like Jackson until I realized that he or she wasn’t. At one point, I spotted a woman in a blue bikini, her hair pulled into a make-shift ponytail, a little boy trailing behind her. I sat up straighter, certain it was Bella.
It wasn’t.
My irritation got the better of me and I pounded my fist into the sand, tiny grains flying into my face, sticking to my sweat-moistened skin. Where the hell was she? And why did I care?
I collected the chairs and umbrellas at four on the button, locked up the hut and pointed my bike towards her house.
No one answered the door.
I peered in the front window. Nothing looked out of place. I could see a couple of Legos on the living room floor, a magazine tossed onto the coffee table, a plastic Marlins cup next to it.
But she wasn’t there.
I hopped on the bike and headed out to the highway, pedaling next to the heavy evening traffic, the breeze blowing back into my face. The highway was littered with long strip malls and each one looked exactly like the other, neon signs advertising T-shirts, food and fun. I had a vague idea of which restaurant she worked at and I scanned the malls as I biked, keeping an eye on the traffic behind me.
I’d gone about three miles when I found it. King of the Sea, a pink-stuccoed building that had seen better days. A flag pole stood next to the entrance, a large plastic swordfish impaled on the top and seashell-shaped plastic lights draped the interior of the windows. I coasted into the parking lot, breathing heavy and drenched in sweat. I leaned the bike up against a newspaper stand and walked up the wooden switchback ramp that led to the entrance.
The air conditioning hit me like a hammer, bathing me in cool air and stinging my eyes. A girl in her twenties glanced up from the magazine spread before her on the podium. “How many?”
“I’m looking for Bella,” I said.
She gave me a quick once over before returning to the magazine. “She’s back there.”
“Back where?”
She held out an arm and pointed toward the dining area without looking up. “Back there.”
I walked toward the large windows that looked out over the Gulf and spotted Bella at a table, scribbling on a notepad, helping two older couples. She wore a bright pink T-shirt and denim shorts, her hair pulled up high in a ponytail behind her head. She gathered their menus, smiled at them, then glanced in my direction.
The smile faded and she immediately turned away. I wondered if she thought I’d disappear simply because she wasn’t looking at me.
I slid into a booth next to the window and waited.
She stood there awkwardly for a moment, her back to both me and her customers. The people sitting at the table looked at her, waiting for her to say or do something. Finally, she moved in my direction.
The cut under her right eye was about an inch and a half long, a near-perfect straight, red gash. A series of bruises blossomed between her eye and the bridge of her nose and her top lip was noticeably swollen.
My irritation with her was quickly replaced by rage at whoever had done that to her.
She slid into the booth on the other side of the table. “Hey.”
I kept my cool. “Hey.”
She laid the menus on the table and looked out the window, keeping the damaged eye out of my view.
“You didn’t come find me today,” I said.
“Yeah, I know,” she said, her eyes flitting in my direction, then away. “I’m sorry. I just got busy and we didn’t head down there.”
“Where’s Jackson?”
“Back in the kitchen,” she said. “He goes back there and helps out before it gets busy.”
I nodded. “Cool.”
She fidgeted in the booth, staring out the window, as if she’d never seen the water before.
“I already saw your eye,” I said.
She swallowed hard. “Oh, yeah. That. I, this morning, I … ”
“Look, if you don’t wanna tell me,
It wasn’t.
My irritation got the better of me and I pounded my fist into the sand, tiny grains flying into my face, sticking to my sweat-moistened skin. Where the hell was she? And why did I care?
I collected the chairs and umbrellas at four on the button, locked up the hut and pointed my bike towards her house.
No one answered the door.
I peered in the front window. Nothing looked out of place. I could see a couple of Legos on the living room floor, a magazine tossed onto the coffee table, a plastic Marlins cup next to it.
But she wasn’t there.
I hopped on the bike and headed out to the highway, pedaling next to the heavy evening traffic, the breeze blowing back into my face. The highway was littered with long strip malls and each one looked exactly like the other, neon signs advertising T-shirts, food and fun. I had a vague idea of which restaurant she worked at and I scanned the malls as I biked, keeping an eye on the traffic behind me.
I’d gone about three miles when I found it. King of the Sea, a pink-stuccoed building that had seen better days. A flag pole stood next to the entrance, a large plastic swordfish impaled on the top and seashell-shaped plastic lights draped the interior of the windows. I coasted into the parking lot, breathing heavy and drenched in sweat. I leaned the bike up against a newspaper stand and walked up the wooden switchback ramp that led to the entrance.
The air conditioning hit me like a hammer, bathing me in cool air and stinging my eyes. A girl in her twenties glanced up from the magazine spread before her on the podium. “How many?”
“I’m looking for Bella,” I said.
She gave me a quick once over before returning to the magazine. “She’s back there.”
“Back where?”
She held out an arm and pointed toward the dining area without looking up. “Back there.”
I walked toward the large windows that looked out over the Gulf and spotted Bella at a table, scribbling on a notepad, helping two older couples. She wore a bright pink T-shirt and denim shorts, her hair pulled up high in a ponytail behind her head. She gathered their menus, smiled at them, then glanced in my direction.
The smile faded and she immediately turned away. I wondered if she thought I’d disappear simply because she wasn’t looking at me.
I slid into a booth next to the window and waited.
She stood there awkwardly for a moment, her back to both me and her customers. The people sitting at the table looked at her, waiting for her to say or do something. Finally, she moved in my direction.
The cut under her right eye was about an inch and a half long, a near-perfect straight, red gash. A series of bruises blossomed between her eye and the bridge of her nose and her top lip was noticeably swollen.
My irritation with her was quickly replaced by rage at whoever had done that to her.
She slid into the booth on the other side of the table. “Hey.”
I kept my cool. “Hey.”
She laid the menus on the table and looked out the window, keeping the damaged eye out of my view.
“You didn’t come find me today,” I said.
“Yeah, I know,” she said, her eyes flitting in my direction, then away. “I’m sorry. I just got busy and we didn’t head down there.”
“Where’s Jackson?”
“Back in the kitchen,” she said. “He goes back there and helps out before it gets busy.”
I nodded. “Cool.”
She fidgeted in the booth, staring out the window, as if she’d never seen the water before.
“I already saw your eye,” I said.
She swallowed hard. “Oh, yeah. That. I, this morning, I … ”
“Look, if you don’t wanna tell me,
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