Brighton
I wasn’t raised near the ocean. Visits to her were few and far between. It wasn’t until I could catch a forty-minute train to Brighton and sit on the pebble beach on the first sunny day of the year that I began to know her. The water was too cold for my desert skin, but my red-headed Irish friend lapped and frolicked in the waves, desperately trying to tread water while joyful, half-drowning giggles escaped between her chattering teeth.
I was content to sit on the beach, closing my eyes and inhaling the salty brine of the sea. I could feel the powerful energy of the water gliding over my skin and right through me. Like I was being cleansed from the inside out.
British people often mistook me for one of them, but upon hearing my accent, expressed their shock that I was American. I felt distinctly Western American any time I touched British waters, icy lips biting at my flesh and raising goosebumps from head to toe. My bones were arid and hollow from years of dry heat like bull skulls that adorn cabin walls, bleached by the sun. I could acclimatize to the rain, but I couldn’t get used to the frigid waters.
I met Amy at church, and while we were never close, I enjoyed her company very much. She was a young returned missionary who had recently broken up with her boyfriend and had eyes for someone new. Sopping wet, she curled up in her towel beside me, groaning in pleasure as the sun warmed her fair skin.
“I can’t believe it’s waterproof!” Amy exclaimed in her thick Northern Irish accent. “Look!” With shaking fingers, she thumbed her way to her photos and pressed play on a video of her underwater. The sounds of her gargled laughs, half submerged as the water lapped at the phone, were both eery and hilarious.
“You’re gonna drown if you keep it up,” I cautioned, trying to reign in my laughter as I pressed play again.
She rolled over, taking her phone with her and pulling up her messages. “Oh, he’s dreamy,” She moaned, fingers flying across the keyboard as she sent her reply.
Thomas seemed nice, but he was hardly dreamy. I loved Amy’s unleashed perspective on romance and the almost delusional set of eyes she had fixed on Tom. He was blond and nearly too tall, with sharp features and bony elbows. He wore small framed glasses, and his hair was always disheveled. Where Amy couldn’t stop talking, Tom couldn’t find anything to talk about.
Her love for him was pure, undiluted, and unbridled. They’d only known each other a few weeks, and despite her not being a teenager anymore, Amy seemed recklessly in love from the moment they shared a dance at a church-sponsored event.
I let her gush about him, enjoying the constant cheerful chatter as she described in detail what she’d do to him once they were married. It was always like this with my Mormon girlfriends. The sweetest, Saintliest women talking about sex like caged animals.
When she was nearly dry, she ran full force back into the waves and I stayed on my towel, getting back into my meditation posture and closing my eyes. Twenty-Six is a good age to get married, I thought as my eyes closed and I retreated inward. Unlike Amy, I didn’t fall recklessly in love. I didn’t seem to fall in love at all. Even though I was on the constant lookout for a worthy Mormon husband, it didn’t happen as easily as it did for girls like Amy.
In fact, I wished Tom was my type. Reserved, unassuming, and completely enthralled with his quick-witted, slightly unhinged partner. Knowing this train of thought wouldn’t lead me into meditation, I peeked open my eyes and checked my phone.
Jack: “Hey you! Are you gonna be at Institute tonight?”
My heart skipped a beat. I took a steadying breath before I replied:
Me: “Hey! I don’t think I’ll have time. I’m in Brighton right now!”
I waited for those three dots to appear.
Jack: “I was hoping I’d see you!”
Dammit.
Me: “Let’s do something else :)”
Jack: “When will you be back?”
Deep breaths.
Me: “I’ll meet you at South Ken at 8 :)”
Jack “Don’t stand me up! ;)
I immediately looked for Amy, to tell her we had to go. She was still half drowning, half treading water a few yards from the shore. I began packing up my belongings and waved her over when she finally found her legs.
“You want to go?” She whined and I gave her a sympathetic smile.
“I’m meeting Jack tonight and I want to shower beforehand,” I said, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks at my admission. She gave a feline smile before slipping into her sundress.
“Hate to keep the fellas waiting,” she eyed me again, “what’s going on between you two?”
I knew exactly what she meant. The years-long yo-yo of flirtation and prolonged silence. Of dating others and reuniting and going our separate ways again. There was just something about him. Something easy and warm, like laying on the beach in Brighton on the first sunny day of the year.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. We began our walk up the hill toward the train station. Our conversation faded as we converged with hoards of sunseekers, filling the streets and outdoor patios of adjacent bars.
We were leaving before sunset before either of us was ready. Amy found me again, wrapping her arm through my own.
“It was a perfect day, wasn’t it?” She sighed longingly, turning back toward the sea for a moment. My urgency to get back to London hurried us along. Perhaps the only way I was as reckless as Amy was that I gave up those perfect days at the beach for the chance to be loved.
