A little girl invites me to help her build a sandcastle. I glance at her mother for permission. The mother, who is on her phone, shrugs, and I sit down in the sand, to help my new friend make the most extensive medieval fortification, complete with moat and retaining walls, ever built on this beach.
The longer we work, the more kids join us, until we have a work force of about ten laughing kids, sharing a selection of colorful buckets and square plastic shovels.
A shadow falls over me, and I look up, wet, and with sand in my hair from pushing my hair back as I worked on the central tower, to see Cruise. I freeze.
“Sandcastles are my favorite,” he says to no one in particular, and kneels in the wet sand beside me.
I move away. Not because I don’t want to be close to me, but we are surrounded by children, and his presence here, after the way we parted, feels wrong.
“Look,” Cruise tells one of the boys who is working on a second wall around the entire castle. “You need to shore it up like this.”
“I need water,” one of my helpers demands, holding out her yellow plastic pail to Cruise.
Before I know what’s happening, he’s stripped off his shirt and is fetching buckets of sea water to fill the moat that three little girls have dug around the castle.
We work steadily for another half an hour, until the children declare the castle complete.
One of the moms snaps pictures.
I smile up at her, hoping I don’t look too sandy and that my nose isn’t red.
“You two are going to be great parents,” she says, glancing over at Cruise, and fanning herself.
“Oh, no,” I say, but she’s already moving away to catch a candid shot of her son patting a sand wall into place. It isn’t worth explaining that Cruise and I aren’t a couple. Despite what we did last night, we don’t even know, or like each other. We aren’t anything to one another.
I expect the comment to make Cruise angry, like my presence this morning, but instead he smiles and thanks the lady, and then turns back to what is shaping up to be the world’s most epic sandcastle, with walls within walls within walls, and multiple towers overlooking the sea-water moat.
“You’re covered with sand.” It’s the first thing he’s said directly to me.
I stand, desperately trying to dust off even a little bit of the sand that’s clinging to my entire body.
“It’s okay,” he says, his voice kind. “I was going to go swimming. Go in with me?”
My confusion must be obvious. I stare at my feet, unable to search his face for clues, I’m just too lost to know what I’m looking for.
“Please, Maya. Come for a swim with me.” He tips my chin up, forcing me to look into his face. His eyes are shadowed, unreadable, but his body language is subdued.
Who are you? I want to ask. The guy who made me scream with pleasure, the guy who kicked me out before dawn, or the guy who helped me build a sandcastle? Which one is the real Cruise?
“Fine,” I say. “But if you want to swim with me, you’ll have to keep up.”
I take off, sprinting down the beach, discarding clothing as I go. I hear him following, his feet pounding against the wet sand. The water is shockingly cold, and since I’m running the submersion is sudden and alarming. I dive beneath a wave, and swim furiously. I’m a good swimmer -- we had a pool as a kid and in college I swam laps at the University fitness center, but Cruise is better. He swims like the mermaid tattooed on his arm, come to life. Like he was born in the water.
Waves rush over me. Too soon, I realize that I’ve exhausted myself. The run this morning, and lack of sleep, have taken their toll. Next time a wave rolls in, it pushes me under. My mouth is filled with salt water, and I feel like a giant hand is pushing me down. I choke, the water burns my throat, even as I fight for air.
Cruise has his arms around me. I struggle, not trying to fight him, but fighting the water, panicking. He forces me to the surface.
“Breathe,” he commands.
I take a breath, even though it burns, and then another wave washes over us, and I sputter and choke again.
Cruise pulls me toward the shore, his arms around me, propelling me until we’re lying on the wet sand together.
The tears that I suppressed this morning are falling freely now. I lay against his chest, sobbing. It makes no sense. I’m humiliated. My lungs hurt. I’m exhausted, and I’m crying against the muscular chest of the guy who made me feel all of these things. And he’s also the one who saved me.
Gently, he pushes my hair back from my face.
“Hey,” he says. “You’ve been through a traumatic experience. But it’s okay. You’re a good swimmer, but swimming in the ocean is different. Have you ever really swam in the ocean?”
“No,” I admit into his chest. I’ve been to the beach plenty of time, played in the waves, but never really swam.
“There’s a trick to it. I can show you how, when you’re ready to go back in.”