Work Me Up

“What’s all this?” She kneels to help me arrange the blanket, then waits for me to sit down before she takes a seat too, tilting back so she’s lying with her head in my lap, but propped up high enough that she still has a decent view out over the ocean and the setting sun.

“A celebratory picnic, of course.” I lean down to kiss her forehead, before I brush her hair back from it, my own gaze traveling up and out over the ocean as well. “My mother used to bring me here for picnics, when I was a kid. Anytime that I did really well on a test in school or won a big game in soccer. It was our secret spot, for celebrations.”

Her gaze flicks up to mine. Once I notice her, the sunset seems to pale in comparison. “What are we celebrating?”

“Your first successful drive,” I tell her. I wink, as I say it. “The first of many, I’m sure. But that was a huge step you took today. A really brave one, too. I admire you for it.”

Her cheeks flush again, with that pretty blush I love so much. She lets out a deep sigh. “I feel ridiculous.”

“Trust me, Selena, you are anything but ridiculous. Anyone else who went through what you had would have the same fears. But what makes you different is the way you confront those fears. You run at them head-on. And you keep trying, even when you fail. That’s unique. Not everybody has that backbone.”

“I guess.” Her teeth snag on her lower lip, and she worries it a little.

But I don’t give her time to sink into her own head. I reach over and pop open the cooler, then start to pull out items. She glances up and over, surprised into not dwelling on her own worries anymore.

“What’s all that?”

“I didn’t know what kind of sandwiches you preferred,” I admit. “So I just packed one of everything, in case. There’s a turkey and cheese, ham and cheese, just cheese and tomato…”

She props herself up on an elbow, laughing as she peers around me and into the cooler. “You brought a whole deli counter with you.”

“Maybe.” I smirk.

Her smile widens, as she leans around me to select the egg salad sandwich I threw together last. Then she pushes herself back up to sitting and curls her legs underneath her. “Thank you.”

“That’s not all.” I glance past her, nodding in the direction of the setting sun, which has finally touched the horizon, begun to sink beneath it. “One more present for you.” I pull a bottle of champagne from the cooler. It’s a good brand, though a local one – which I guess my wine friends tell me makes it technically sparkling wine and not champagne, but whatever. It’s a pricier bottle than I usually drink.

I guess I chose correctly, because her eyebrows rise when she sees the label. “Wow. This really is a special occasion, huh?”

“Only the best for my girlfriend,” I tell her with a wink. That word alone makes her cheeks flush darker than ever, and makes my smile grow, in turn. “We’re celebrating more than just your drive today, I think.”

“I think we are,” she agrees, leaning in to tilt her face toward mine. “Boyfriend.”

I lean down to kiss her, just as the sun dips below the waves in the distance. When we break apart, the world has gone darker — all except for our eyes, locked on one another, which seem to shine in the sunset. I could gaze into those eyes forever.

Then she tilts her head, her hair brushing my shoulder as she leans around me and clicks her tongue. “Pretty sure you forgot glasses, though, didn’t you?”

“I’m a great boyfriend,” I tell her. “But not a perfect one.” I pop the champagne and offer her the first drink.

She takes a long pull from the bottle, then laughs as she releases to pass it to me. “Champagne always tickles my nose.”

“See?” I tilt the neck of the bottle toward her. “Such a dork.” But I take a long drink too, and I have to admit, I get what she means. The liquid fizzes, pops along my tongue. It makes me feel awake. It makes me feel looser, too, somehow, relaxed.

We eat our sandwiches side by side and talk about everything and nothing at once. About the plans we have for our futures — she wants to open a bookshop one day, run it, and maybe have a little café inside too. “You can make the sandwiches for me,” she says, nudging my knee with a grin. “Since you’re so good at it.”

“All right,” I agree, smirking. “But you’re going to have to man the champagne bar, since I clearly cannot prepare drinks properly.” To demonstrate that point, I take another deep swig straight out of the bottle, and she laughs, shaking her head.