

“I . . .” He circles the bench and then finally sits on the edge like he’s ready to bolt at any second. “Juni?” His hand is large, his palm eclipsing my knee when he holds me there.

“Yes?” I rest my hand on his, feeling it adds to the drama.