April 28, 2022
Sex on the Beach
by Hillary Flynn
Before I went to rehab for the second time I dated a rich southern guy so comfortable with his masculinity that he wore bright pink polo shirts to nightclubs in the South Bronx. We met through a dating app where he swiped right on a profile I had made of a girl who looked like a more relatable version of me. The woman in those photos was edited to appear ten pounds lighter and responded to the app’s prompted questions with sassy comments like “All I’m looking for is an international spy who only drinks dirty martinis and is always in a tux.” That girl had never gotten her stomach pumped after a three-day bender in Atlantic City, or even wasted entire afternoons trying to convince herself to go to the gym.
My friends liked Sawyer because he called women “ladies” and always insisted on paying for my cabs. When he asked me to spend Thanksgiving with his family in South Carolina, I told him yes.
Sawyer’s mother and sister were sitting on white couches in the den drinking red wine when we arrived. His mother got up to hug me and called me “dear.” I tried not to stare at their glasses.
“What do you do?” I asked his sister. She had the same bright blonde hair as Sawyer and teeth so white it made me want to run my tongue over my own feeling the plaque.
“Oh, I’m married.” She took a sip of her drink. “Do you want a glass?”
“No, no I’m fine.”
“Katie doesn’t drink.” Sawyer took a seat on the couch opposite his family. I arranged myself primly next to him, back as straight as a sentinel, face fixed in a practiced smile.
Sawyer’s sister drained her drink. “Good for you. Wine has so many calories.”
I nodded, like that was the reason. The room smelled like fresh water. There were pictures of calm oceans on the wall. Sawyer started talking about his accomplishments at work in the 2 relaxed manner of a person who has never been afraid of true failure. He was discussing his promotion to executive vice president when his father came downstairs.
James was a handsome older man with a greying beard. I knew he was extremely aware of my presence from the way he refused to speak to me.
Everyone stopped talking when James entered. He took a seat in between his wife and daughter, forcing them to the edges of the couch. Instead of introducing himself, he looked at Sawyer and asked, “Why isn’t she drinking?”
“She’s dieting.” Sawyer’s sister frowned at her glass.
James sighed like there was a heavy weight pressed against his chest. He shot his wife a look that reminded me of crushed ice. “I don’t trust people who don’t drink.”
I had been biting the inside of my cheek as they spoke, blood jumping under my skin. I wanted my thoughts to stop quaking like a child locked in a closet.
“I guess I could have one glass,” I said.
My group therapist asked me if I decided to drink that night because I was afraid that some outside force would ruin my happiness with Sawyer. “Your real problem isn’t alcoholism, it’s that you’re afraid of not being in control,” the therapist said. I told her yes, probably, that’s it. But the truth is I drink because I love wine, and once I have one sip I can’t stop.
After Sawyer’s family went to bed I snuck back to the kitchen trying to find the leftover wine his mother put in the fridge. James was already at the kitchen table taking sips straight from the bottle. I sat across from him and listened to the problems he was having with his brother, who apparently always needed money, and the troubles James was having with his wife, who never let him touch her anymore. I nodded along watching him raise the bottle from the table to his 3 lips. “Can I have some?” I asked after an appropriate amount of time. He winked at me and told me I was a woman after his own heart.
We drank until our sweat smelled like crushed grapes and antiseptic. James brought me outside to the beach because he wanted to feel the fall air. I followed him across the damp, cold sand. The crashing waves made me feel like I was in the center of a storm. I remember wading into the water and kissing him while surrounded by foam. Then there was nothing.
I woke up naked on the lawn before the sun rose. The grass was dusted with dew and cicadas purred in the trees. I lifted myself up from the ground and brushed dirt from my skin. My hair was sticky and my mouth tasted like spoiled chocolate. I snuck back into the house, took a shower, and slipped into bed with my boyfriend.
I never learned what happened that night. Sawyer and I dated for a couple more months before he started taking longer periods of time to respond to my texts. I drank a lot after we broke up, but I got sober again, fell off the wagon, quit for a third time, and then started hiding fifths of vodka behind the radiator in my apartment. Sometimes I imagine I’m a stagnant pool drying inward a bit every year.