I may have changed into Astra a little too preemptively.
In front of the mirror, I got myself all worked up and giddy, even launching upstairs and dressing in my favorite long-sleeve and shortalls. It was my first real outing in fourteen years, I had to look my cutest (that's what people in movies did, right?). Not that it was hard to be cute as Astra. While I enjoyed my clothes as Kai, there was something about Astra that made me feel... sparkly in them. I'm full-on twirling around my room like a freshly-makeover-ed nerd-girl in a teen romcom before I realize how ridiculous I am.
But then I also realize the bonfire doesn't start until 6 pm and I still had a Sea Monkey promise to fulfill.
I spend two hours counting brine shrimp and adjusting their habitats accordingly, and another six pretending I'm watching a Fast and Furious marathon where I spent all my time with my eyes trained on the clock. I do contemplate looking up "what to expect at a bonfire" but I seriously cannot be that horrifically lame. I can't just use the internet for everything. Bonfires can't be that hard. It's just fire, and people, and food, right? I'd seen the scene hundreds of times. I could easily find a little log to wallflower on and keep to myself. No big deal, right?
Focusing on shells and sand, I give Shell a head pat and toss myself out the back door and onto my bike the second the clock hit six.
The entire ride over I can feel my heart beating out of my chest, like all of my musculature's gone missing and I'm full, authentic cuttlefish, my organs pounding through my skin. My mind is racing, though, overflowing with turtles. How would it feel, seeing them scuttle out of the nest? To watch them, in person, make their little hundred yard dash to the ocean's brim?
How would I feel, seeing a six-year fantasy finally come true?
When I get to the beach and see the crowd around the large fire, I realize my second blunder of the day: there are real people here. Writhing, unpredictable, non-movie people. The kind of people I hadn't seen in over a decade.
My lungs seize up and I think, who was I kidding? I should've googled everything about bonfires.
Rubbing my arms, I'm trying to pay attention to every inch of my skin. It needs to stay like it is: brown, calloused, human. I keep reminding myself who I am tonight: Astra Caspen, a marine anthropologist, a scientist, a movie-fan, a... a humanoid lover of cats. Not a walking cuttlefish.
As I'm staring down at the granules sliding into my leather sandals, I try to look at the situation like a scientific study. I understand all the variables. I know all the volunteers' names, the prices of the catered snacks, the underwear drawer of the over-eager marine biologist who supervised everything. For years now, I'd spent my non-studying hours helping sort through the best dates, coordinators, and fundraising models. All I had to get a hold on was the human variable.
I focused on the feeling of the faint breeze of heat coming off the firepit, which had been situated a far way off from the turtle nest (as to not interfere). I hear the ambient noise of the beach; music thrumming under the human chatter, the fire crackling, the sand crunching under someone's feet as they jogged over-
Wait, what?
My eyes shoot up, finding myself face-to-face with a man staring at me with this practically luminescent smile. His battered legs and shoeless feet look like he takes calluses and scars as badges of honor and his curly, golden hair, growing just past his ears, looks like it was recently used to mop a kitchen floor. His clothes are just as much a mess; tattered, bleached jean shorts and a worn sweatshirt with a lifeguard's armband. Guess he was the volunteer Beck hired. Something Chambers, if I remember correctly.
He may be here to protect people, but he's standing a little too close and I can see that behind his crooked glasses, he has these large expressive eyebrows, a couple shades darker than his hair. One of them is cocked above his black frames.
Without missing a beat, he asks, "You here for the turtle thing?"
Next to this blazing sun of a human being, I suddenly realize how small and nocturnal I feel, and completely out of my depth. What was I thinking, coming here? I tap a softening part of my elbow, as if trying to will it to hold itself together just a bit longer.
I shake my head. "Oh, uh, no. I don't belong here. I just-"
"You just like coming to the beach, alone. I know." Every hair on my human body stands up at once. But he continues on chatting like what he just said is no big deal. "I've been staying at the nearby motel for a week or so. I've seen you once or twice. Never really had the nerve to say hello until you crashed my barbecue." All those hairs on my arm go from alert to numb acceptance. Okay, so this is how I die. Not from government scientists, but at the hands of a handsome beach creep. Awesome.
I have to admit, he doesn't quite look like the creep type. But I've watched Extremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil and Vile. People also said that about Ted Bundy, so what did my eyeballs know?
When he finally looks directly into my Bambi-meets-Honda-Accord eyes, that celestial grin falters and he scratches the back of his neck. "I promise that's not as creepy as it sounds," he says.
That doesn't reassure me much.
Even though my body has recoiled in twitchy uncertainty, this is a very public event. For now, I could give him the benefit of the doubt. I came out all this way, didn't I? I could keep my distance and-
And then, after my prolonged internal monologue, he gestures to the bonfire, asking, "Why don't you join? I don't think anyone would mind another turtle lover."
"I'm a stranger."
"So, what's your name?"
I blink, completely caught off guard. Honestly, I can't remember the last time someone asked me that. Was it Beck? Or longer? Stuffing down as much anxiety as I could in one swallow, I reply, "Astra."
"James." He thrusts his hand forward, shakes mine for a second, and then looks back to the bonfire crowd. "Hey, everyone, this is Astra! She's going to join us," he yells across the beach, much to my horror. I catch a few faces before any of them can react. There's a girl with gorgeous highlights and an athletic build who looks like she could snap me in half or insult my entire family and I'd let her. Nearby is a pair of so-in-love scientists with recording equipment that can't stop staring at each other, but I'd bet my right lung they were romanticizing documentation, not poetics. Next to the fire there's even a trio of classic surfer dude-bros, the kind that make me thankful I don't go to the beach during the day out of sheer intimidation.
I expect grumbles from the whole lot, but barely anyone blinks. He turns back to me, even more bright-eyed and sunny, like he just did me a great service. "They seem okay with it. So, you'll stay?"
The moment feels like it's sweeping me away, and not just because of this overwhelming maybe-Bundy. I feel more floored by how little people cared about me. And not in a self-centered way, but-
Well, I'm thinking about the exact opposite. No one cared. It's like I can take a deep breath for the first time in my life. The feeling tugs at the corner of my lips and I stop tapping my skin. I don't need to, not when no one is looking at me. This situation is... perfect.
With weak cheek muscles, I smile and say," Okay."
"Come with me, then, Astra. I'll give you the tour." We start walking towards the fire, with people pairing off and dancing and laughing in their own little worlds, the crowd parting just-so to let me and this tall lighthouse of a human through.
And, of course, during that the lifeguard, James Chambers, gets to talking. He looks like the talking type.
He walks us over to a grill next to the fire, brought by the caterers (Sally and Sons Seafood, a great little business that uses fresh, local fish) and points to the roasting kebabs. James asks, "You like seafood?"
"Depends."
His dark eyebrows wrinkle, amused. "Tough customer, I see. Do grilled prawns and crabs work for you?"
I nod. I half expect him to push harder, get irritated with my silence. With Mom and Beck, it's like a constant milling of conversation and whenever one participant is notably lacking it becomes a "situation". Three guesses who the problem symposium member is?
But the lifeguard just grabs two skewers, sits us down on a fireside log, and nods back. "Good to know. So are you a local or what?"
"Yeah."
James chuckles and gives my shoulder a friendly bump (the kind I'd only ever seen in movies) before asking, "You a one-word maestro? I can respect that as someone who never shuts up."
I laugh, even though I definitely didn't mean to. It just sort of... fell out, watching him roll with every guarded punch I say. I figure that I'm far too serious for someone like him, and I'd quickly bore him. But he didn't take anything too seriously, did he? Not even me. Watching his hands keep tugging at the edge of his shorts, I note my own errantly tapping index finger and say, "I prefer to be a woman of mystery."
"I see. Anything I can say to get you to tell me all your secrets?"
I can't explain it, but he makes it sound tempting.
Some days it feels like I have so many secrets that all that's left of me is an empty conch shell, desperate to whisper the truth to anyone who gets close enough. That's what my attachment to Beck feels like sometimes; I'm just desperately clinging to the only ear that listens.
But here James is, a stranger, and he's listening. Am I really desperate enough to cling to a stranger, too?
Hiding my growing smile, I say, "No."
"I don't know, I can be pretty persuasive. Once I was forced to take this debate class, and I aced our final exam by pretending I was Jay Gatsby-"
James starts rambling on about some person I don't know, and I try to listen, I really do. But within a second's notice of contemplating any secret-sharing, I notice a familiar face. A tall arabic man is a few feet off, fiddling with his scruff, shifting his feet strangely, and keeping a twitchy close eye on this tiny brunette standing next to the stereo who keeps almost dancing to the music.
My heart stops dead and my ears clog up and nothing James says is audible anymore. I just keep staring at Beck, like he's going to suddenly hone in on me, go full Terminator, and end my sorry existence.
That doesn't make sense, I know. I know that Beck isn't looking for me, that I probably could walk right up to him and introduce myself and he wouldn't know any better. But my heart skips seventeen beats and I unconsciously scoot away.
That is, until I run straight into James the lifeguard's left side.
James stops his story (thank goodness because I wasn't listening) and, even more too-close than before, I'm now looking straight into his hazel-brown eyes. To match his bright smile, they're a warm, spun honey.
Blushing, I jerk away, because I'm not trying to touch somewhat sketchy-yet-attractive men today, even if they are making this whole adventure more interesting. But just as I bounce backward, I bounce a little too far back and-
The lifeguard catches my hand and pulls me back up onto the log, pulling me even closer by proxy. I go even redder, because holy shit he's hot.
I mean warm-hot. Like his radiating heat is even more distracting than the fire. Not that he's-
A quick, definitely-not-on-purpose glance from his sweatshirt riding up a little to his face, and I almost swear. Okay, he is attractive hot. But I'm an extra in this bonfire scene so that doesn't matter, right?
James interrupts my thoughts, saying, "Whoa, don't fry your motherboard on my account."
A little shocked, I snort with laughter. "You're nerdy."
"Using computer analogies isn't that big of a deal," he says, indignant, but his cheeks have pinked. "So what if I am, anyway?"
"I just didn't expect it. Bundy wasn't nerdy."
James raises an eyebrow. "As in Ted Bundy? What does my nerdiness have to do with a serial killer?"
Staring at the lifeguard in mortification, I realize what just flew out of my mouth. I have never had my stupid little thoughts slip out like that. Normally they're locked behind several steel doors, too much for any single heist film to crack. Years spent on the internet meant I was doomed to learn at least the basics about serial killers, but I never meant to imply...
I stare down at my hands, ashamed, and say, "Nothing. Absolutely nothing."
"Wait, are you one of those weird Ted Bundy fans?"
To my horror, in my own panic, even more words just start falling out from my lips, like a waterfall of unnecessary information and awkward laughter. "No, it's just in my head I kind of categorize everything, and since I didn't know you and you made me feel kinda unsettled but were really attractive, my brain sort of put you under "possible Ted Bundy". Not that I actually think you're Ted Bundy or anything, or I'm into that, and it'd be much harder to get away with his awful antics in a much more digital age, but-"
The lifeguard cuts me off by falling into a fit of laughter. "That's the most I've heard you talk all night. And I guess at least you think I'm attractive." My mouth falls open.
"That's your takeaway?"
James ignores me and asks, "Categorize anyone else here?" I blink. Of course I have, I do it the second I see anyone, in a movie or from my attic window. But I don't normally- The lifeguard crosses his heart and says, "I promise won't tell."
Feeling emboldened, and maybe a little drunk on the way he keeps smiling at me, I give in. I start pointing at random people. "The DJ is 100% the funny guy in every movie, who will act like an idiot all film but then be surprisingly capable when it matters. Look at how organized his table is? There's something going on. And that girl by the car oozes confidence. A Lara Croft type; could knock you out with her looks, her strength, and her wits. But she won't dance, even though she wants to, so there's still some insecurity there. And that guy-" My finger lands on Beck, asking a question to the not-so Lara Croft, and my grin fades. "N-nothing. I don't know anything."
Instead of pouting at my abrupt strop, James tucks his hand under his chin, just staring at me like I'm a museum exhibit. "Do you do that a lot?"
"What?"
"Watch people." Smirking, the lifeguard says, "I bet you do have something to say about that guy, you just feel embarrassed."
I'm a tad too anxious and squishy in the knees to reply. It's a bit more complicated than that with Beck. I know him, have spent years hanging out with him, seen his every little tic... Commenting on him is a bit more than casual observation.
But with this man next to me looking at me like I'm the only person there, his eyes still all crinkly and warm, I figure... To hell with it.
He's never going to see me again, anyway.
Pointing at the pair, I say, "He's a romantic hiding under the facade of a no-nonsense guy. He's been anxiously tossing glances at her for the past fifteen minutes. And tapping his feet. Nervous guy who likes music and is in love with a girl is a recipe for a slow dance. As long as she says yes, of course." And just like that, Lara Croft slides her arms around Beck's neck, both their hips swaying to the music.
James looks at me like we're two sweaters and a monocle away from hardcore, scholarly discourse. "Oh, of course."
I smirk, and he copies me. It looks better on him, under furrowed brows and luminescence.
And maybe if I'm a little more cautious, I'd note that we're leaning too close, his breath on my cheek, like two kids sharing secrets. Maybe if I'm self-aware, I'd admit that I'm being horribly, helplessly, reckless just because a lifeguard caught a wallflower in his smile.
I'm not cautious or self-aware right now, though, and I don't think I care, either.
Just then, his eyes look past me and he scowls. "Damn. I have to do my job for five minutes, but wait up for me, will you? I desperately need to hear more of your astute observations. After all, I could be Ted Bundy. I might just be that." He doesn't wait for an answer, just jogs off.
The bubble is popped, the moment is over, and time starts moving again. I feel my fingers twitch a little and I exhale. It's fine. I don't mind that he left and I'm sitting here, alone on this log. It was nice while it lasted. After he's done doing whatever, he'll find something new to distract him. Probably a funny guy with a great laugh who makes his nerdy brain slow down or an effortlessly cool girl with a motorcycle who shows him how to have real adventures. Those seemed more up his alley.
I'll just save this memory file in my brain, under James the lifeguard, who I never expected.
Twirling a curl of my hair, I go back to being logical and do a scan of the crowd. If I'm hazarding a guess, I'd say James was probably supposed to organize everyone before the nest started hatching.
Beck and the other specialists must've estimated that it should be soon then, if the lifeguard is on the move. From afar, I can see James get on the back of someone's pick-up truck and start getting everyone's attention.
I, instead, toss a glance backward, towards the soft tumble of the shore, and see exactly what I came here for. Turtles.