Brenna

Heat from the weathered pavement seeps through my dollar store flip-flops as Shea and I walk along the walkway lining the beach. The sun is beating down upon us, causing sweat to drip down the back of my neck, enhancing the scents of coconut sunscreen, deodorant, and sweat. The streets, beaches, and sidewalks of Penticton are busy despite the sweltering thirty-five degree weather. People, ranging from kids to elderly people, are enjoying their time in the sun either by sitting at picnic tables in the shade, swimming, or enjoying iconic milkshakes from The Peach.

The same milkshake stand Shea and I are heading for.

We're walking, hand-in-hand, down the walkway, winding our way around people and other obstructions. His hand is laced with mine, and the roughness of his palm rubs against my skin. Every so often, he squeezes my hand, which makes me look at him. Admire him from the corner of my gaze, hidden behind my sunglasses.

Today, Shea's dressed in swim shorts and sandals. His loose-fitting white T-shirt is knotted around his waist. As usual, he's wearing his hat backwards. Tufts of wet hair are curled at the nape of his neck. Some drops of water still drip from his hair, sliding down his freckled skin that's been kissed by the summer sun. The planes of his stomach are gorgeous, as is the persistent smile present on his lips. He hasn't stopped smiling since he picked me up.

Not that I can blame him. Summer has been riddled with working and prepping for post-secondary school. We've had several outings with our friends, but not enough time alone together. At least, that's how it feels. I'm sure our families would argue. Shea's spent lots of nights over at my house. He's visited me during breaks at work on his days off.

Still, it doesn't feel like enough time.

The end of August is approaching fast. Soon, he'll be leaving for Boston. I'll be driving to Vancouver. As a couple, we've made the executive decision to end our relationship indefinitely. Committing to a long-distance relationship wil attending post-secondary school isn't something either of us wants. KJ thinks we're putting our relationship on pause, and that every time we meet up, we'll succumb to our feelings.

Shea likes to think KJ's wrong. I think he's right. Whenever I think about falling in love with another man, my heart, brain, and gut feel repulsed. Although there was plenty of doubt throughout the last few months before graduation, no doubt resides in any entity. Whenever KJ makes a statement, he's usually right. That kid can be daft as a sack of hammers, but he's observant and genuine. Hate to say it, but I'll miss him, too.

Lost in thought, I don't realize Shea's looped his arm around my shoulders until he's kissing my neck, just beneath my ear. Shivers radiate down my spine, despite the hot summer sun. He smells like sunscreen and lake water; tropical and musky.

"Without sunglasses on"— he taps the sunglasses resting atop my head — "people can tell you're staring at me. Not that I can blame you, Bren. Hot commodity right here."

I give Shea a playful shove, refusing to accept that he's right. Shea is a hot commodity, and he's all mine. Hopefully.

Yeah, I'm really hanging on to KJ's predictions.

Tipping my chin to the blue sky, I scoff. "You're the hot commodity? Who's the one trying to give someone a hickey. Clearly the receiver is the hot commodity if they're worth that much attention. "

He nips at my neck, then soothes the soft ache with his tongue. I'm mildly embarrassed. The heat is making me sweat. My skin must taste salty, and I'm sure he can smell a little more than my deodorant.

If he can, it does't faze him.

He kisses my neck again, and I can feel the smile spread across his lips.

"You're right, Bren. You're the commodity. I'm the lucky bastard."

In the blink of an eye, Shea has my hand in his again. He breaks out into a jog. I have no choice but to follow or be dragged.

Ahead, I can see the Peach. It's in on open area, and the sun in beating down upon the orange-coloured Peach-shaped building. It's small for a concession stand at such a popular location, perhaps the size of a food truck. To the right, cars whiz past, their tires squeaking against the hot asphalt. There's an abundance of noises: people talking, waves lapping against the shore, and traffic. Trees lining the pavement provide some shade from the blazing sun, but no enough to battle the persistent heat. While Penticton may be one of the prettier cities in the Okanagan, it's also one of the hotter locations temperature-wise.

To our surprise, the line-up for the Peach isn't too long. From here, I can't read every item on the menu board. What I can see, though, are the poor employees in the crowded Peach-shaped building. Three of them are inside, running around like loose chickens while they take orders and put together these magnificent milkshakes.

My mouth waters as one of the employees passes a customer a milkshake. The inner sides of the large plastic mug are decorated with swaths of dark chocolate, which contrasts against the milk chocolate, creamy liquid inside. Atop it is a large piece of chocolate cake and lots of whipped cream, topped with rainbow sprinkles and a cherry.

"Jesus," Shea comments. "You weren't kidding when you said these milkshakes are extreme."

"Right?" I ask in disbelief. We take a few steps forward, getting closer to the menu board. After a few mow customers, we'll be next to order. There's no way we can each order one, otherwise we'll be sick. Shea and I need to decide on one to share. "I've only seen pictures of them. They look amazing. Which one do you want to get?"

After removing his sunglasses and tucking them in his pocket, Shea removes his backwards hat and runs a hand through his hair. He expels a nervous breath. "Are there dairy-free options?" He puts his hat back on. His mouth is pulled to one side as he stares into out at the lake.

While I can't imagine being lactose-intolerant, considering how much I love cheese, I feel bad for Shea. He doesn't want to look at the menu because he's afraid he'll disappoint me. Unless we can agree on an order, I'm not buying a milkshake. It'll be too much for me to finish alone.

As I read the menu, my hopes continue to plummet. Until I come to the last two listings. Chocolate cake milkshake, dairy free and vanilla peach cake milkshake, dairy free. A smile blossoms across my face. As much as I love dairy, I can sacrifice it for Shea. Last time he consumed dairy, he ended up spending most of his time in the bathroom. At the end, he was mortified and would hardly look me in the eye. It took days to convince him I wasn't repulsed. Lots of people are lactose intolerant. There's nothing to be ashamed of.

I give him a soft nudge in the ribs. "You're safe! There are two dairy free options. Which one do you want? Chocolate or vanilla-peach?"

"Vanilla-peach," he replies, exchanging a hopeful glance with me.

Although I would prefer chocolate, vanilla-peach sounds great. Besides, I want him to be happy. Sometimes, you have to compromise. Which is something I don't mind doing.

"That sounds perfect," I smile.

He smiles at me and squeezes my hand as we step forward.

* * *

"Fuck," Shea groans. He leans back on the beach towel and rubs his stomach. "That was delicious."

I pop the last portion of the vanilla cake in my mouth, chewing thoughtfully as I watch the waves ripple. Above, the sky has turned an orangish-pink, which is reflecting off of the calm water. Aside from the ducks swimming, there's no breeze or other disturbances. Aside from the sickeningly sweet taste of cake and vailla icing coating my mouth. My tastebuds feel like clogged pores, drowning in artificial sweetness.

The milkshake, however, was delicious.

"Agreed," I reply.

One-by-one, I lick any remnants of icing from my fingers. Then I set the empty plastic mug down by our feet. The sides are covered in a film of sticky fingerprints and residual ice cream, as well as little chunks of Okanagan peaches.

"I'm glad we did that," I continue. "Though, next time, I think we need more people to eat it. My stomach isn't feeling good."

"Still worth it. No matter how close my stomach is to exploding. The underripe peaches were perfect; they cut the sweetness and added some acidity to it."

I snort. "You sound like a judge from the Food Network."

Shea grabs my ankle and pulls me down beside him. The dragging motion causes the towel to shift and wrinkle, making some sand slip into my shorts and down my bikini bottoms.

"Shea!" I squeal.

Soon, Shea is on top of me. His lips are pressed against mine and his mouth tastes like vanilla and peaches. We continues to kiss for what feels like hours, lost in the taste of each other and the passion between us.

Until his stomach makes a gurgling noise. Which is quickly followed by a groan. Shea rolls off if me, a hand pressed to his lower stomach. He groans again.

Sitting up, I rest a hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay?"

His stomach makes a funny noise again.

"Fuck. No. We need to find a bathroom, Bren." His sits up, glaring at the plastic mug. "I think they gave us the wrong order. My stomach..."

He's cut off by another gurgling noise, which makes me spring into action. This is the second time this has happened with me around. Last time, things did not go well. Shea almost shit himself. This time, it's worse. We're in public.

I grab my bag and then climb to my feet, helping him up. "Come on. There are public bathrooms by the hotel."

"What about our stuff?" he asks, keeping his pained expression under control.

"Don't care. I have everything important in my bag."

"Okay," he says.

Then we're off, running wonkily through the sand. Every so often, we have to stop and let the cramping pass, which only makes the panic worse. I can't let my boyfriend shit himself in public. It just... no. It can't happen.

"Come on, Shea," I mutter. "We're almost there."

I urge him forward a few more metres, until he has to stop. The cramps are almost too much for his body. He rests his hands on my shoulders and hunches over, pressing his face into my shoulder as he groans.

While this is happening, I rub his back and survey the area, muttering reassuring words. The public washrooms are just ahead, free of closure or line-ups.

"Come on, Shea," I say. "Only a few more steps."

"Brenna," he whines.

"Come on," I urge.

Using my strength, I give him a shove and practically drag him to the public washrooms. He separates from me and pushes through the door, disappearing behind it. I release a sigh if relief.

He made it. That's all that matters, and I don't mind that I have to wait twenty minutes for him to return. During my waiting time, I browse the souvenir shop near the beach, check my phone, and buy some water. He'll need to rehydrate after this.

When Shea exits the bathroom, he's pale and looks ashamed. Instead of speaking, I offer him a water. He takes it and chugs half of it while we walk back to our spot on the beach.

But the silence is killing me.

"You're blushing," I tease.

"I'm not blushing," he scoffs. "My cheeks are suffering from a severe sunburn."

We exchange a glance, and then burst out laughing. And we don's stop until tears are running down our cheeks and our stomachs are in pain.

Shea sighs, wiping away the tears. "Fuck, when will I learn?"

I take a sip of my water, staring out at the lake. "Not your fault they messed up our order."

He casts his gaze downwards, shaking his  head. His cheeks are flushing a deeper shade of red now.

"Shea?"

He looks at me.

I smile. "I still love you."

Tossing his head back, he laughs and pulls me into his arms. "Love you, too, Bren."

As we sit on the beach, I wrap myself in this infinite moment between us. It may be one of our last moments together for a while, and I plan to make it a night we'll never forget.

For better or worse, I know our futures are intertwined.