The stare of the mid-June sun was glaring its heat upon my bare shoulders as Harry and I walked to the beach not far from our modest beach house off the coast of Georgia. Harry and I bought the little coastal house not long after we married last year, both of us in need of the therapeutic rescue from our busy city life in Atlanta; the salty sea air and sand between our toes always seemed to be the perfect relaxant for the both of us.
Harry reached over and intertwined his fingers with mine when we reached the beach. A few umbrellas dotted along the seascape mixed with families sprawled out on their blankets searching through coolers filled with anything from juice boxes to beer. Before we were able to decide where we would claim our territory on the crowded sand, a small, spongy football landed in front of Harry’s feet. A little boy with bleach blond hair, probably about five or six, came plodding towards us and Harry bent down to pick up the toy to return to the child.
“Here you go, bud,” Harry said happily, unable to hide his toothy grin and dimples when he was talking to children.
“Thank you, mister,” the boy replied, his southern accent already emerging at such a young age. It made me smile.
“You’re welcome!” Harry laughed, still smiling like an idiot. The boy looked at Harry with a perplexed expression across his face.
“Why do you sound so funny?” the child asked Harry and I could not hold back my amused giggle at the boy’s observation: everyone noticed the uniqueness of Harry’s accent that emerged as an amalgam of English elegance and Southern sweetness.
“I’m not from around here,” Harry responded. The boy easily accepted this and nodded to the both of us before scampering off back to this family. Harry had lived in London until he was sixteen when he moved to a small town in the Georgia sticks to live with his aunt and uncle before attending Emory University, where we met in our sophomore year. He was studying nursing while I was on the other side of the spectrum as a double major in French and business (by our senior year of college, we figured out some pretty creative ways to study for his anatomy practicals and my French oral exams, although, I do not think that they were exactly effective methods of studying, but excuses to fool around with each other during finals week). When we graduated three years ago, Harry immediately got a job working at Emory Hospital doing rotations through maternity, pediatrics, emergency room, and surgery until he finally found his place treating cancer patients. I, however, lost my ambition and passion for international business by my last semester of college and chose to pursue a master’s degree in education at Georgia State. I’ve been teaching French at a private high school in Atlanta for the past year while Harry works long, sometimes unpredictable shifts, caring for his cancer-stricken patients.
“What looks like a good spot, Y/N?” Harry asked me.
“There!” I pointed to a spot that was fairly close to the water and we strolled down the beach, weighted down with our beach bags, chairs, and Harry’s lanky surf board.
“What a cute kid. I can’t wait to have a little one,” he remarked, squeezing my small hand with his large one. I just turned and smiled at him, nonverbally saying, “We just got on the beach, Harry, I do not want to talk about this right now.” Harry quickly rushed in to the water to find the perfect wave, while I plopped down in my beach chair with the latest copy of French Vogue. When I had reached page 122, I noticed falling droplets of water staining the pages of my rather expensive magazine and realized that Harry had returned from his bout of surfing.
“You’re ruining my magazine,” I stated blankly as I looked up at him through the dark tint of my wayfarer sunglasses. He just laughed at me before he practically collapsed on the towel next to my chair and pushed his wet, straggly locks from his face with his left hand. I noticed his wedding band gleaming against the sun’s light, loving the way it looked on his fingers and how it signified that he was mine forever.
