midnight whisperings

“I want to go somewhere,” Chris says one night after dinner, when Caitlin thinks they’ve settled in for the day.  She almost protests that the heat has sapped the energy out of her, that Boston has sapped the energy out of her.  That it’s been a long day, and she’s Tired.  She knows that Chris, of all people, would understand.

“Somewhere specific?” she asks.

“Yeah.  Somewhere specific,” Chris says.  Caitlin knows the look on his face enough to trust him, enough to only ask him how dressed up she needs to get.  His eyes are bright, his body tense, like he’s physically suppressing a secret bubbling up inside him.  

“Don’t get dressed up,” Chris tells her.  “But bring a towel.”

It’s enough to set Caitlin’s heart aching, enough for her to wrap her arms tight around Chris, so grateful she could burst.  

There’s only one place she’d need a towel this time of year.

The sun sinks down on the horizon, the edges of pink and orange light catching the tops of the waves.  The water has already risen along the sand, the waves crashing heavier against the shore as the tide comes in.  Caitlin can feel the breeze picking up already, blowing the frizzy tendrils of hair that escaped her ponytail away from her face.

Back home, she would consider this too cool to get in the water.  Here in Boston, she knows that this is as warm as it is ever going to get, for the beach at night.  

Chris lays out beach towels that Caitlin knows will only collect sand.  He kicks off his flip flops, and she follows suit.  Caitlin closes her eyes and basks in the familiar discomfort of sand between her toes, images in her head of beach volleyball games at dusk lasting until the light faded so much that she couldn’t see the ball anymore.

Chris’ hand finds hers, and she squeezes it tightly.

It isn’t the same as back home.  The sand cools too quickly.  The ocean waves are a shock to her system, the brisk water making her teeth chatter when she wades in shin-deep.  Chris’ laughter echoes in the open air as she goes back and forth, back and forth, running from the cold water only to find that the breeze outside it only makes things worse.  Chris holds her hands as she braces herself, until the water feels warm enough for her to brave going in up to her knees.

Chris holds her close, though, when she gets there, his shoulders broad and his arms strong and his chest warm.  She leans down and kisses him with the sand beneath her toes and the first peek of the moonlight reflecting on their skin, casting shadows on the waves and making Chris glow.

“Thank you,” she says quietly, her voice barely audible over the water splashing around them.

When they leave the water, they wander back to their beach towels and sit together for a while while their legs dry.  Chris tells her about going to the beach with his friends, about borrowing his sister’s longboard in exchange for bringing home In-N-Out.  Caitlin tells him about senior year driftwood fires and the summer her best friend briefly worked at the food stand on the boardwalk.

“Boston isn’t like California,” Chris says as he stares out into the waves.  It’s as close to wistful as Caitlin has heard him get all night; he was unfailingly positive even in the frigid waters, the hockey player in him comfortable at temperatures much lower than Caitlin.

“No, it isn’t,” Caitlin agrees softly.  

But with Chris’ arm around her shoulder, his body pressed warm against hers, she can’t help but add.