“Go swimming,” I tell him. “I think I’ll do better on my own.”
There’s relief on his face, but he walks down to the water slowly, looking back a few times. To make sure I’m okay. Or maybe to try and figure out if I’m angry.
I play Buckets of Rain. I can always count on Dylan.
Justin dives into the waves. A big family walks by—four little kids in varying sizes and stages of undress, and a mom, dad, and teenager armored by beach chairs, firm grips on their umbrellas, like they’re about to do battle with the sea. The smallest of the children, a little girl with big red curls, wearing only a diaper, walks right over to me, fat little feet sinking in the sand. She touches my guitar while I’m playing.
“Imogene!” the mom yells.
“It’s fine,” I say, smiling. I switch to playing If You’re Happy and You Know It. Imogene squeals and claps and stamps her feet. She slips to her knees, sitting in front of me. The other kids sit next to her.
They’re like a magnet. Everyone else who uses the trail to get to the beach stops, for at least a moment, to see what’s going on. I don’t know that many kids’ songs, so I mix in ones that their parents will know. Even Maggie’s Farm sounds like a children’s song if you brighten up the chords and sing it too fast for the kids to understand the words.
* * *
Ten songs in, Justin comes back, red-shouldered, dripping, sand stuck to his ankles like sugar on a cider donut. There are at least a dozen kids seated in a semicircle around me, parents lingering to watch them. Justin stands back with the adults and gives me a wink when I make eye contact, like maybe he’s impressed.
I play for two more hours, to a revolving group of little ones. Cycling through the same songs when the crowd changes over. My fingers are blistered and my throat is dry, but there’s a growing mound of bills in my case.
Justin takes off for a while and comes back with a paper liquor store sack and three Chinese food cartons. It’s dinnertime and the crowd has thinned to two kids and a frazzled nanny, who takes the hint and ushers the kids away when she sees Justin.
“Hungry?” he asks, and puts the food down next to me.
“Very,” I say. He pulls two sets of chopsticks from his pocket. Opens cartons of egg rolls, chicken fried rice, and vanilla ice cream.
“It was a special,” he tells me. “The woman insisted.”
“I’m not complaining,” I say.
We eat the ice cream first, since it’s melting, scooping at it with our chopsticks held together tightly.
The wine has a screw top and tastes like old vinegar, but it was a sweet touch. He only had ten dollars left. I’m not going to be mad that he spent it on nonessentials. It’s nice that he wanted to help, that I’m not eating dinner alone, and I have someone to talk to about my day.
We eat slowly, watching the sun creep to the horizon. I dig my toes into the sand.
A little kid runs over, his mom chasing behind. I saw him in the crowd of kids earlier. He’s five or six, big ears and a bucket hat like Gilligan.
“Do you know that song about the dragon?” he asks me, the S in song revealing his lisp. He holds his hands up, fingers curled like dragon claws.
“Cory!” his mother yells, catching up. “Don’t bother the nice lady.” She bends to grab his arm. He pulls it away.
“But…” They exchange a look. He cups his hand to her ear and whisper-shouts, “I was asking nicely.”
Justin nods in the kid’s direction, grinning at me. It’s all adorable.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say to Cory’s mom. “I do know that song.”
I pick up my guitar and play Puff the Magic Dragon. His mom sits in the sand. He sits in her lap. Justin doesn’t even look awkward about it. I think I catch him mouthing the words to the chorus. I play two more songs for Cory, and his mom gives him ten dollars to put in my guitar case before they leave.
“Thanks, buddy,” I say to Cory. “It was fun to sing for you.”
“Yeah, dragons are good,” he says, his S failing him again. I smile and wrinkle my nose. He wrinkles his nose back at me. He’s so damn cute.
Justin and I watch Cory and his mom trudge across the sand to collect their beach chairs. The sun disappears, leaving a line of fading orange light just above the waves.
I drive us home with one hand on the wheel and the other holding Justin’s.
* * *
The mattress springs squeak so loudly. Justin tries hard to keep his game face on. Serious sex. Very serious. But then the single squeak turns to double. Flex, release. The bed sounds like an old hoarse donkey, and I laugh out loud. Justin breaks into a smile and falls on me, giggling. We shake together. And kiss and laugh more. I roll over, so I’m on top, and make the bed squeak again. His smile is beautiful. I could love this if I tried. Unlatch the door and let him in. It wouldn’t be the worst thing.