He's got a blanket under his arm and he has no idea what he's doing, but he's suddenly stumbling up to her, tugging at his shirt and smoothing down his hair like a kid at a middle-school dance. Say something nice, Hurley's voice repeats in his head. Say something nice. You're sarcastic, people don't like that, say something nice, call her Claire, say something nice.
"Hey, Claire," he says. The words feel heavy and awkward in his mouth, but they're out there, and damned if he's going to back out of this now.
She doesn't smile when she looks up, and he thinks for the thousandth time that this is a terrible idea. Then he's surprised, because she's saying, "Hey," and sounding almost friendly, and he's suddenly scrambling for something to say and has she always been that pretty? He manages a tight, nervous smile and remembers the baby in the cradle at his feet.
"Hey there, little…baby." And the damn kid, with impeccable timing, starts to cry. Fantastic. "Aaron!" he adds hastily, wondering when his own voice stopped being the only sound that could calm the kid down. He makes the mistake of glancing up at Claire, who is valiantly trying to hold back her laughter, amusement twinkling in her eyes as she presses her lips together to hide her grin. He loathes his stomach for the somersaults it turns when her bangs—and when did she get bangs?—drift across her forehead in the wind. Son of a bitch.
"Is, uh…is there anything I can do for you?"
"No," he says quickly, panic throwing the words out before he's ready for them. "I just came by to…" Say something nice, Hurley repeats. "…say your…baby…"
The kid—Aaron—is still crying. What the hell do you say about some amorphous human blob that eats, shits, and cries? Hell. Claire is looking at him, as if that makes this any easier. "Well, he's not as wrinkly as he was a couple weeks ago," he hears himself saying. It makes no sense, and she looks as confused as he feels. Shit. The kid—Aaron—looks up at her, making more baby-noises, and she laughs unexpectedly. He feels a flicker of hope in that halfhearted chuckle.
"Yeah…I—I guess he's not. Thanks," Claire giggles, amused and smiling down at her son. There's something about her gaze that tugs at the memory of a little girl named Clementine, but he pushes it away—it's one too many lives to think about when he's strangely content to just listen to Claire chuckle. The weight of the blanket in his hand brings him back to the beach.
"Oh, and, uh…this is for you." He holds it out to her and winces inwardly at its balled-up, misshapen state. Hurley had folded it nicely.
She's surprised, almost stunned, and it's a moment before she seems to realize what he's doing and reaches out for it. "Thank you," she says, and her voice lilts a little and he sinks a little further into the sand.
Claire is still smiling as she takes his gift and he hears himself muttering that he doesn't like blankets, which makes even less sense than Aaron being less wrinkly than two weeks ago, and God damn it. He says, "Good night," cheerfully to avoid the confusion on her face and the similar state of his stomach, which is jumpy and twisted in a way it hasn't been since he was fifteen and crawling through some girl's window on a Friday night.
He doesn't turn back as she wishes him a good night in return, but instead looks over to Hurley—say something nice—to receive his thumbs-up. The beach is unsteady under his feet as he shuffles back to his tent.
He slumps down on his lumpy airline seat and thinks about Claire. About Kate. Cassidy. Clementine.
Shit.
