Nate just wanted to surf, but Ella wouldn’t stop talking. He loved her, valued her opinions, but shit, not now. The waves were cranking.
He peered out the window over her shoulder, unable to focus on her words. A set dumped on the sandbar. Perfect lefts. Nobody out. Swell of the decade.
“So,” Ella asked. “Do you?”
Nate shifted on the couch and studied her face. Blue eyes, pooched lips, a slight furrow to her beautiful brow. He needed to respond, but had no clue what she was saying. Something about him being a bad listener.
Sketchy ground here. Just agree. “You’re right.”
She frowned. “About what? Are you even listening?”
Careful. Finesse it. “Of course.”
“Then tell me, do you?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“Good.”
Nate felt relieved, unsure what he’d just agreed to. But it brought him closer to resolving the discussion and entering the ocean. He labored all week at his bland white color job, acted the dutiful boyfriend on nights and weekends—it was smothering all of it—and he needed a break where he didn’t have to think about a relationship, discuss his shortcomings, or fix the damn printer. He needed an ocean dip on this perfect spring morning.
He sipped coffee and discreetly checked his watch. Eight a.m. He glanced out the window again. Three surfers trotted down the beach and paddled out. Still uncrowded, but the wind would show soon enough.
“So,” Ella said, standing. “Shall we?”
“Absolutely.”
She smiled. “Good.”
He smiled back. “Great.”
She walked into the bedroom.
That was easy. All his stress for nothing. Outside, another horde staged on the sand ready to paddle out. A puff of wind textured the Pacific. Not much time. Nate fetched his wetsuit from the backyard, slid it on, and returned to the house to grab his surfboard.
Ella waited by the door, holding her jacket. She frowned. “What are you doing?”
Delay. Stall. “Huh?”
“Your wetsuit. Why are you wearing it?”
Obfuscate. “Why do you think?”
“I don’t know. We’re leaving.”
“I know.”
She groaned with exasperation. “Then why are you wearing your wetsuit?”
Nate fiddled with his ear and tried to conjure up some respectable reply. Should he come clean? Tell Ella he would discuss their relationship—every excruciating detail—but the words could wait, the wind couldn’t? He was in the dog house for legitimate reasons, reasons he could not quite remember. She had valid points. He would address them. But couldn’t they wait an hour?
He shrugged.
She threw her jacket on the couch, stormed into the bedroom, and slammed the door. Muffled sobs leaked from the bedroom. Out front, on the beach, more stragglers arrived. Another wind gust, the tide not getting any lower.
Nate sighed. Time to make things right. He peeled off his wetsuit, poured a cup of coffee and added heavy cream, the way Ella liked it. He made toast with her favorite blueberry jam and loaded everything onto a tray. As he passed the refrigerator, he scrutinized the tidebook hanging from a magnet.
He did some calculating. Perhaps an evening session. Might still be good, depended on the wind. Depended on a bunch of things. Swell of the decade.
As he studied the tidebook, he noticed the date, and it hit him what Ella was talking about. Her words suddenly made sense. Today was March 20th, the vernal equinox. They’d agreed last year, during a tough patch in their relationship, that if they were still together on the next vernal equinox they’d get married—just head to the courthouse and sign the papers—and start making a baby.
She mentioned it a few times over the past year, obsessed with the date—the first day of spring—saying it symbolized rebirth, renewal, revitalization. And she kept babbling something about “celestial geometry.” He humored her, not necessarily opposed but vaguely indifferent. He couldn’t plan for next weekend, let alone next year. But Ella ... Ella didn’t mess around.
The knot in his stomach hitched tighter. From what he was missing, or what he might’ve already lost? He didn’t know. Didn’t know if he was suited for this domestic life, didn’t know if that carefree time, back in the bachelor days, could ever be reclaimed ... didn’t even know if he wanted to reclaim it. Nate didn’t know a damn thing for sure anymore. He caught a last look out the window and headed into the bedroom.
He needed to find out.
