Body Copy - Michael Craven [46]
“Only the surfers know about it.”
“Someday you’ll have to tell me all about the tour. What it’s really like.”
“Yeah, maybe someday. It’ll probably bore you, though, hearing about the size of waves or just how perfect the 142
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sets were on a certain day. It’s like when golfers talk about shots. It’s only interesting to other golfers. And sometimes not even them.”
“What if I started surfing? Would you tell me then?”
“It’s possible.”
“I might hold you to it.”
They took off their shoes and left them by the car.
Tremaine guided her toward the shore, motioning which way to head down the beach. For a minute or two they strolled in silence, all they heard were the waves pounding the sand. And each, independently, not talking about it, watched the big mass of water suck the waves back in after they crashed.
Then Nina said, “You know, when it comes to divorce, everyone’s story is different and the same in a way, too.”
“Yep,” Tremaine said.
“Because no matter what the circumstances, you learn just as much about yourself as you do the other person.”
Did Tremaine agree? Had he been there? Yeah. But he didn’t say it, he just listened.
“Sean and I, we both brought baggage to the relationship. But when you’re in the middle of it, you blame the other person, like their baggage is causing all the problems.
Then one day, if you really look hard, you see your stuff is just as much a problem as their stuff. You’re looking at the other person, but you’re seeing yourself.”
“You’ve got to put that in your book. Just like that.”
“It’s in there, baby. It’s in there.”
Silence between them again, just the waves. Tremaine saw himself in his marriage, that vivid and painful image 143
Michael Craven
in his head again. Tremaine, walking down the beach with Nina but seeing himself driving away from his ex’s house for the last time, never to return.
Nina said, “What I find amazing, about breakups, marriage . . . is that no matter how much it hurts, no matter how much you have to go through to get over it, you always, eventually, want to try again. That hope remains, even if it’s way deep down inside.”
Again, Tremaine didn’t respond. He just listened.
They walked a little more, their cars were out of sight now. Nice night, nice temperature, but probably time to head back.
Nina said, “I should probably go.”
“Yeah,” Tremaine said.
“I had a wonderful night. Thank you for dinner.”
“It was my pleasure.”
As they turned around, they faced each other. Nina looked like an image to Tremaine now, the moon making her glow, almost. A silhouette. Like a ghost on the beach.
A beautiful ghost on the beach. That hint of sadness in her eyes was there, but Tremaine thought he saw something else this time. Something else hopping around in there. But he wasn’t quite sure what it was. He knew what he wanted it to be, but he wasn’t quite sure what it actually was.
They got back to their cars and stood in front of them putting on their shoes and getting out their keys.
From the beach, from the side that they hadn’t walked down, they heard, “Yo.”
Nina and Tremaine turned around to see three men, looked to be in their mid-twenties, approaching. One 144
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Latino guy, two white guys. Gangbanger types. Tank tops, lots of tats, giant jeans. They were all sporting smug looks, and Tremaine could tell from their glassy eyes and the smell that they’d been drinking.
Tremaine said, “Can I help you gentlemen?”
The three guys laughed.
Then one of the white guys started to talk. It was the one who’d said “Yo.”
The guy said, “What the fuck you two doing up in this beach?”
This was a white guy trying to sound like a black guy.
Nina moved behind Tremaine when she heard the pro-fanity, the threatening language.
“We just came out here for a little walk,” Tremaine said.
He could feel some adrenaline beginning to pump through his veins.
“Yeah, it’s a nice-ass beach. But we ain’t here to talk about the beach. We here because we want your wallet and that bitch’s purse. So why don’t you just give it to us.”
The other