You were a senior in high school when you met Quint. You became absolutely infatuated with him. He was tall, handsome, and not that much older than you. You were eighteen and he was barely twenty-three.

He wanted nothing to do with you and you wanted everything to do with him. You walked past the docks every morning on your way to the beach, even if it was the long way, just to blow him a kiss. Eventually he got sick of your bullshit.

On a Saturday morning he calls to you, “Get over here!”

You get over there. Your beach bag is slung over your shoulder and you’re wearing only a bikini. His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows and his hat holds his messy curls out of his face so he can work with ease. He doesn’t say anything to you at first, he pauses, and just looks at you. His blue eyes have a little bit of green in them. He grabs your chin and kisses you.

You drop your bag on the ground to throw your arms around him and kiss back. Your sunscreen rolls out. After a few beats you pull away.

“What’s goin’ on, here, Sam?” you whisper.

He presses his lips to your temple, “I wanna take you out.”