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On a warm day in early summer, Marcus Kane found himself under the hangar of a beachside restaurant, waiting out a thunderstorm. It wasn’t the first time he had been back to the coast, but it was the first time in six years that it had stormed like this. The capricious rain had inevitably brought back his most bittersweet memories.
Day One
Six years ago, a Saturday downpour carved out rivers in the sand. He caught only a glimpse of her at first—the only one out of dozens still on the shore despite the cloudburst. He finished off his IPA, did a quick survey of the sky, then at the honey-haired beauty with the long, bronze legs in the bikini top and cutoffs nearing the shoreline. He weighed his options, then before he could change his mind, darted out towards the beach, leaving his warm, dry shelter of the beachside grill behind.
His brown hair was dripping and stuck to his forehead by the time he reached her. Her honey hair had turned dark from the pour of the heavy droplets. “It’s raining, you know,” he called out, his words nearly being swallowed up by the raging roar of the sea.
Somehow, she had managed to hear him, he assumed, because she turned to him, smiling. “I only have a week here. I’m not wasting my vacation inside a smoky bar.”
He smirked, then offered his hand to help her climb across the jagged jetty rocks. He would never forget the first time he touched her hand. The rain and the way that felt would never let up all week.
“Do you come here often?” he asked.
She scrunched up her nose. “That’s a sad pick-up line.” He blinked for a moment, registering her meaning, before it dawned on him that he had just used a cliche ice-breaker. What a great first impression. She didn’t seem to mind, though, as she stayed glued to his side. She placed a hand on his shoulder to balance herself as they moved across the rocks, farther out into the sea.
He swept his hair back that had clung to his forehead. An angry wave crashed against the rocks, spraying its cold, salty water across their bottom halves. “Guess you’re right,” he said with a chuckle, then, “What’s your name?”
“Abby. What’s yours?”
“Marcus.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Marcus.” He would live through that moment for years to come, the sound of her saying his name for the first time continuously echoing in his mind.
Suddenly, she came to a halt and turned to face the pier, barely visible from behind the curtain of mist. “This is amazing, isn’t it?” she asked in awestruck wonder. The sidewalk and streets were soaked, nearly flooded. The sun didn’t dare to poke through the dark gray clouds, but by the look on her face he could have thought it was the most perfect, sunny day. She shined like the lighthouse through all of the rain.
“Have you never been here before?” he asked, his forehead furrowed in question.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “This is my first time seeing the sea.” She continued to marvel at it, even despite the thunder that began to roll in. Marcus stood, uneasy, dark eyes darting warily around them.
“How long are you staying?”
“Seven days.”
“You have plenty of time. What do you say we get out of the rain and go grab a drink?” His heart pounded. He wasn’t sure he would be able to take a rejection from her. After mere minutes with her, he had already forgotten what his life was like before he had met such a woman.
To his relief, she brightened. “Yeah. I would like that. Lead the way,” she said, motioning back towards the bar and grill. She hooked her arm around his as they maneuvered their way over the jetty rocks, replacing the pour of the rain with the pour of whiskey to warm them up.
Day Two
Time was like the tide—it came and went. He had been buzzing with electric excitement to get to see her again. Monday evening was a dreary haze full of drinking and dancing, their bodies grinding tantalizingly close to one another as they danced to the beat of Latin music followed by rounds of tequila shots at the bar.
Day Three
His mind still often played back to that Tuesday night, over and over again. They had walked hand-in-hand through the seaside market square. She excitedly pulled him into a candy shop, a childlike glee spreading across her face as she filled a paper bag with jelly beans and licorice and taffy. Later, they found a picnic table in the middle of the square, oddly quiet for a summer evening. She shared her candy with him (which he insisted on buying for her) and they dined on the candy as an early precursor to dinner. With nothing but wrappers left over, Abby drew into him, wrapping her arm around his. “Thank you,” she said against his shoulder.
She had already thanked him for buying her candy after they left the shop. He shrugged. “Like I said, it was nothing,” he said in an attempt to sound humble.
“No,” she said, turning her head up to meet his gaze. “I mean thank you… for everything… for the past few days… it’s honestly been the most amazing vacation that I’ve ever had. Thank you.”
Around them, the evening hung heavy and damp like a soaked cotton ball; a storm was drawing near. His skin prickled at her touch, her long fingers ghosting his forearm as she gazed longingly up at him with her whiskey colored eyes. He could get drunk on those eyes. She chewed at her lip, batted her long, dark lashes. Taking notice, and without missing a beat, his hands cupped her face and their lips crashed together with as much force as the waves had against the jetty rocks on that dreary Saturday when they first met.
Now, all those years later, he could still taste the saltwater taffy on her lips.
Day Four
Wednesday morning snuck through the window. Seagulls mewed outside his timeshare windowsill—the only things stirring at daybreak in the seaside party town. Marcus’s eyes peered out between the curtains. The sky was a deep and cloudless blue—something that would only last for a short time. His eyes fell to the naked, sleeping form beside him, curled up in a fetal position, tangled in the sheets. He watched as her eyes moved rapidly under her lids and he couldn’t help but hope she was dreaming of him. He carefully rolled out of the bed and padded over to the balcony door, latched it open to let in the warm breeze.
The majority of their Wednesday was spent making love and listening to the waves come and go as another summer shower blew in, rain falling in heavy sheets against the roof.
Day Five
Thursday was the clearest day of the week—only sporadic showers predicted for throughout the day—so Marcus suggested they go surfing. He broke out his surfboard and rented one for Abby from the nearby beach shop he often visited. It was her first time, so he had chosen a perfect beginner spot that was frequented mainly by locals. They spent thirty minutes watching the waves, another fifteen was spent by Abby watching him catch a few on his own. They practiced popping up onto the board and he showed her the process of pressing her hands into the board beneath her chest and, in one burst, jumping to her feet. A time or two he couldn’t help but be preoccupied by her choice of scantily clad swimwear, her bronze cleavage dripping from a mixture of sweat and saltwater. She had caught onto propping up rather quickly. He laid against his board, moving along with the gentle ebb and flow of the water in the calm current as he watched her maneuver herself onto the board, balancing herself shakily for a heartbeat before toppling over.
Later, he spotted a wave that began to form and, leaving the channel, he turned around, the nose of his board facing the shore. He laid himself down and began to paddle, the air chilling his arms as they left the warm water. He slowly began to build momentum as he moved with the direction of the surge. He positioned himself and lined up with the swell as he paddled. Soon, he felt that familiar movement as the current began to lift the tail of his board, rolling under him. He continued to paddle forward while craning his neck to gauge where the tide was behind him. At the sense of that recognizable speed and momentum, he pushed himself up, keeping his knees bent and eyes forward towards the shoreline, and began to ride the wave. There were few feelings like it—that adrenaline rush. The sun, half peeking out between the clouds, still hot on his scalp, but the wind cool on his dripping wet skin, he rode the wave to completion as Abby cheered him on from the calm channel.
“It’s that simple,” he said, sweeping the hair from his face with a flick of his head.
Abby shot him a look. “I should have opted for the paddleboard,” she grumbled.
He snickered. “You’ll get it.”
And she did… in time. Following one failed attempt after the other, her determination paid off in the end, and it was worth the endless paddling, lifting, and tugging to see the smile on her face as she rode her first wave, as fleeting as the moment was.
By Thursday evening, he knew everything about her. They sat around a bonfire on the beach, drinking whiskey straight out the bottle and counting the stars as they shared with one another their deepest, darkest secrets. His fear of commitment; her recent divorce and move from the suburbs to the city; his latest breakup with his on-again, off-again fling, Callie, who had expected more from him than he could ever give her; her estranged relationship with her teenage daughter, Clarke… On and on they went, sharing pieces of their lives with one another—all moments that led them to the sea to escape, led them to each other—passing the bottle of liquor as they swapped stories until dawn.
Day Six
Friday was melancholy, their last full day together. They spent the day lounging on the beach, lying beside one another atop a towel draped over the sandy beach floor. The sun gleamed on the curvature of her shoulders. They drank hurricanes and watched the tide change, never bothering to budge when the whimsical storm clouds rolled in, knowing it wouldn’t be long before the sun would peek its head out once more. Rain or shine, they stayed put, just holding one another, mainly in comfortable silence, not wanting to speak lest the inevitable topic were to be mentioned.
They didn’t really talk about it—her finite time at the coast ticking away in a rapid blur like seconds on a clock. On the rare times she mentioned it, he would shift a little, and he could feel the distant look fall over his face, not wanting to discuss it, quickly changing the subject. It would always be something offhanded, like how she couldn’t believe she had gone her whole life without visiting the coast, or she’d wistfully say how she never wanted to leave—something so small and casual but enough to remind him that their days were numbered. He was always tempted to say “Then don’t leave,” then thinking better of it, he’d snap his mouth shut, admonishing himself for daring to believe it was anything more than just a summer fling. Seven days. That’s all they were meant to be granted.
Until, on that sixth day, he finally worked up the courage to mutter those thoughts.
She was the first to speak. “I don’t want to leave tomorrow,” she said with a weariness that soldiers had when they spoke of war.
He rubbed circles along the bare curve of her back in silence, slowly exhaling. “Don’t,” he said simply, without meeting her eyes, knowing full-well it was a loaded request that she just couldn’t fulfill, yet it hurt him too much to face her when he said it.
“You know I would if I could.”
He nodded and that was the end of it.
They spent the night at her hotel, making love up into the early morning hours; two desperate bodies entangled and sticking to one another, hearts racing, breath hitching as they begged for more, lessening the pain of loss with one tender touch at a time.
Day Seven
Day seven was for goodbyes, and, God help him, he didn’t want to leave without her.
He helped her pack in silence, a look of weary dread etched onto her face. The heavy rain hadn’t let up since it started a little after midnight. With her bags packed, they stood outside her hotel, waiting on the taxi, neither of them paying any mind to the opened skies. He blessed the rain in that moment for hiding the droplets of tears that fell from his eyes as he pulled her against him, kissing her one last time before he let her step into the taxi, never to see her again.
Why neither of them ever asked for a phone number, mailing address, a P.O. box, or even a last name, he wasn’t sure why. Although deep down he knew. It was only ever meant to be just those seven days.
***
The moments with her now were all a blur except for every single second, every single word. All the drops of rain, every single grain of sand—still engraved in his memory like a headstone. He could still hear the way she called his name with that whiskey-soaked husky voice like none other. He had relived those seven days a thousand times, so when he heard his name on her lips on that early summer day, six years after he watched her climb into that yellow cab, he swore he had been dreaming. The thunder cracked and the wind roared and he turned to see that familiar beauty with the honey-brown hair standing beside him, also waiting out the storm.
“Abby?” he asked in disbelief, heart hammering in his chest.
Her cheeks lifted and her eyes welled with tears. “Hi,” she all but croaked.
And there they stood, meters away from the jetty rocks where he had first touched her hand, first heard his name on her lips. Maybe fate had decided that it wasn’t meant to be just seven days after all.
***
The sidewalks, the streets were soaked
The sky was gray but you should've seen her face
Shining like that lighthouse through all the rain
And the way she called my name
I've lived those seven days a thousand times