We flag down a waiter and grab another round of deadly, caffeinated alcohol.
“Let’s take a walk on the beach,” I suggest.
I am no doubt pressing my luck. I brace myself for her to make her excuses and go moan to Alyssa that she accidentally enjoyed my company.
But she nods. “Great idea,” she says. “It’s so nice and balmy.”
Kevin catches my eye from across the room and squints disapprovingly in the manner of an English nursemaid who has caught a child mainlining cake. He’s friendly with Molly—they went to college together in New York—but he’s protective of me.
Which is kind of him, but I don’t need a hero right now; I need to kiss this woman who is clutching my hand and marching me off toward the ocean, whispering, “Come on. I want air.”
I hope she means “I want you.”
I grab her hand and we stroll down the beach, stopping at the pier.
“Remember when we used to make out here?” Molly asks.
I play it cool.
“Yeah, totally. It’s annoying that this beach has been discovered by tourists. Nowadays it takes an hour and a half to get here from town with the traffic.”
“I know. My mom always wants to come here when I visit, but I refuse to compete with the tourists.”
“Do you come back often?” I ask.
I do, but I’ve never run into Molly.
“Just once a year, if I can help it,” she says. “I do Christmas here, and my mom comes to LA for Fourth of July.”
I recall that she got very excited about the Fourth of July in high school. No matter how desperate things were at home, her mom would always host beach cookouts for their entire extended family. Molly moved through those parties with so much joy and confidence that she was hardly recognizable. I loved watching her like that—happy, uncomplicated.
“So no more beach parties?” I ask. It kind of makes me sad that the tradition no longer exists.
“They don’t let you make bonfires on the key anymore,” she says, shrugging. “And my mom got busy with her job and moved to the fancier part of the island, and my aunts and uncles are less enthusiastic about driving down here—they’re getting older, you know? Plus the traffic.”
Floridians hate traffic with a fiery passion—in part because our towns become overrun during high season with tourists and snowbirds whose driving skills are not at their peak. It is, consequently, a state prone to road rage.
I’m glad I now live in Chicago.
But I still like coming back.
“What’s LA like on the Fourth?” I ask.
“Oh my God, Seth,” she says, her voice full of something uncharacteristic, like excitement.
I too am full of excitement, because she has not called me by my first name in fifteen years. It literally sends tingles down my spine. Seth. It sounds like “sex,” with a lisp.
“It’s so beautiful,” she continues. “It’s the city’s best holiday—everyone goes nuts with fireworks, and you see the whole valley exploding in these gorgeous lights from the canyons. I can’t describe it. It’s a little scary because, of course, fire risk and all the sonic booms echoing off the mountains, which make you feel like you’re in the Blitz, but it’s so full-body that it’s almost sublime.”
Apparently, it still turns me on when Molly is that rare thing: earnest.
“Are you a Los Angeles July Fourth evangelist, Molly Marks?”
“I guess I am. It’s this pure, magical night. You should come sometime.”
She seems to take in what she said exactly in tandem with me—it makes her visibly gulp, and makes me sweat a little.
“I mean, you know,” she says quickly, “you should visit LA for the Fourth sometime, not—”
“Yeah, I get it,” I assure her.
“Not to be rude, it would just be weird if—”
“Molls,” I say, taking her by the shoulders and lowering my voice. “I get it. You’re not inviting me to come stay at your house for Fourth of July. It’s okay. I’m not offended. I’d rather visit you over Thanksgiving anyway. I make incredible pumpkin pie.”
She relaxes.
And then we are standing in the moonlight, on a gorgeous beach, and I am holding her, and she is looking into my eyes, and she is so beautiful.
I know what I have to do.
It’s the law, and I am an officer of the court.
CHAPTER 7 Molly
Slowly, Seth leans in.
Slowly, I step forward and put my lips to his.
