15 covering all the shells. The best shells I’d found this trip were not from the surf but rather, the toosoft sandbox sand at the top of the beach, too far from the water. To me, that doesn’t even count. By now, I’m starting to get nervous. Unbeknownst to me, Ms. rose-sweater is gone. I have almost certainly been waiting longer than anyone else. I approach the counter. “Um…excuse me?” My heart throbs in my throat. Thu-dump, thu-dump. “Yes?” It’s buckeye-eyes again. Guilt hits me like a wave (but one from the Atlantic side of Florida, not the gulf). “I’m so sorry…I ordered a peppermint mocha frappe about 20 minutes ago? I just wanted to make sure you guys didn’t forget?” “What’s the name?” “Haley. I’m so sorry.” “I don’t see it.” She glances at the labeled cups up by the cash register, sharpie-scribbled with names, and then returns to making drinks. “Uhh.” My face warms into a blaze. I can feel one hot glob of sweat dripping down my left armpit. As a last resort, I look down at the drinks already set out to be picked up on the counter. There, in a festive, grooved paper
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