Running along the beach in the morning hours is my solitude, my place of rest, my only break from the voices that tell me how incredibly hectic and altogether pointless my existence has turned out to be. It used to be cooking, but now I have no one to cook for, and that too, feels futile. Maybe I should start feeding my neighbor’s cat. He looks a little scrawny.
Here, on the beach, with a destination of two and a half miles, I am in control with the wind at my back.
Until…that poorly placed piece of driftwood.
“Are you all right?”
If I had a dollar for every time I was asked that question! That has to be the number one introduction line of my life.
“I’m fine,” I say with annoyance, but as I rise, I feel that isn’t quite true and fall back into the damp, morning sand with a grunt.
“You don’t look fine. I saw you fall. You may have twisted something. Do you mind?” He reaches for my ankle.
I look up against the sky and capture a vision of a man who looks as though he’s surrounded by a halo of sunlight. He’s got short, cropped hair and baby blue eyes, nearly Bahama blue by any account. He’s wearing running shorts and a breathable, muscle T-shirt with tiny vents and a solid chest—and most importantly, no wedding ring.
“Are you a doctor?”
“No, just a former soccer player. I’ve broken everything in this lifetime, and if not, I’ve watched it be broken on someone else.”
He rotates my foot, and I squeal. “Yowza, that hurts!”
“It’s not broken,” he says plainly.
“Tell that to my aching ankle!”
“Sorry about that, but you couldn’t rotate it like that if it were broken. But it’s going to swell. Badly. I don’t think you fell hard enough to do anything hairline-wise.” He shakes his head. “If you don’t want to trust a stranger on a beach, you might want to get to a clinic for an X ray. A sprain can hurt as bad as a break, depending on how you do it.”
I still can’t move. “Yeah, thanks.” I size him up and wonder what kind of lab rat he’d make, but the truth is, I don’t have the strength to try flirting. My only peace of the day has been wrecked by driftwood. I look around and see not one other piece on the beach. I should have odds in Vegas at my rate of failure. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”
“Shoot.”
“If I were to flirt with you, and this is a hypothetical question, but if I were to flirt with you, would you flirt back?”
“Aren’t you flirting with me?”
“No, I’m in too much pain to flirt. I’m much better when I flirt purposely.”
“Give me an example. What is different about when you flirt versus now, when you’re just hypothetically flirting?”
“Oh I’m nicer, and I shake my hair a little bit, maybe touch your arm—you know.” I shrug. “Girl stuff.”
“When’s the last time you did that?”
“Can you tell I’m rusty?” Disappointment flares in my chest. “I told you, I’m not flirting, this is only hypothetical.”
“Maybe you meant to trip on that piece of wood so I’d come to your rescue?”
“No, I’m just klutzy. That part is real. Flirting doesn’t include game playing, I was never into that. Besides, life on my feet is too tenuous ever to toy with for a man’s attentions.”
“Well, Miss–”
“Adams. Haley Adams.”
“I think I should ask you first, if I were to flirt with you, would you flirt back?”
“That’s not fair. I asked you first.”
He shrugs. “A guy has to protect himself. You could be after me for my money.”
“How would I know that you had money?”
“I don’t know; don’t you women smell it or something?”
“So you do have money.”
“If I didn’t, would you flirt with me?”
“If you did, I wouldn’t flirt with you. Rich men have issues. I’m looking for a poor man with a heart.” I stare at his cocked eyebrow. “Not that I’m looking. As I said, this is a hypothetical scenario.”
“It’s not often I get to rescue a gorgeous blonde off the beach and have her ask me questions about flirting.” He bends down and lifts me off the ground. “Wait a minute, you’re not asking me because I have that ‘friend’ look. Do I look innocuous to you? No harm, no foul?”
“Not in the least. Very handsome. Strong flirtation potential with devastating good looks, so I wouldn’t call you harmless.”
He grins. “Put your arm around my shoulder, and we’ll hobble to your car. Can you drive?”
“It’s not my driving foot, but I’m parked that way.” I limp to my car, alongside my new, I’m guessing six-foot-three, lab rat and I do my best to sway my hair and touch him on the forearm without completely losing my balance.
“Are you a Brit then?” he asks, upon seeing my Union Jack car.
“No, it used to be Rod Stewart’s. So they say. He bought a Prius,” I embellish. “Sorry to have broken up your run, but it was a pleasure to meet you. I didn’t catch your name.”
“Sam Jacobsen at your service. Always glad to help out, and if you have any klutzy friends looking for poor flirtation partners, please send them my way.”
“So aren’t you going to ask for my phone number?”
“Of course. I’m looking forward to really being flirted with because we’re still in the hypothetical flirting scenario.”
“But you’re not rich, right?”
“Do you want to see my W–2s?”
“I don’t think a poor man would know what that was.”
“On the contrary, us poor guys have to pay taxes too. It’s the law.”
I narrow my eyes warily. “How old are you?”
“This is L.A., that information is more private than my W–2s. How old do I look?”
Oh no, I’m not getting caught in that trap. “I’m twenty-eight,” I announce. “You’re not more than ten years older than that, are you?”
“What if I’m younger?”
“Perfect!”
“Haley, I feel as though I’m in some odd experiment for you, but you do have the bluest eyes I have ever seen, and I’m a sucker for blue eyes and legs that go on forever.”
“Tell me what you do for a living, Sam.”
“I’m a soccer coach. Is that poor enough for you?”
“Absolutely. When I get back on this foot maybe we can run a few laps?”
“So it sounds as though I’m flirtation-approved. Do you have a pen?”
I hand him one, and he writes my phone number on the palm of his hand. I don’t even remember the last time a guy took my number, but it feels very, very nice. I’m giddy, in fact. My ankle is killing me, but not for one second do I let my guard down and stop smiling. Everyone should have a lab rat that looks this good.
I settle into my Mini, feeling quite pleased with myself, when my cell phone rings. No one ever calls me, except Lindsay, Bette, and Lily and I don’t recognize this number as any of theirs. “Hello?”
“Haley, it’s Hamilton Lowe.”
My stomach actually churns. I will never learn. I am sitting in my car watching my new lab rat run up the beach, and yet, here’s my body reacting to the old, and desperately confused old lab rat. I haven’t seen him in weeks, maybe months. Why would I obsess about a man who I haven’t seen in months and who helped rip my life from me?
“I’m not getting stuck in this maze again, Hamilton.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“Haley, I need to talk to you. Do you think you might be able to meet me for dinner?”
With every fiber of my being I want to jump at the chance, but my voice of reason speaks first. “I can’t do that, Hamilton.”
“You don’t have to answer right now, just—”
“That’s my answer. Have a good day.” And I snap my phone shut. Exhibit A is getting smaller as he disappears down the coastline, but somehow I don’t have the same rush of excitement I did five minutes ago. I think I’m perfectly untreatable. I will run the same maze for the rest of my days. I stare down at the phone clutched in my hand. What have I done?
Looking out over the crashing waves, I realize how much my life has changed in the past few months. Lily, Lindsay, Bette, Penny, and Helena have become integral in my life. They’ve taught me that people don’t always abandon you when you don’t do things correctly. And more important, that God will never abandon me, no matter how much I screw up.
Watching the soccer coach disappear into a speck along the shore, it dawns on me that Mrs. Kensington had it right all those years ago. No Prince Charming ever did come along to rescue me. Only the King.
I want my faith to grow ever stronger. As the man disappears from sight, I realize how tentative my belief system is. How willing I’ve been to hand over my power to someone else. Not to the One who matters.
I punch a few buttons in my phone. “Bette?”
“Yes, Haley.”
“It’s time I was baptized. Don’t you think?”
“Absolutely, I do.” She rambles on excitedly about plans and I watch the waves roll in, as if they are seeking me out. God never gives up, they say to me.