Randy White - Night Vision

To Emily I said, “Is he serious?”

The woman replied, “I told you about the house I own, out near Alva. It’s built of old Florida pine. It took us a while to figure it out, but one of my electrical breakers was bad, just starting to spark. If we’d gotten there a few minutes later, the whole place would have gone off like a bomb.”

“There’s nothing more calming than a bud of Captiva-grown weed,” Tomlinson added. “That’s what we were doing when you called. I was already shit-faced, of course, but her”-Tomlinson nodded his chin toward the woman-“she was as about as loose as a nun at a Viagra convention. Because I was there after midnight, though, I don’t blame Doc for assuming the worst. Later, I tried to explain to her why you don’t trust me and probably never will.”

To survive the awkward silence that followed, Tomlinson looked around, saw the waves, then focused on my new surfboard. “Very cool,” he said. “An eleven-six? Really sweet rockers.”

I was staring at the man, tempted to ask if he remembered what I’d said to him eleven nights earlier about trusting him with my life. Not actually say the words but just jog his memory in case he’d been too sloshed to remember.

Instead, I put my arm around Emily. It seemed a wiser, safer choice. As Tomlinson leaned to study the YOLO graphics, I touched my lips to the woman’s cheek, then suggested that we walk back to my stilt house, where I could apologize in private.

“But what about your new surfboard?” she asked, trying to look over her shoulder as we walked toward the sea oats that fringed the beach.

I replied, “Don’t worry, Tomlinson has it. Sooner or later, he would’ve taken it, anyway.”