BarucAI
patreon
[Mini story] The Bus to Beach 43
🕑 Added 2025-05-15 08:34:01 +0000 UTCHi HI ✨
Middle of the week! And I have a mini story for you today! This is actually Tuesday's story, I hope you like it!
---
The Bus to Beach 43
1.9K words
I'm going to miss this bus if I don't hurry.
Running in flip-flops is a disaster waiting to happen, but I don't have a choice. The 43 is already at the stop, and the next one isn't for another hour. I wave frantically, my gym bag bouncing against my hip as I sprint the last few yards. The driver spots me and waits, door open, engine idling.
"Thanks," I pant, climbing aboard. The fare card reader beeps as I tap my wallet against it.
The driver nods, not even looking at me. I'm used to that. People either stare too much or pretend I don't exist.
I scan the bus for a seat, and my heart sinks. Beach season means packed buses, and this one is no exception. All I can see is a sea of bare shoulders, sunhats, and beach bags occupying almost every available inch. There's only one spot left – a window seat halfway down the aisle.
Someone's going to have to sit next to me. Great.
I shuffle down the narrow aisle, painfully aware of the way my thighs brush against the seated passengers' shoulders. My denim shorts feel too tight, too small, like everything else I wear these days.
"Sorry," I mutter instinctively when my gym bag bumps against someone's head. The woman doesn't look up from her phone.
I reach the empty seat and drop into it with as much delicacy as possible, which isn't much. The plastic creaks beneath me. I immediately press myself against the window, trying to make myself smaller, but it's physically impossible. My thighs naturally spread across a seat and a half, and my shoulders are wider than the backrest.
I pull my headphones from my bag and slip them over my ears, queuing up my workout playlist. Music helps me disappear into my own world where I don't have to think about the space I take up.
The bus lurches forward, and we're off. Twenty minutes to the beach. I can manage twenty minutes.
Three stops later, the doors open, and I see him through the reflection in the window. Tall – though not as tall as me – with messy brown hair and glasses sliding down his nose. He's carrying a backpack that looks stuffed to bursting and wearing board shorts with a faded university logo. Probably around my age. He steps onto the bus, scans his card, and then does the same scan of seats that I did earlier.
His eyes land on the empty spot next to me, and I see the internal debate play out on his face. The same debate everyone has when the only available seat is next to me.
I press myself even harder against the window, pulling my headphones down to my neck. I know what's coming.
He approaches cautiously, like I'm some wild animal that might bite if he moves too quickly.
"Uh, excuse me," he says, voice cracking slightly. "Is this seat taken?"
I gesture to it with my hand, trying to seem casual. "All yours."
He sits gingerly on the very edge of the seat, clutching his backpack to his chest. There's still about six inches between us, but I can feel the tension radiating off him. He's trying so hard not to touch me that he's practically hanging off into the aisle.
"Sorry," I blurt out, unable to help myself. "I know I'm taking up a lot of room."
He looks startled, like he didn't expect me to speak again. "No, no, it's fine. I'm good."
The bus hits a pothole, and he slides into me before jerking away like he's been burned.
"Sorry!" we both say at the same time.
I feel my cheeks burning. This always happens. I'm nearly a foot taller than most women and twice as wide across the shoulders. My thighs are thicker than most men's waists. I've tried every diet, every exercise regimen, but nothing changes my frame. I've been this way since puberty hit me like a freight train at fourteen.
He's staring at my arms. I catch him in the reflection of the window, his eyes tracing the curve of my bicep where it stretches the fabric of my tank top. I should be used to the staring by now, but it still makes my stomach twist into knots.
"I'm Marcus," he says suddenly, like he's surprised himself by speaking.
I turn to look at him directly for the first time. His eyes are hazel, and there's a spray of freckles across his nose. He's cute, in a bookish sort of way.
"Ellie," I reply. "Short for Eleanor, but nobody calls me that except my grandmother."
He nods, and we lapse into silence again. The bus rattles along, and I notice he's not trying quite so hard to avoid touching me now. Our arms brush occasionally as the bus sways, and he doesn't flinch anymore.
"So..." he starts, clearly searching for small talk. "Going to the beach?"
I can't help but laugh. "What gave it away? The flip-flops or the towel sticking out of my bag?"
He grins, and dimples appear in his cheeks. "Astute detective work on my part. I should've been a private eye instead of a marine biology student."
"Marine biology?" Now I'm interested. "No wonder you're headed to the beach."
"Yeah, I volunteer at the tide pool education station on weekends. Teaching kids about sea creatures, making sure nobody takes starfish home as souvenirs, that kind of thing."
"That sounds really cool," I say, meaning it.
He shrugs modestly. "It's not saving the world or anything, but I like it. What about you? Beach day?"
I hesitate. This is where conversations usually get awkward.
"I train at a gym near the beach," I say. "They have specialized equipment that most places don't carry."
His eyes flick to my arms again, then quickly away. "Oh. That's... that makes sense."
I sigh internally. Here it comes.
But instead, he asks, "What kind of specialized equipment?"
I blink, surprised by his genuine curiosity. "They have reinforced bars that can hold more weight, benches that don't collapse under pressure. The standard stuff at regular gyms isn't built for..." I gesture vaguely at myself.
"For someone who can probably bench press a small car?" he suggests, and then immediately looks mortified. "Sorry, that was... I didn't mean to..."
But I'm laughing again. Not the uncomfortable laugh I use when people make comments about my size, but a real one.
"The car would have to be very small," I say. "Like one of those Smart cars, maybe."
He relaxes visibly. "That's still pretty impressive. I struggle with the bar by itself."
"Everyone starts somewhere," I say, the phrase automatic after years of being the unofficial gym advice-giver.
The bus turns a corner sharply, and this time when Marcus slides into me, he doesn't pull away immediately. I'm acutely aware of how small he feels pressed against my side, how his shoulder barely reaches mine despite him being perfectly average-sized.
"Can I ask you something?" he says, looking up at me.
My guard goes back up instantly. "Sure," I say, bracing for the usual questions: How much can you lift? Do you take steroids? Were you born a woman?
"Do you ever get seasick when you're out on the water?"
I stare at him blankly. "What?"
He points out the window. We've reached the coast road, and the ocean stretches out beside us, blue and vast.
"I get terribly seasick, which is ironic given my field of study," he continues. "I'm trying to find solutions that aren't just 'take Dramamine and become a zombie for the day.' Someone told me focusing on the horizon helps, but I was wondering if you had any tricks, since you seem like someone who might spend time on the water. With the swimming and... training and... um..." He trails off, apparently realizing he's been rambling.
I feel something loosen in my chest. He's not asking about my body. He's just making conversation, human to human.
"I don't get seasick," I admit. "But my brother does. He swears by those acupressure wristbands. The ones that look like sweatbands but have a little plastic button that presses into your wrist."
"Really? Those actually work?" Marcus looks skeptical but intrigued.
"For him they do. Worth a try, right? They're only like ten bucks."
"Definitely worth a try. Thanks for the tip, Ellie."
He says my name like it's perfectly normal, like I'm perfectly normal, and for a moment, I almost believe it.
The bus is slowing now, approaching the beach stop. Passengers start gathering their things, and the easy bubble of conversation between us threatens to pop.
"This is me," I say unnecessarily, reaching for my gym bag.
"Me too," he says, standing to let me out.
I rise to my full height, and his eyes widen slightly as he has to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. I'm used to this reaction too – people never realize quite how tall I am when I'm sitting down.
"Sorry," I mutter, hunching my shoulders instinctively.
"Don't apologize," he says quickly. "I'm just..." He pauses, searching for words. "Recalibrating."
The doors open, and we file out with the crowd. On the sidewalk, the contrast between us is even more apparent. My shadow completely engulfs his. The top of his head barely reaches my chin, and I could probably wrap my hand around his upper arm with room to spare.
"Well," I say awkwardly, adjusting my gym bag. "It was nice talking to you, Marcus."
He pushes his glasses up his nose. "You too. Maybe I'll see you around? On the bus, or... wherever."
"Maybe," I agree, though we both know the odds are slim in a city this size.
We're about to head in opposite directions when he suddenly says, "Actually, would you want to get coffee sometime? Or not coffee if you don't drink coffee. Water? People need water to live, right? Or food. Food is also good."
He's rambling again, and it's endearing. I find myself smiling.
"I drink coffee," I say. "Coffee would be nice."
"Great! That's... great." He fumbles for his phone. "Should we exchange numbers?"
As I recite my number and watch him save it under "Ellie from the Bus," I feel that knot in my stomach again, but it's different now. It's not dread or embarrassment. It's something lighter, more buoyant.
"I'll text you," he promises, backing away toward the tide pools. "About coffee. Or water. Or whatever beverage you prefer."
"I'll look forward to it," I say, and realize I mean it.
As I watch him walk away, something occurs to me, and I call after him: "Hey, Marcus!"
He turns, shading his eyes against the sun.
"Ginger root!" I shout. "For the seasickness. Fresh ginger root. My brother uses that too!"
He gives me a thumbs up and a grin that makes those dimples appear again.
I heft my gym bag higher on my shoulder and head toward the specialized gym, feeling lighter than I have in months. Maybe years. For once, I'm not thinking about the space I take up or the stares that follow me. I'm just thinking about coffee, and marine biology, and a pair of hazel eyes that saw me as more than just the sum of my muscles.
My phone buzzes in my pocket before I even reach the gym.
Hey, it's Marcus from the bus. Is tomorrow too soon for coffee?
I find myself smiling again as I type my reply:
Tomorrow is perfect.
![[Mini story] The Bus to Beach 43](https://img5.patrefans.com/storage/6/ie/ay/563145-019e8f8b-bdb2-7b1c-8ddf-c5acb63c1411.png)
![[Mini story] The Bus to Beach 43](https://img5.patrefans.com/storage/5/cb/qo/563145-019e8f8b-bdb6-75ca-ab9a-c861caec7913.png)
![[Mini story] The Bus to Beach 43](https://img5.patrefans.com/storage/11/ys/pf/563145-019e8f8b-bdb6-79e6-8c08-dbb7cd54bba1.png)
![[Mini story] The Bus to Beach 43](https://img5.patrefans.com/storage/11/xc/qq/563145-019e8f8b-bdb8-7800-9c8e-ec3fc22b137f.png)
