❝I'm getting tired of waking up and not being at the beach❞ -Unknown

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he murmured into the line, straining to keep his voice consistent with the level of positivity he always tried to maintain, even when everything around him seemed to be conspiring against it.

Both the phone call and his own mood dropped with the same magnitude--like a bulky sack of coconuts flung wearily down onto a hard surface. He glanced down at the receiver defeatedly, turning it over in his hands before slamming it back into its cradle.

The resulting thud reverberated loudly through the still air, and he suddenly reached out on impulse, tenderly lifting the phone to confirm it was still intact. He realized that he had grown somewhat protective over the device lately, as though Aria were somehow encased inside and he might damage her.

As absurd as that sounded, he realized there was an element of practicality to it. If the vulnerable, antique device were to lose the life it had been clinging to very desperately for the better part of eighteen years, he doubted he would easily find himself another way of ever reaching her. The thought of that ray of rather loud sunshine disappearing from his lonely beach suddenly emerged with striking horror. Another strong gust of raw wind carried over the deserted boardwalk, seemingly in response.

"Don't worry, 'bout a thing," crooned the nearby portable radio, the Bob Marley song surfacing as he glanced over at it despondently. "Every little thing's, gonna be all right."

he replied to it with a low air of disgust.

"Rise up this morning, smile with the rising sun," the music continued to churn through the misty, sunless air. He hauled himself off the tattered beach chair and smacked the off button on the radio. It stuck with a stubborn click.

He opened his mouth to express his frustration but drew back after a moment, feeling somewhat apologetic. he managed, gently and almost reverently placing the small radio back onto its pedestal, an overturned orange crate. The years of corrosion evidenced in the crate's brittle, rotten wooden planks rendered it useless for its original purpose; it now served as a sideboard for his many odds and ends. Just beyond sat the fruit bins themselves, facing outward where beachgoers exiting the boardwalk could not miss them.

Settling back into his seat, he tipped the set of sunglasses off his windblown blond hair and over his eyes, despite the ugly clouds overhead which had decided to obliterate the sun from his view today. One could always pretend. And lying there for that brief moment, toes buried in the sand and eyes closed beneath the plastic shades as the radio faithfully continued to crank out its reggae music into the open air, Nicholas Vern found that he could in fact pretend.

He thought of Aria somehow in that moment, his mind trying to wrap itself around the mystery girl, the annoyingly talkative voice chirping on the other end of the line. How could someone sometimes manage to drive his nerves nearly to the breaking point, and at other times almost succeed in charming his usually apathetic self without even apparently meaning to?

He had hated talking to her at first, bewildered at why she continued to call. And then as the conversations progressed--bizarre as it seemed--Nicholas was finding that he was experiencing a ridiculous thrill at the phone's ringing, and his attachment to their discourse was growing, just like a wave breaking out at sea before smoothing out comfortably onto a beach.

There was little logic behind his sudden attraction to her; Aria's was a face that lived only in his imagination--he imagined her hair to be something along the lines of copper-blonde, soft yet bright, like the fresh interior of a peach. Furthermore, her hysterical personality seemed to require brown eyes... crisp and corrugated as the shell of a coconut.

he murmured to himself,

It was strange that the sound of Miss Riddle's voice was prone to spike such annoyance yet equal endearment, sometimes even within the same sentence. He had grown so accustomed to it that he very nearly looked forward to it, even though at other times it was enough to trigger his irritable side. It was hard to deny--the shrill "HEEEEELLLLP" still stood out as a poignant element of their first interaction; he now smiled whenever reliving that first bizarre conversation. It was one of the few interesting customer service calls that had occurred throughout his entire Fine Apple career.

He realized he was smiling now as he lay back in his chair with the soft breeze sweeping over his closed eyes. Then, on some impulse, he suddenly found himself sitting up abruptly and sliding the sunglasses back up his forehead, just in time to see that the utopia he had imagined was had disintegrated as quickly as he wished the surrounding mist would. The dismal, overcast beach again awaited him in the real world outside of Aria-esque reveries.

He wouldn't have minded the damp, almost humid weather, irritable though it was, had the beach that day held some more positive personnel. From his position on the sand level, gazing up at the nearby boardwalk, he could see two individuals--one, a skinny woman dressed in threadbare clothing, her face contorted strangely as though under the influence of some drug. The other was a bored-looking fisherman, perched on the boardwalk railing and seemingly falling victim to the same syndrome Nicholas experienced on a daily basis. Often called lost-in-thought-itis.

After all, everyone is subject to something or another these days.

Nicholas found himself stating aloud, catching the immediate attention of the fisherman, who tilted his chin, gazing inquisitively in Nicholas's direction.

"Sorry, lad?" He wore this confused look, as though he were trying to determine whether he was the one the stranger with the dumpy fruit stand had just addressed.

Nicholas rephrased, wondering suddenly whether pain was the reason for his automatic tendency toward meditative thinking. As harsh as it was, it seemed to have credibility.

Sucky life. Happy fantasy. The similarity to some sort of drug addiction made Nicholas depressed just thinking about it.

The fisherman lifted his sturdy arms in a simple shrug, his face bearing an ambiguous expression that seemed to indicate he had not deeply considered the matter. "Are you a philosopher or something?"

Nicholas surveyed his somewhat dingy surroundings, from the tattered umbrella to the shabby fruit bins, finally glancing down at his own wrinkled T-shirt and faded Hawaiian surfer shorts. After quickly determining that his appearance would not likely make such an assertion plausible, he quickly replied,

Nodding as though that had been the exact answer he had been anticipating, the fisherman heaved a sigh and muttered, "Sounds like a philosopher to me."

A philosopher. It just sounded far too prestigious a title for a guy who hadn't even made it to the point of receiving a high school diploma, the truth about himself that Nicholas still cringed at. Then again, wasn't that how philosophers occupied their time? Lounging around, trying to evaluate the deep mysteries of life, completely oblivious to the world progressing steadily around them? Sinking comfortably into his seat, Nicholas felt a sudden spark of satisfaction. I could get used to that.

As usual, the morning progressed with no customer activity, which partially could be attributed to the overall lack of general human activity on the boardwalk. When Nicholas awoke shortly into the afternoon, little had changed. The sky was still cloaked in clouds, the boardwalk was still vacant and lonely, and Bob Marley was still crooning remotely through the radio static.

Actually, one significant thing had changed, but it took a moment for it to register.

"Why are you asleep?" snapped his father in frustration, tipping the brim of Nicholas's cap upward until his metallic blue eyes were fixed on him. "Would you just last out the end of your shift, and then we'd maybe see some of that fruit get taken?"

Nicholas sighed in exhaustion, the recurring argument having grown wearying over the many weeks in which it had been replayed. It was true; the day had proved to be so altogether dreary that he wouldn't have minded taking the nap inside, had he not long ago decided always to settle for the unbeatable soothe of the distant ocean. And, well, for being within such close proximity to the ocean, the place legally designated as his "home" really wasn't the nicest place to spend one's time. Barren and dingy though it was, the Fine Apple stand, tucked away at the edge of the boardwalk just within earshot of both the ocean and the ancient contraption that was his connection to Aria, was more of a home than anything else.

His father grunted something unintelligible in response, turning to gaze almost helplessly at the forlorn batch of fruits, which somehow failed to look as appetizing as they had several months before, probably due either to the grayer light or to the fact that they were out of season. Probably a bit of both.

Nicholas couldn't help but think that everything was better when the sun actually showed up to work, settling up there and sharing its rays. When the fruit was fresh and tasted just as juicy, sweet, and cooling as it was expected to. When the beach was bursting with happy, friendly, and hungry tourists who showered themselves in Fine Apple merchandise.

He paused at that last, simple fantasy, regretting its rareness. More often than not, the beach was busy and crowded, and the antisocial, invisible beach bum fruit seller was lost in the swirling fray of people, as easily misplaced as a seashell when it is dropped into the tide and cannot be recovered.

At least the ocean was always there to welcome that lost little seashell into its open arms.

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okay okay okay, so if you all are wondering the reason for this chapter, well, in many of the other dialogue stories i've read on wattpad, the authors insert one or two little third-person views on the situation. i wasn't planning to do one here before, but as i've been writing this, i've started to recognize the value of those "little" (they really aren't little!) descriptive third-person chapters which help reinforce the plot. let's be real, i'm sure many of you have been wanting to see what exactly is really happening on nicholas's end (yes, his name is also nicholas! you may already know that from the story cast listing, but this is the first time i've formally announced his name, and aria still doesn't know him as anything other than tinkerbell!)

aLSO this is kind of a celebration of this book reaching 10k votes and 1k comments!! aaaaahhhhhhh!!!

love you guys. keep those reads, votes, and comments coming!

tina