Emily Locke 01 - Final Approach

his guitar case again. “Guess I should have asked you before hauling this in here.”
    “You’re not…Are you leaving?”
    “Yep,” he said. “And so are you. Let’s go.”
    I smiled. “Go where? Since when do I take orders from you?”
    He winked and gave me a playful nudge toward the parking lot.
    ***
    I liked the rugged feel of Vince’s pick-up as it hummed down farm roads, past brown fields and rows of giant, round hay bales. Vince drove a little too fast, and I liked that too. At the highway, we passed a billboard advertising fence repairs in both English and Spanish, and headed south to Freeport, an industrial little town apparently centered around natural gas companies. Street names like Glycol Road and Chlorine Road made me think the town was all business, an impression reinforced by a long series of factories and smoke-stacks streaming by my passenger-side window.
    At a red light, I stared at the gargantuan steel framework of one of the factories. Its endless maze of pipes and reinforcements struck me as cold and impersonal, and the ugly steam pumping out did nothing to soften my opinion. “You sure know how to impress a girl.”
    Vince only winked and gunned the truck when the light changed. Palm trees and gulls gave me the notion water was near, even though I couldn’t see it anywhere. Then we started up an enormous bridge over the Intracoastal Waterway, and suddenly I saw water for miles.
    Flat boats and industrial ships floated motionless in the channel below, and more factories and stacks populated the marshy landscape to the east. Straight ahead, the Gulf of Mexico dominated the view. Massive and infinite, the ocean was royal blue everywhere except for a wide band of white where the sun glinted off its choppy waves. It was the first truly majestic thing I had seen for years.
    Vince turned onto a pitted, desolate road that ran parallel to the coast. On our left, one sign said Plant Entrance while another said Beach Access on our right.
    He took the right and eventually the road morphed to sand. Vince didn’t let off the gas, though, and his tires slipped the same way mine did in snow. “Quintana Beach.”
    I looked up and down the shoreline and saw only sand, waves, and tread marks. “Where do those tracks go?”
    He parked the truck and opened his door. “Let’s find out.”
    I stepped onto damp sand and took a deep breath. The low rumble of the surf and light ocean breeze made the beach all the more beautiful. Vince unchained Cindy and the three of us walked ankle deep in the surf, Vince and I carrying our shoes. He’d brought a faded tennis ball, and Cindy was dying for it. She lunged into the ocean and tirelessly swam into the waves until she sometimes disappeared behind them, all for that stupid little ball. Each time she came back, she shook water all over us. I was beginning to feel the tightness of salt drying to my skin.
    “You really came out today to jump with me?”
    He pulled the ball back, tossed it high over the waves, and didn’t take his eyes off it.
    “Yep.”
    We watched Cindy leap into the frothy tide and paddle until her head was barely visible.
    She mouthed the ball and turned back.
    “Wow,” I said. “You must really like the way I skydive.”
    He directed an embarrassed smile at the sand.
    “Not really,” he said, redirecting his attention to the dog. “You’re an Average Jane skydiver.”
    I huffed and playfully shoved his shoulder.
    “But I do like the way you sing. Nothing average about that.”
    I grinned and looked away. The compliment made me uncomfortably self-aware.
    “It remains to be seen about your personality,” he said.
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “I don’t know you very well yet. You might turn out to be a nut, or a…bore.”
    “A bore?”
    He smiled. “I’m sure there are lots of wonderful singers with no personality.”
    I moved to slug him again, and he stepped backward and stumbled over his sopping wet dog. The next wave crashed, soaking his jeans with seawater from the knees down. Cindy didn’t care. She shoved the ball into his fist and waited, staring at it.
    Vince looked from his drenched pants to me, accusingly.
    “Women,” he muttered to the dog, and tossed the ball.
    “Men and dogs,” I replied.
    Eventually we came to a fishing pier and Cindy doubled back. Vince explained this was a regular walk for them and we’d arrived at the halfway point. It felt nice to be included in their routine.
    Before driving back,