Charlie may only come up to my hips, but he can kick a soccer ball like it's nobody's business. I have always thought of him as clumsy, somehow, most likely because he doesn't do a lot of sports activities. But in ten minutes, he is a better dribbler than I was after a year of pretending I could play at the park. In twenty minutes, he is giving me a run for money. And the kid is fast.

We're on the front lawn, which is long and wide. The rest of the group has gone off to explore, and Charlie and I are playing one-on-one with my shoes as goalposts.

I don't tell many people this, but I love soccer. And not just because of Ahmir, although he did definitely add to the attraction of the game for me. No, I've loved soccer since I was six years old and we wore tiny navy-blue-and-white uniforms and played each other on Saturday mornings up near the center of my town. They gave us orange slices and water, and yelled support to us as we kicked the ball wherever we wanted to. Sometimes it would end up in the goal. I played all the way up to middle school with a varying degree of skill (varying on the low side) until my mom died, and I hung up my soccer jersey, along with a lot of other things. I contented myself with watching it, and cheering on the players. I told myself I hadn't really been that good anyway, so why cry about it?

Not today, though. Today, I am deeply entrenched in teaching Charlie all about the beautiful game. Charlie, who is grass-stained and dirty, and who has mud on his shoes, and doesn't even notice. Charlie, who could actually be pretty good at this game eventually, when he develops the fine motor skills that he won't have until he's a little closer to double digits.

I announce our game: "Aaaaaaaaand Musgrove's making a break, he's going for it. CAN HE MAKE IT? The crowd is on its feet, CAN HE DO IT?" Then, "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAALLL!" I fall to my knees, my arms up in ecstatic joy. "A fantastic boot by Musgrove, right past Elliot's defenses! And the crowd goes wild!" I lift him up off the ground, hoisting him in the air for a moment of victory before I bring him down to the grass with me, tickling him. He giggles his high-pitched little squeal, then starts trying to escape. Just as I am standing up to hoist him under my arm for a victory lap, I see something out of the corner of my eye.

I turn to three professional soccer players staring at me. Ahmir is standing between Harry Harville and Ben Chaptin, with Hen, Lou, and my sister and her husband ranged behind them. I don't know how long they've been there, but judging by the smirks on Hen and Lou's faces, it's been long enough.

I put Charlie down on the ground, and he runs immediately to Charles, babbling excitedly. I, however, do not stick the landing quite so well, and hurriedly fix my clothes in a lackluster attempt at nonchalance. I follow it up with a crowd favorite. "Oh…hi. Hi there." Which is pure gold. To the communication public.

"Heeeeeeey," Lou and Hen respond simultaneously. I'm torn between melting into a puddle on the ground and making a face at them, but Lou steps in before I can. "Anne, this is Harry and Ben. You guys, this is Anne, our sister-in-law."

Ben sticks out his hand politely, although he looks dour this close up. Not that I blame him, of course. His brooding, unlike that of so many literary characters and bad boy wannabes, is justified. He attempts a smile, and I attempt a hello.

Harry is taller than Ben, and older, with premature graying that the temples. His characteristically lean physique is off-set by a high-tech knee brace on his right knee and a cane. He gives me a piercing look when I stick out my hand. "Anne…Elliot?" he asks, and at that moment I know he knows everything. Melting into the ground doesn't seem like such a bad idea.

"Yes. Nice to meet you."

"Good to meet you, too." He shakes my hand a little too firmly. Oh yeah, he does, he knows everything. Ahmir must have told him.

Well. This is awkward.

I turn quickly away and focus on the rest of the group, shoving my hands into the back pockets of my jeans as I do. "What are you guys up to?"

"We're going to the beach," Lou chirps up.

"Wanna come?" says Hen.

I only have one bathing suit. I haven't worn it in two years. It is guaranteed not to fit.

But on the other hand, if I go to the beach, I get to see Ahmir without a shirt.

"Absolutely."

I'm right. The suit doesn't fit. Not only does it bag over my body, which has none of the curves it used to have, but at some point in the last two years it's managed to become awkwardly see-through and pepper with lint-balls.

"Mary?" I call from the bathroom. Mary has been lying down with a migraine all day, and has only just emerged from her completely dark room.

"Mmm?"

"Can I borrow your bathing suit?" Mary keeps her body scientifically without any fat on it. On any other day, I would lament this fact, but right now it serves my purposes brilliantly.

"Why? Don't you think I'm coming?"

"Mary, you just got over a migraine, and it's bright outside. You should rest."

"I don't want to rest. I'm sick of resting. You should rest."

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

"Did you bring more than one bathing suit? Mine doesn't fit, or I wouldn't ask."

"You'll stretch it out."

One. Two. Three…

"We're the same size, Mary."

"You'll get it sandy."

"It's the beach."

"So?"

"So the beach has sand. You'll get sandy, too."

"I know how to take care of myself."

ONE. TWO. THREE…

"Mary. I'll wash it. I'll take care of it, and I'll get a new one tomorrow. Okay? I just need to borrow something for now."

There's a thump thump as the top and bottom halves of a too-tiny bikini collide with the door and then fall to the ground.

"I don't even know why you're going, anyway. You barely talk to any of them."

I forget to breathe. "Yeah I know. I'm usually too busy taking care of your son." I open the door and retrieve the suit. There is a frosty silence from the other side. Then, "I've been busy."

There is a frosty silence from my side of the door. The bikini has the Coach symbol over and over it. Awesome. I should never have stopped swimming. Why did I stop swimming?

I pull the suit on quickly, tying the white strings behind my neck. I pull my clothes on over it, grab my sunglasses and my flip flops, and open the door.

Mary is sitting on the couch crying.

One. Two. Three.

"Anne?"

Four. Five.

"Mary, what's wrong?" I go to sit on the coffee table, eye-to-eye with her tearstained face.

"I feel so overwhelmed, Anne. I have so much to do, and I feel so bad, and it gets hard, you know?" She puts her head in her hands and sobs shake her shoulders.

Mary and Charlie are very similar. When Charlie doesn't get what he wants, he cries. When he doesn't want to do a physical activity, he pretends he's hurt. When he wants attention, he does exactly the thing he knows will get it from me.

Charlie, of course, is almost four. Mary is twenty years older.

Louisa May Alcott once said that to "help one another, is part of the religion of sisterhood." And she had three of them. My sisterly duty, in this situation, is to take her by the shoulders, and dry her tears, and comfort her, and tell her she's a strong, independent woman who can take on all the things she needs to do to succeed. I need to reassure her of her brilliance and her radiance and her thinness, and let her know that I could never, ever, be better than her.

But I guess I'm blasphemous, because at this particular moment, I don't give a shit about the religion of sisterhood. I pat her on the head twice, and stand up, walking out the door and closing it firmly behind me.

No one goes to the beach to swimming. At least, that's what Hen's issue of Cosmo has told us. Apparently, the beach is an excellent place to pick up men, and a "Fun, Fearless" way to do it is to trip and fall near a beach volleyball game peopled by "hotties" and as one of the sweaty pieces of man-meat help you up, giggle and say "I think I was blinded by the light shining off your abs."

Lou, Hen, and I are lying on our towels in the sun. Lou and Hen have already stripped down to their bikinis, but I want to prolong the time before I need to reveal mine for as long as possible. Now that we're here, it doesn't seem like such a good idea to have borrowed one from Mary. Especially since no one else wants to go swimming. I might as well have just brought a book.

We are waiting, of course, for the guys to appear. On one thing, it seems, Cosmo and Hen absolutely agree, and that is that if you are already in the water when the guys show up, it will have been a missed opportunity to have them admire your perfectly crafted physique, and maybe get them to rub some sunblock on your skin.

Luckily, we don't have long to wait. Fifteen minutes later, Ahmir, Ben, Harry, his wife and their two kids have settled down around us. I feel bad for Harry, but also completely in awe of him. Not only is he formidable-looking man (six-feet plus of pure muscle) but he also manages to look completely cool and relaxed on the beach, with his leg stretched out awkwardly in front of him, while he hangs out with his wife and kids. His wife, Nikki, is a little bland but exceptionally nice, and the love they have for each other is obvious.

Ahmir sets his towel up next to Hen, the farthest away from me that he can be. Ben throws his down on my side, and sits down. He very obviously does not want to be here. He's still wearing his sneakers.

I am suddenly uncertain about my decision to be here. Obviously, I want to see Ahmir shirtless. That is a given, than has not changed. But at the same time, I'm now in the presence of two people who realize just how awkward this situation is, and who are most likely not going to forgive me any time soon. On top of that, Lou is miffed that Ahmir isn't next to her, and the guy on my other side won't be up for conversing because his fiancé died six months ago. And it's not like I can just talk to Hen or Nikki. Because yes, that would be awkward. And rude. Which seems to be the theme for the day. Maybe I should just head back to the house after a decent interval has elapsed.

I compromise by lying back down on my towel and throwing my arm across my face. The sun is bright, but the breeze is up, and the wind ripples the sea grass behind us and runs over my arm, forehead, and legs. If this is how it's going to be for the rest of the time, it's okay by me.

But time passes. The talk runs over me, and goes around me, and I start to feel as though I'm copping out. I come to the beach with these guys to what? Make it more awkward for them? Just to be there? I came to be with people, and I should actually try and do that, or I might as well go up to the house and ask Mary how her life is going. I need to talk to someone. Just…someone.

There really is only one option. Lou is focused to our right, and Ahmir and Harry are both in that direction, too. I turn to Ben, who I find, with some surprise, reading.

I scan the cover. "Lord Byron?" I sound insultingly amazed, and I keep my gaze friendly as he turns his head to me.

"What?"

"You're reading Lord Byron," I say. Idiotically. He thinks so, too, because he lifts the book so I can see the cover, and bounces it as if he were nodding. "Yup."

Silence. Then, "Do you mind if I ask which one?"

"Which one what?"

"Which poem?"

He fixes me with a withering gaze and then looks down at the book. "I will not ask where thou liest low,
Nor gaze upon the spot;
There flowers or weeds at will may grow;
So I behold them not."

I quirk my mouth up slightly in a smile, and finish the stanza, "It is enough for me to prove
That what I lov'd, and long must love;
Like common earth can rot,
To me there needs no stone to tell,
'T is Nothing that I lov'd so well."

He looks at me closer now, a smile working its way into his eyes and peeking out of his mouth. "You read Lord Byron?"

"Ummm, yeah," I joke, rolling my eyes, "duh."

His smile grows a little, and he leans in. "Do you like poetry in general, or just…"

"Just depressing nineteenth-century pack-leaders? I like it all. Well, not all," I amend, "I mean, some of it makes no damn sense to me, but I do like poetry."

"Do you write any?"

Tricky. "From time to time. I'm better at reading it, honestly."

He smiles again, and this one isn't so fleeting. We embark on a discussion of contemporary versus classic, our favorite poets, our favorite poems, and everything in between. He's not bad looking when he's excited about something, and I can sort of see his slow, nostalgic nature being very attractive to someone. Especially to a woman who's on the receiving end of that interest. For a while, lost in the conversation, I don't pay attention to what's going on on my right. I don't know what they're talking about, and I don't think to care.

"What do you think—"he starts to ask, before his phone rings. He takes it out sheepishly—it's enormous—and stands up to answer, walking away from the group. I watch him go for a second, before turning back to look at the sea. I glance over my shoulder at the rest of the group, and look straight into Ahmir's eyes. He looks away quickly, glancing down to draw images in the sand. I look further over, and see Harry's eyes on me, too. He sees me looking, but he doesn't look away. I do.

"Anne, are you going to be in your clothes all this time?" Lou asks. She, Nikki and Hen have long since lost their cover-ups, and Harry and Ahmir have stripped down to their trunks. Ben and I, it seems, have missed the boat.

"Come on, it's like a million degrees out," Hen pipes up, squinting up at me.

I sigh. Here it is. I stand up, whipping off my t-shirt to reveal the branded top half of my borrowed suit, then quickly step out of my shorts as well. As I flop down on my towel, Lou lets out a snort. "What are you wearing?" Normally, I would agree with this sentiment, but today I find it slightly irritating.

"It's Mary's." I answer, as shortly as I can.

"Jesus, I bet it is. We could have lent you something, you know," Lou says, leaning up on her elbows. "But I have boobs, so you're probably better off in that, anyway."

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

"Yep." I lie back down on the towel, in the exact same position as before.

"You know, Anne, Ben's kind of cute," Lou says in a conspiratorial voice that fails to be conspiratorial. "You should go for it."

"Uh huh."

"No, seriously. He likes you, doesn't he?

"He likes poetry."

"He likes that you like poetry."

"I bet we share a common interest in pizza, too. That doesn't mean we're destined to be."

"I'm not talking about marriage, Anne. God. I'm just saying maybe it's time you took care of that little dry-spell problem of yours, okay?"

"Leave it alone, Lou."

"Maybe you're happy not having sex for five years, but it's bringing the whole team down."

I have no answer for that. Not only is it the most ridiculous, insulting thing I've ever heard Lou say to anyone, it was also said in front of an entire group of almost-strangers. Hen's subdued, "Lou!" notwithstanding, there is no noise from this group at all. I don't want to think, I don't want to talk, I don't want to complain. I'd rather get up and run away, and keep running until I forget my name, and his name, and anyone and anything that has to do with the past decade of my life.

But I can't do that. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

"I'm gonna swim." I get up without looking at anyone, and make my way down the beach until I'm a good distance away from the group, and I walk right into the water. It's freezing. I'm pretty sure my hair is standing on end, and I wade in as fast as I can until I'm standing at waist level. From there I duck under again and again and again, swimming out as far as the ropes, and then back, and then out again. Over and over until my head is clear and my heart is cold and I can think and think and think.

Obviously, this is not going so well.

I'm out in the water until we leave. Ben raises his voice to call me out of the ocean as the others busy themselves packing up. I wade as fast as I can out of the water, shaking out my wet hair and rubbing salt water out of my eyes. The rest of the group is a little ways away, waiting for me to be ready to leave. I grab up my towel, now slightly sandy, and slip on my flip flops. My shorts are easy to find, but my shirt seems to have disappeared. I look around me quickly, but I can't see it.

"What are you missing?" Hen asks from the group.

"My t-shirt," I call back, "I can't—"

A hand appears from the corner of my vision, holding my shirt out to me.

"Is this it?" a deep, soothing voice asks. I look up the arm to the face. He's very good looking, with tousled sandy blonde hair and a big grin. The square jaw is softened by a set of dimples any grandmother would die over. And he's focusing all their power directly on me.

I take the shirt. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it," he says, walking backwards but keeping me fixed in his charming gaze. "I'm always happy to help the beautiful ladies." He winks at me, and turns around, glancing back over his shoulder as he walks back to his spot.

I turn back toward the group, walking past them as they stare back at the mystery man. I turn around and call back over my shoulder, "Are you coming?" They seem to shake themselves and follow me. I feel eyes on me the rest of the way home, but I don't turn around. Instead, my mind works over and over again four words that I hadn't thought since high school.

He thinks I'm cute!