Watch Over Me

by Mila Gray

  It would be so easy to slide my other hand up her back. My fingers itch to stroke up her neck, to cup her cheek and then raise her lips to mine. There’s nothing stopping me. I don’t need to worry about Will—I know he wouldn’t be mad. He’s not that kind of brother. But is this the right thing to do, given everything Zoey’s going through? Would it be taking advantage of her? And that’s what stops me in my tracks, because the truth is I don’t know what it would be.

  Complicated is the answer that my brain fires back. Imagine kissing her and then things don’t work out. It’s not what she needs right now. Besides, you also told her brother you’d watch over her, not try to get into her pants. Act like a friend, not like a jerk.

  ZOEY

  His hands drop from my waist, and he practically pushes me away. “He’s gone,” he says.

  I glance over my shoulder and see the cop is getting into his car and starting the engine, but I’m too humiliated to care about the cop. Tristan’s shoving his hands into his pockets and won’t look at me. Oh God … What an idiot … I thought he was going to kiss me. And I think I wanted him to. But of course he doesn’t look at me like that. I’m Will’s sister, and besides … why would he ever like me? My face burns with embarrassment.

  But then I remember the way his hand stroked down my back and lingered on my waist. I can still feel the imprint of it. Or am I misremembering what happened, like witnesses do after a crime?

  I back away from him, tugging down the bottom of the sweater and wrapping my arms around my chest. “So … this is what you wanted to show me?” I ask, trying to act indifferent.

  “This way,” Tristan says, heading for the end of the pier.

  I follow him and notice my stomach is fluttering. What is with that? We keep walking, reaching the end of the pier, and I stop and take a deep breath. It’s like we’re on the prow of a boat far out at sea, floating under the stars, and I haven’t seen them in so long that I think I might cry.

  “It’s beautiful,” I whisper.

  “Yeah, it is,” Tristan answers.

  I turn to him and find him looking at me. “You know, I haven’t seen the stars in so long,” I tell him.

  He frowns at me, not understanding.

  “Vegas. The light pollution.” I shrug. “You don’t see the stars.”

  “It’s the best thing about flying at night,” Tristan says. “The stars feel so close, like you could reach out and touch them.”

  I stare up at the sky. I can’t imagine. I’ve never been on a plane. “It must be amazing,” I say, sneaking a look at him as he stares up at the sky. In profile, I notice the strong line of his jaw. “What’s it like?”

  “Flying?” he says, looking at me, his whole face lighting up. “It’s the best feeling on earth.” He stops. “Well … almost.”

  I flush, blood pounding to my cheeks.

  He gazes up at the sky, shaking his head. “It feels like total freedom. It’s so quiet and so still, and the world seems so small. It gives you a whole new perspective on everything.”

  I wish I could live on a plane, in that case. I wouldn’t mind that freedom and peace or the knowledge I could escape anytime, anywhere.

  “One day I’m going to travel the world,” he says.

  I gaze out at the horizon. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous. I’ve always wanted to travel, but I know I’ll never have the chance or the money to go anywhere.

  “See those three stars right there? That’s Orion’s Belt. If you follow it up, that triangle of stars above it, that’s Orion.” He points, and I tilt my head and try to put it together. I can’t quite see it.

  He steps closer so our shoulders brush. “That really bright star is the top of the triangle,” he says.

  I nod, finally seeing it. “Orion was a hunter. He hunted with Artemis,” I explain. “She killed him with an arrow.”

  Tristan glances at me. “Geek,” he mutters, nudging me in the side with his elbow.

  I laugh and nudge him back, and for a moment I feel completely happy.

  I lean over the end of the pier and stare down into the dark, swelling waves below and then back up at the stars. A plane is inching its way between them as though playing dot to dot. It reminds me of Will, about to board a military plane and head to the other side of the world.

  “I got in a fight with Will,” I admit to Tristan. I’m not sure why I tell him, but there’s something about him that makes me want to open up and share. He’s a good listener. And maybe it’s also because Tristan knows me, knows my story. I can’t hide the truth from him.

  “He told me,” he answers, coming to stand beside me, though leaving a good arm’s distance between us. He obviously doesn’t want me getting the wrong idea.

  “What did he say?” I ask, bristling a little. Did Will say something horrible about me? Does Tristan believe it? Tristan shrugs, chewing on his lip.

  “It’s easy for him,” I mutter. “He just gets to walk away every time things get hard.”

  Tristan turns to look at me, and I catch the flare of surprise in his expression. My cheeks burn. I didn’t mean to say that. It’s too personal and revealing. The silent part of what I said hangs there. I don’t get to walk away. I’m always the one left behind.

  “Can I tell you something?”

  I nod warily.

  “You’re wrong about Will,” Tristan says.

  I cross my arms and turn to face him, bristling.

  “He didn’t abandon you. He did it for the signing bonus.”

  It’s like I’ve been punched in the gut, all the air leaving my lungs. “What?”

  “He wanted the signing bonus to pay for your mom and you guys to get away from your dad. He figured the money would help you start over.”

  My legs feel unsteady. “What?” I say again, staggering backward, covering my face with my hands. I think I might faint. Suddenly, I feel Tristan’s hand on my lower back. I whip around, shaking it off. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

  “He gave the money to your mom. Your dad found it. He took it and …” He pauses, as if struggling to find the right words. “Remember that time she ended up in the hospital with the broken wrist?” I nod. Oh my God. That was the cause of it? I remember the rage my father flew into. It was like a tornado hitting the house dead-on. “Will blamed himself,” Tristan goes on. “Thought it was his fault. He didn’t want you to find out.”

  I feel sick and clutch my stomach as it starts to churn like the ocean below us. “How is that his fault?” I ask. “I can’t believe he didn’t tell me.”

  “I know,” Tristan says quietly, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I told him to, but he didn’t want to. And he’ll be pissed at me when he finds out that I’ve told you.”

  “Why did you?” I ask.

  He pauses. “Because he asked me once before to keep a secret, and it was the stupidest thing I ever agreed to. You needed to know. It’s not worth you guys falling out over this.”

  Oh my God. The shock of what he’s just told me makes me dizzy. How wrong I’ve been. How unfair. “I need to call him!” I blurt. “He’s leaving tomorrow. I need to talk to him.” I stick my hand in my back pocket for my phone before remembering I don’t have one. I left it in Vegas.

  “Here,” Tristan says, “use mine.” He hands it to me, and I see the lock screen image. It’s a photograph of Tristan with his arms around a gorgeous, dark-haired girl. She’s laughing as though he’s tickling her. There’s a stabbing feeling in my chest, like someone just shunted a knife between my ribs. So he does have a girlfriend after all.

  Tristan takes the phone and scrolls to Will’s number. He presses dial and hands the phone to me. The call goes straight to voice mail.

  “Hey, Will,” I say. “It’s me. Call me back. I don’t have my phone, so maybe try Kate in the morning before you leave.” I hang up and give Tristan back the phone. I hope Will calls. I need to speak to him before he goes away. I need to make things right between us.

  “You want
to go home?” Tristan asks me.

  I nod, and we start to head back up the pier. Neither of us says a word. I’m still processing what he told me about Will, feeling guilt mixed with anger, but I’m also processing the lock screen image on his phone. I don’t know why it bothers me so much. I should know better than to let myself crush on anyone. I’ve seen how that ended up for my mom. Love just causes heartbreak and suffering. I’ve experienced heartbreak once myself, and I vowed to never let it happen again, to never again be so weak or so stupid to fall for a guy or his lies, or let anyone hurt me. It’s a good thing that Tristan has a girlfriend, I tell myself. That way I won’t make the mistake of falling for him.

  Tristan cups his hands again to boost me over the gate, but I ignore him and struggle up and over by myself.

  We walk until we reach the condo, and I head to the laundry room and grab my dry clothes. He comes with me.

  “Don’t forget the knife,” he says, laying it on top of the laundry.

  “I’ll wash your sweater and give it back to you,” I mumble.

  “No,” he says. “Keep it. It’s fine.”

  I hurry out of the laundry room, Tristan following behind.

  “Good night,” he says as he veers off toward his place.

  “Good night,” I answer, the words catching in my throat. I head for the stairs to our apartment.

  “Hey, Zoey?” Tristan calls out softy.

  I turn.

  “What’s black-and-white and black-and-white and black-and-white?”

  I shake my head, already laughing despite not knowing the answer.

  “A penguin rolling down a hill.” He grins.

  I run up the stairs to our apartment, laughing but also feeling an ache in my chest that I don’t think will be going away soon.

  TRISTAN

  The first thing I do is put on a record, something to take my mind off everything. Then I drop to the floor like I’m at training camp and do fifty push-ups. I need to work out all the energy that’s coursing through my body like a lava flow. There’s frustration—of several kinds—and I feel like I’m at the start line of an Ironman race, not at the tail end of thirty-six hours with no sleep.

  No matter how hard I push myself through the fifty sit-ups and then fifty pull-ups, though, I can’t seem to banish the image of Zoey looking up at me: the way her eyes seemed to glimmer in the darkness, and the way she held her breath, as though anticipating something. I think about her lips again, how full and perfectly heart-shaped they are, and wonder what it would it be like to kiss her.

  I do crunches next, grunting as I push myself into a sweat, wondering if Will is going to be mad that I told her the truth but wondering more what Will would say if he knew the thoughts I’m having about his sister. They’re so out of left field I feel like I’ve been slugged by a right hook to the face that I didn’t see coming. I’ve known Zoey almost my whole life. I’ve thought about her on and off over the years, keeping up on her news from Will, but I never in a million years expected to ever feel this way about her. I don’t fall for people like this. I never fall for anyone. What the hell’s going on?

  I think back to when we were kids. I know I used to feel protective of her and that I always tried to watch out for her and find ways to make her smile, but it was a brotherly thing. But now it’s definitely not the same. Yes, I want to still protect her, and the same instinct to make her laugh is also there, but I’m not doing it so selflessly. I want to make her smile, but more than that, I want her to smile at me.

  Shit.

  I’ll keep my distance and just keep an eye on them from afar as I promised Will. That’s best all round. The only problem is I’m working tomorrow for three days straight. There’s some kind of smuggling operation we’ve been called in to deal with. I won’t be around to keep an eye on them, but I’ll have time to get my head straight, and maybe when I get back all these feelings will be gone.

  I’m dripping with sweat by the time I stagger into the shower, and even then I can’t banish the images of Zoey wearing just my sweater, the flash of her underwear. Goddamn it. I turn the taps as cold as they’ll go, but it doesn’t help. I get out of the shower, turn off the record, and switch on the Weather Channel. Focusing on hurricanes in the Atlantic might help.

  While I’m trying to wind down, I sort through my clothes for tomorrow. We’ll be undercover, so that means civvies. I empty out my jean pockets and find the piece of paper the girl I pulled from the water the other day scribbled her name and number on. Brittany. I’d forgotten all about her. I’m about to toss it when I stop. Maybe Brittany’s just what I need. She did only want sex, after all. Maybe it would help expend some of my energy and stop me thinking about Zoey so much.

  Before I can change my mind, I grab my phone and send a text to Brittany. It’s late for a booty call, but who knows. Maybe she’s also up late. I could kick myself the minute I’ve sent it, and a part of me is relieved when she doesn’t respond. It was a dumb idea. I get my things together for the morning and flop into bed, staring at the ceiling.

  I fall asleep eventually, but when my alarm wakes me what feels like five minutes later, I sit up, feeling like a bunch of rhinos stampeded through my head. I take another cold shower, this time to try to zap the energy back into me, but it takes three cups of coffee, a protein shake, and two bowls of cereal before I feel even vaguely human.

  It’s still dark out when I throw my bag over my shoulder and roll out the door. I glance up at the window to Zoey’s room, wondering if she’s asleep, wondering too if I should knock on her door and say good-bye. But instead I jog over to my bike and start the engine.

  Three days. When I get back, everything will be different.

  ZOEY

  Are you waiting for one more?” I ask, pointing at the empty setting at the end of the table.

  “Yes,” one of the girls sitting at the table tells me.

  I nod and keep pouring water into the glasses, trying not to let my hand shake and the water spill. I can’t believe the manager, Tessa, put me in charge of this table, and on what’s only my second night on the job. As I move along, filling water glasses, I take a sneaky glance at my boss, Kit, who is only twenty-six but already owns a chain of award-winning restaurants, and at the girl beside him, his fiancée, Jessa, who I instantly recognize as the actress from that movie about spies in the Second World War! Holy …

  “Oh God, I’m so sorry!” I look down at the now-soaking-wet tablecloth and Jessa’s now-soaking-wet lap. Oh God, Kit’s going to fire me. I just drenched his fiancée with water.

  “It’s fine,” Jessa says in a whisper, smiling. “Don’t worry.”

  I look around. The others haven’t even noticed; they’re all too busy listening to Kit telling a story about how he took some kid called Riley surfing for the first time and what a natural he’s going to be. Jessa discreetly mops up the water in her lap with a napkin and gives me another reassuring smile, which almost makes me forget how to breathe. She’s so completely mesmerizing to be close to, as though she’s been doused in some kind of magic fairy dust that makes her glow.

  Kit reaches a hand under the table and places it on her lower belly. Jessa gazes at him with a look of total adoration on her face, her cheeks flushing. I draw a sudden breath of understanding, and Jessa looks up at me, her eyes widening. She knows I’ve seen—not Kit’s hand, but the small bump that’s now visible thanks to the fact her soaking dress is clinging to it.

  She’s pregnant—maybe four months. It’s obviously not public knowledge, and she must want it to stay that way. I smile and nod at her. She smiles back. I return to filling the water glasses, but I can’t get the image of Kit reaching for her out of my head. And then there was the way she smiled at him as though there were no one else in the room. I’ve never seen a couple like that before. A couple who look at each other the way lovers in movies look at each other. My mind automatically conjures up Tristan. It keeps doing that. I don’t know why, because I keep ordering it not to
. I miss him. It’s strange, but I do. I can’t stop thinking about him, about his smile and the way it felt to be held by him, about how easy and how fun it was to talk to him.

  When I think about the way he stared down at me in the shadows of the pier, butterflies start to flutter in my stomach. And each time I try to angrily swat them away. He has a girlfriend, and even if he didn’t, I don’t want to feel this way. Men are only trouble—I don’t have to look any further than my mom to know that. Love, as far as I can tell, never works out. It just ends in heartbreak, or worse. Even so, I can’t stop thinking about him.

  Kit clinks a knife against his water glass and stands up, holding his glass in one hand. He turns to Jessa, and a look passes between them, one of such intensity and desire that it makes me blush. “I just wanted to wish a very happy birthday to my beautiful soon-to-be wife, Jessa,” Kit says, his eyes glued to hers.

  It seems like beneath the words there’s a whole private, other-level conversation happening, and like everyone else in the room, I can’t stop staring at them. Whatever chemistry they have is so strong it’s almost visible.

  “Okay, you two, get a room!” A girl with dark, curly hair opposite Jessa laughs, breaking the spell.

  “You can talk, Didi!” Jessa retorts, laughing at her friend.

  The man beside Didi, a broad-shouldered guy with an easy smile and a week’s worth of scruffy beard, lifts his glass. “Happy birthday, Jessa!”

  The other people at the table all join in with the toast, and I feel an enormous twang of envy as I look around at them all, laughing and chatting. Never mind love, I’ve never had that, either. I don’t even know what it would be like to eat a dinner with friends because I’ve never done it.

  “Would you bring some bread?” the girl—Didi—asks me, grounding me back to earth. “I’ve got a carb craving that absolutely must be sated.”