8. Greg

As Sam locks up the surf shop, she throws a casual glance back at me. I can't help but tease, "Woah, what about your hot friend?" Her laughter is a melody that dances in the warm Costa Rican air. "I doubt she wants to play third wheel," she says.

"Third wheel? Between you two, I bet I'd be the one left out."

"Probably," she says. Her honesty is appreciated, and I make a note of it for later. Sam is close with Tilly. If I want this to go somewhere other than lunch, I probably need to get on Tilly's good side.

While we walk, I can't resist; I grab her hand as we make our way across the street, feeling a buzz from the contact. But then, Sam looks down at our intertwined fingers, a smile blooming on her face before it's quickly replaced by a look of alarm. "Erm, Greg?" she murmurs, pulling away slightly.

I release her hand immediately, feeling a pang of regret. "Sorry, say no more."

Sam's response is hesitant, her usual confidence momentarily faltering. "It's just a very couple thing to do, sorry. I just didn't think..."

Raising both hands in surrender, I attempt to mask my disappointment with a quick smile. "Not a couple. Got it. Where are we eating?"

She points to a nearby taco stand, asking, "You like carne asada?"

"Who doesn"t?" I ask. She looks at the ground and smiles again. So shy, yet so confident. Such a strange combination that leaves me staring at her.

It continues even as we queue up, and Sam orders for us in fluent Spanish. I'm impressed but not surprised; she seems to seamlessly blend into the local culture.

As we sit under the fluttering palm fronds, I'm struck by the casual, vibrant atmosphere of the beachside eatery. Mismatched tables, paper plates, and a lot of delicious smells. It's has a vibe that I love even if its common here in Costa Rica.

"So, Sam. Where are you from?" I ask, hoping to peel back some of the layers she's wrapped around herself.

"California." Her answer is brief and guarded. But I am somewhat surprised she gave an answer at all.

I mirror her restraint, revealing just enough to keep the conversation flowing. "Same. San Diego."

She perks up. "Oh, I love it there! You like it?"

I tell her I did, and the conversation evolves, touching on our shared history with surfing, and silly high school stories. As we talk, I have to remind myself not to stare at her lips. But as often as I do, she seems to be fighting the same problem. The unspoken words hang heavily between us. Every laugh, every glance, is charged with the memory of our night together.

I find myself wanting more than just casual banter; I want to dive into the depths of who Sam really is. It'll take longer than a taco lunch though and I'm kind of nervous to broach the subject. But a real date with Sam? It's suddenly all I want.

When our meals are finished, she stares at me, a half-smile on her face.

"What?" I ask, already dabbing my face with a napkin. I probably have salsa everywhere if previous eating experiences are any indication.

Her half-smile widens, turning into a full tooth grin. "Nothing. I just never expected to see you again."

"Me either. This was nice." She nods but picks up her drink. The cup is empty except ice, but she chews on some as she looks out to the water. "I do need to get back," she says. My heart does a little dance at how sad she sounds to be leaving.

"Can I walk you back?" I don't fight the hope in my voice. She agrees and we both toss our trash before leaving.

As we make our way back to the shack, seagulls squawk overhead, their cries blending with the rhythm of the crashing waves. There's a moment where I notice Sam inching closer as if she wants to reach for my hand, but instead, she settles for a mere brush of our shoulders. It's a small gesture, but it speaks volumes to me.

"What do you do for work?" she asks.

I give a noncommittal shrug, "This and that." My response is vague on purpose. The less she knows about my real job, the better.

"Something illegal? Are you a spy? Or maybe running a pirate radio station?" The smirk on her lips is playful, but I feel a sting at the suggestion. Even as a joke, I don"t like it. I would never be involved in criminal activities, just wasn"t built that way.

"No, nothing shady! I clarify, hoping to paint a clearer picture of who I am. But even as I say it, I realize my answer came out a little clipped so I chuckle nervously. "Ex-cop. I used to chase bad guys, now I chase good vibes."

She snorts. "Good vibes, Greg? God, you are a cheese ball."

"Gotta get my dopamine somehow. I used to get it from the job," I admit.

"Dopamine from cop work? This I gotta hear," she says, her tone full of disbelief.

So, I find myself sharing more, telling her about the little victories that made the job worthwhile like the time I helped a lost old lady.

Her laughter is a welcome sound, and I feel a bond forming between us over the story. "Did you find her family?" she asks, her voice laced with genuine interest.

"Yeah, after I took her out to ice cream, we did."

"Is that standard operating procedure, Officer? Ice cream with victims?" There's a teasing lit in her voice, but she can't fool me. She's biting her lower lip. Oh yeah, helping old ladies is sexual catnip to empaths like Sam. If only I could find a baby to hold…

"When the lady is bawling her eyes out, fuck yeah, I buy her ice cream. When she was calm, she gave me her daughters name and I had dispatch call her up." I bump her shoulder and smile. "Honestly? One of the most rewarding things I've done."

"So why did you quit?" Her question is innocent enough, but it opens a door to a past I'm not ready to fully dive into.

"Honestly? A relationship ended. Badly. And I was just ready for a change," I admit, skimming over the deeper reasons for my departure from the force and my arrival in Costa Rica. It's not just about running away; it's about searching for something more, something different. But that's a revelation for another time.

As we approach the surf shop, I see that Sam is wrestling with her own ghosts. There's a guardedness about her, a reluctance to share too much. I get it; we all have our secrets, our reasons for being where we are. And in that moment, I realize that, despite our brief time together, there's a connection between us that goes beyond the physical. It's a shared understanding of seeking refuge, of trying to escape a past that haunts us.

We step back into the familiar confines of the shop, I know that whatever happens next, I'm already in too deep. Next level deep. Like taking the terrifying elevator down to the bottom of Sea Lion Caves when I was in the fifth grade. Talk about intense. 208 feet with a travel rate of 250 feet per minute. And why do I remember that? Because it freaked me the fuck out. And that same swooping feeling of falling down an elevator shaft toward a churning, angry, and cold Oregon coastal waters is hitting me again.

Physically? The sex was fantastic, top spank bank material of all time. I'll be tugging Greg Junior for a decade thinking about that night on my couch. Beyond that though, Sam has gotten under my skin in more ways, and I want to know everything about her, and discover the woman beneath the surface.