The Greek sun blazed overhead, turning the ocean into a sheet of sparkling blue, as Lila skipped toward the beach, her red shorts fluttering in the breeze. “Hurry up!” she called over her shoulder, her black curly hair bouncing—now loose, free from the purple ribbons she usually wore at the gym. I laughed, juggling a cooler of banana smoothies and a beach bag, and caught up to her just as she dropped a striped towel onto the sand. “Look,” she said, holding out a small seashell—just like the one we’d put in Marisol’s summer package. “Found it on the walk over. Nikos was right—this beach has the prettiest shells.”
I set the cooler down and pulled out my camera, grinning. “Turn around,” I said. “Red shorts against the ocean? This is a photo op.” Lila rolled her eyes but obliged, striking a playful pose—one hand on her hip, the other holding the seashell up to the sun. Her red shorts were bright, bold, a stark contrast to the soft blue of the water, and when she laughed, the sound mixed with the crash of waves. “You’re gonna make me look like a tourist,” she said. “Good,” I replied, snapping the photo. “Tourists have more fun. Besides, six pack and red short goes well—wait, no, you and red short goes well. Way better.” Lila raised an eyebrow, walking over to nudge my shoulder. “Six pack, huh? Someone’s been watching too many beach movies.” I flushed, but before I could defend myself, she reached into the beach bag and pulled out a towel—bright blue, with a cartoon drawing of a six-pack of soda on it, each can labeled with a tiny heart. “Found this at the market yesterday,” she said, grinning. “Thought it fit your ‘six pack’ joke. And it matches the ocean.”
I took the towel, laughing, and spread it next to hers. “You’re impossible,” I said. “But I love it.” She sat down, crossing her legs, and I joined her, our shoulders touching. The sand was warm beneath us, and the smell of saltwater mixed with the banana smoothies we’d made that morning—Lila’s idea, of course, to “keep the summer package vibe going.” We sipped our smoothies in silence for a while, watching a group of kids build a sandcastle, until Lila pointed to a small boat in the distance. “Remember when we took Nikos’s boat out last summer?” she said. “You tried to fish and dropped the rod in the water?” I groaned, hiding my face in my hands. “Don’t remind me. Marisol still teases me about it.” Lila laughed, her curls brushing my arm. “But you got me that seashell that day,” she said, tapping the one in her hand. “The one with the pink stripe. I keep it on my nightstand.”
As the afternoon wore on, we walked along the shore, collecting seashells to add to our “us package”—the one we’d talked about making after dropping off Marisol’s gift. Lila’s red shorts got sandy, and I had to help her brush off a clump that stuck to the hem. “Six pack towel to the rescue,” I joked, dabbing at the sand with the cartoon towel. She smiled, taking my hand, and we walked slower, letting the waves wash over our feet. “I’m glad we did this,” she said, her voice soft. “Just… us, the beach, no gym benches or ivy to water. Just… summer.” I squeezed her hand, stopping to turn her toward me. The sun was lower now, painting her face golden, and her red shorts glowed in the light. “Me too,” I said. “But you know what? Even if we were back at the gym, I’d still think you look amazing. Red shorts or purple ribbon or banana sauce in your curls—you’re always amazing.” She leaned up, kissing me, and the taste of banana smoothie lingered on her lips.
Later, we built a small sandcastle, decorating it with the seashells we’d collected, and Lila insisted on placing the six-pack towel on top like a flag. “It’s our castle’s banner,” she said, grinning. I took a photo of her standing next to it, her red shorts covered in sand, her curls blowing in the wind, and knew I’d add it to the sketchbook we were filling for our package. “Tonight, we’ll get dinner at that little taverna Nikos recommended,” I said, wrapping my arm around her. “The one with the grilled octopus and the lemonade.” Lila’s eyes lit up—she’d been talking about trying Greek seafood since we planned the trip. “And then we’ll come back here and watch the sunset,” she said. “With the six-pack towel and our seashells.”
That night, as we sat on our towels, watching the sun dip below the ocean, Lila leaned her head on my shoulder. “You know what’s funny?” she said. “When you joked about six pack and red short going well… you were right. But not because of the towel. Because it’s us. We go well. No matter what.” I kissed the top of her head, breathing in the scent of saltwater and her lavender shampoo. “Yeah,” I said. “We do.” We sat there until the stars came out, holding hands, listening to the waves, and I thought about our package—seashells, photos, the six-pack towel, all the little things that made us us. It wasn’t about the gifts. It was about the moments: the way Lila laughed at my bad jokes, the way she remembered my favorite smoothie, the way she turned a silly six-pack towel into something that felt like love.
The next morning, we packed up our things, but not before Lila tucked a small seashell into the six-pack towel. “For our package,” she said. “So we’ll always remember this beach, this summer, this moment.” I nodded, folding the towel carefully, and took her hand. As we walked back to our rental car, Lila’s red shorts still bright against the sand, I smiled. Love wasn’t about grand gestures or perfect photos. It was about sandy toes and silly towels, banana smoothies and seashells, the way someone looks at you when you’re being ridiculous—and still thinks you’re amazing.
Six pack and red short goes well? Sure. But Lila and me? We go better. And that’s the best part of all.
