To The Grave by CAITLIN MOSS

Author:CAITLIN MOSS
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Caitlin Moss
Published: 2022-10-30T04:00:00+00:00

IT’S GOING TO rain today. A miracle. A reprieve. The heat from the summers in San Diego often burns into autumn.

Until the rain falls.

I drive to the beach. The sky is gray and smog hovers over the city as I pass the city skyline until I reach the end of the eight and escape to the beach.

I pull into the lot nearest Lifeguard stand number thirteen. The one that means everything and nothing all at the same time, with worn painted white wood with yellow stripes and a black “13” on the side. My favorite lifeguard stand for no reason other than it’s the place I met Niko.

I approach Niko as he sits on the barrier in jeans and a t-shirt.

“Is that what you wear to work?” I ask. Not a very smooth greeting but too late, I already said it. He turns to the sound of my voice, a smile plastered on his face. The kind that harbors true excitement.

“It’s what I wear to breakfast with a beautiful lady before work,” he answers, as he instinctively wraps his arms around me and kisses my cheek. I think it should feel awkward but it doesn’t.

The way Niko puts me at complete ease can only be explained by our instant chemistry.

“You look lovely,” he whispers in my ear.

“I picked this t-shirt out just for you,” I say, looking down at my athletic attire. I’m headed straight to work right after this.

“I hope you did,” he says, with a smile that is so confident and disarming, I don’t know how to formulate words. He holds out his elbow. “Shall we?”

“Please,” I say, slipping my arm around his, trying not to focus on the shape of his arm because that alone is making my heart beat faster than I want it to.

We walk quietly to the Urban Solace Café just across the street, one block over. It’s an unobtrusive section of the building with a navy sign, wooden chairs out front, and a hidden garden in the back. The interior is warm yet industrial, and the menu is a fusion of French and American cuisine. A coffee shop by morning and a swanky lounge with full dinner service by night.

“Ever been here?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Not often.”

“I don’t believe you,” he says with narrowed and playful eyes.

“Excuse me?” I ask.

We walk through the glass door, him holding it open for me as I pass onto the tiled floor.

“No one that has come here in the history of ever does not come here often,” he chides.

“I came once for a lunch, okay? It’s my best friend’s favorite café. Their fresh tuna sandwich is to die for.” I laugh softly. “Oh, and their mac ‘n cheese.”

“And their live music on the weekend on the back patio,” he adds.

I smile. “That too.”

“Have you had their crème brûlée?”

“I don’t believe I have.”

“We must get some,” he says with an elated smile, showing me how he must have looked on Christmas morning as a child.

“For breakfast?” I peer at him.

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