33

Cadence

Ihave no choice but to let Max carry me, because whatever bit, or stung me, left a mark that really hurt.
Riding piggyback along the beach isn’t exactly comfortable for either of us, but I’m distracted by Max’s thumb rubbing the side of my knee.
All the way to the bar.
And it’s nice the way he takes over, takes care of me. I’m perfectly capable of explaining to the bartender what happened, but Max goes ahead before I can open my mouth.
Like he cares about what happens to me. That I feel better.
I have vinegar, and then warm water poured over my foot. To stop the venom or the stinger—I’m not really sure. I had no idea jellyfish were so hazardous.
They look so peaceful.
After all this, both the bartender—a very cheerful local named Bob—and Max, along with a group of interested spectators, insist I need a drink to recover.
I am covered in sand, with my hair everywhere, and I sit at the bar that’s seen better days, and let Bob make me something called a Stinger. I finish, but don’t love it, so he tries a Jellyfish shot.
That tastes better, so I have two of them. And then a beer, to hydrate, Bob says.
It’s good that Max insists on carrying me back to Moon because I’m a little tipsy.
“I never would have thought you were the beer type,” Max says as we say goodbye to Bob and our new group of friends.
“I grew up drinking beer,” I tell him.
“I think growing-up Cadence would be a lot different from present-day Cadence.” His thumb is back, stroking my knee and I fight to ignore it. “Although I wonder if she’s a little like playing-in-the-waves Cadence.”
“It’s been a long time since I’ve played in the waves,” I muse. “Did you ever write a letter to yourself when you were younger?”
“Like to my ten years in the future self?” Max shakes his head. “Never.”
“I did when I was twelve. At twelve, everything was good—my mom was still alive, and she’d just had the twins and my stepfather still loved me. I think it was some school assignment, so I wrote the letter and it wound up in some of my mother’s things. I found it last year.”

“What did you tell yourself?” Max wants to know.
“I wanted to join the National Ballet,” I say, sounding wistful even to my own ears. “I wanted to dance more than I wanted a boyfriend, but I did have a pretty big crush on Adam Sherman.”
“I hate Adam Sherman.”
I laugh and tweak his ear. “You should hate him because he was an asshole. I attracted them early.”

“I hate every asshole.”
I hang my arms over Max’s shoulders, fighting the temptation to rub my hands along his chest. “I sometimes wonder what twelve-year-old me would think of me now. What I’ve done. All this money.”
“I’m sure she would love the idea of all that money.”
“But she would want me to do something with it, not just squirrel it away and keep making more. Not having fun with it.”
“You’re having fun now,” Max points out.
“I am.”
“I like having-fun Cadence,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at me.
“I like coming-to-the-rescue Max. The way you picked me up—”
“Max strong,” he says in an Incredible Hulk voice, which makes me laugh.
“Max sexy,” I whisper into his ear.
I think it must be the Stinger and the Jellyfish shots that make me say it. I’m glad when, a few minutes later, we catch up to Nick and Dexter walking home from snorkelling. And relieved when they give Max a rest and both take turns carrying me.
But as Max walks beside me, or a little ahead, all I can think of is Max sexy.