by Mila Gray
I feel my eyes start to well up with tears and my throat constrict. “Why did you stay with him so long?” I ask. It’s something I’ve never asked her before, and I realize it’s something I’ve needed to know, something I’ve wrestled with for years. Every time she took him back, it was as if she was choosing him over us.
She sighs. “I think because it felt like a choice,” she says, confirming my fear. “And making a choice felt like I was the one in control, not him.” She shakes her head as though laughing at her own stupidity. “But I was wrong. It wasn’t a choice. I was trapped. I was afraid. And …” She sighs again. “I didn’t think I could be alone. I thought I needed him.”
I don’t know how to react because how can you love someone who hits you? How can you need someone who hurts you so badly? How can you think so little of yourself that you think that’s all you deserve? I can’t make the same mistakes as her.
“Zoey,” she says, “you’re so beautiful, inside and out, and you don’t need a man. You’re strong and capable and independent in a way I’ve never been, and I couldn’t be more proud of you for that.” She wipes away a tear as she looks at me, and I wipe away my own tears, which have started to spill down my cheeks.
“But let me tell you this,” she goes on, her voice becoming fierce. “Though you will never need anyone to make you happy, or complete you, don’t cut yourself off from love or the possibility of it because you think all men are bad or because you’re scared to get hurt.”
“BOOOOOOO!”
I almost jump out of my skin. Cole leaps onto my towel, spraying me with sand. I squint up, shielding my face with my hand, and see Tristan walking toward us. Shit. I turn my head and blink rapidly, swiping at my tears, feeling hugely self-conscious in my bikini and reaching for my T-shirt and shorts. What the hell is he doing here?
My mom catches my look. “I told him to drop Cole here after soccer,” she says to me with an innocent smile.
“Hey,” Tristan says. He stops a few feet from us, hands thrust into his pockets, looking awkward as all hell.
“Thanks so much, Tristan,” my mom says, standing up. “We’re so grateful. Cole, why don’t we go and get some ice cream?” she says.
I make to scramble to my feet to go with them and start pulling on my shorts.
“You stay here,” she tells me.
I’m too flustered to say anything, and before I know it she’s grabbed her bag and her towel and Cole’s hand and is waving good-bye. Tristan moves to follow her.
“What are you doing?” she asks him. “Stay! Hang out with Zoey.”
Oh God, so much for subtlety.
Tristan seems to waver for a moment and then nods reluctantly. I don’t know if I’m angry or happy.
TRISTAN
Bikini. Zoey almost naked. Zoey’s skin. Zoey’s breasts. Zoey’s legs. Zoey’s face.
Try. Not. To. Stare.
I squint into the sun instead, trying to burn the image of Zoey in a bikini off my retinas. I almost blind myself. Excuses rattle around my head, reasons I should leave—I’ve got work to do, a nonexistent dog to walk, a wall to paint, a parking meter to feed—but my body isn’t listening. Instead, I find myself sitting down beside her in the sand, not too close but close enough that my peripheral vision is filled by the sunflower-yellow splash of Zoey’s bikini, which she quickly covers with a T-shirt.
As she pulls it on over her head, I turn my head for a split second, regretting it immediately because now I have an image of Zoey that will no doubt stay with me forever: her near-naked body, the inviting curve of her breasts and her smooth, perfect stomach, and her hip bones, which direct my gaze like an arrow southward. I’m so used to seeing her in baggy T-shirts and sweaters that my brain is struggling with this overload. It’s all I can do not to groan out loud. But that would make me seem like a monumental pervert, and I already seem like a monumental asshole. Not wanting to further weaken my case, I manage to silence whatever noise is trying to escape my lips and pull my knees toward my chest. I lean my arms on them, casual-seeming, but actually trying to hide the very obvious situation in my pants. I stare at the ocean and try to imagine being immersed in the cold and, when that doesn’t work, I think of Jaws.
Neither of us speaks, and Zoey is staring off into the distance, an enigmatic expression on her face. I wonder how angry she still is and if she hates me, and once again I wish I could travel back in time and not send that text to Brittany. I can’t help but think how different things might be if I hadn’t. Would Zoey and I be lying here on the sand together, no T-shirt barricade between us, my skin against hers, my hands tracing patterns across her sun-kissed stomach. Would we have … ?
Okay, stop right there. Don’t think it; don’t go there. It’s not helping my situation imagining those things.
She hasn’t said anything, and I can feel her tensing beside me, as though weighing her own excuses for leaving, and I know if I want her to stay then I need to say something. Should I bring up what happened again? Apologize once more? Make a joke? No, bad idea. She reaches for her bag, and I know that I have mere seconds before she gets up and leaves.
“I need to talk to you about Cole,” I blurt.
Zoey lets go of her bag, and her head snaps toward me. “Is everything okay?” she asks, worried.
“He knows your dad is out of prison. I wasn’t sure if you’d told him or if he’d overheard something.”
“Oh,” she says, shaking her head, confused. “No. We haven’t told him.”
“Maybe Kate did?” I suggest. “He also said he doesn’t want to try out for the soccer team because he isn’t going to be staying.” I pause. “Maybe it’s because he thinks you’ll be going back to Vegas.”
I watch Zoey, realizing I’m holding my breath. I want her to say that they won’t be leaving, that they’ve decided to stay. But she just keeps frowning.
“The arson investigator completed their report,” she finally whispers. “Apparently, the accelerant used on the car was acetone.”
“Nail polish remover?” I ask.
Zoey nods. “My mom always has a stash of it, from her job—she does makeup and hair. There was a big bottle of it in our bathroom.” She chews her lip. “The fire department told me that it’s an open case, but they also said it would be almost impossible to prove who did it.…” She lets that hang.
“Did you ask Cole if it was him?”
She nods. “He says he didn’t do it. But I think he’s lying.”
“Have you told your mom or anyone?” I ask.
She shakes her head, chewing on her lip. I can tell that she’s been bottling all this up, wanting to speak about it. The fact that I’m the one she’s confiding in shows me that she must be really short on friends.
“I just don’t know why he would do it,” she says, and her voice cracks with emotion. “Why would he set fire to my car? He knew how hard I worked to pay for it.”
“Maybe he was just messing around with fire,” I suggest. “Kids do that.”
“But it wasn’t just matches,” Zoey says. “It was acetone. What kid knows to use acetone to start a fire?”
A phone rings, and Zoey startles. She rummages in her bag and pulls it out, frowning at the display. I guess she must have bought a new phone with her wages. She lets it ring a few more times and then finally answers. “Hello?” she asks, putting it to her ear. There’s a beat, and then she asks, “Who is this?” After a few more seconds, she hangs up, looking unhappy.
“Who was that?” I ask.
She stares at the phone. “I don’t know. They keep calling. That’s the third one today.”
“Probably just spam. I get those too.”
She doesn’t say anything, but I can see there’s something troubling her. “What is it?” I ask.
“I think it’s my dad,” she blurts.
“What?” I ask.
“Before the car was set on fire,” she says, “I got these weird calls—three of them, all anonymous. I don’t know if i
t’s him, but there was someone on the other end of the line. They’re always there. I can hear them, breathing.”
“How would he have gotten your new number?” I ask.
“Yeah, you’re right,” she says, blushing and shoving the phone in her bag. “I’m being stupid.”
“No,” I say quickly. “I don’t think you’re being stupid. I don’t want you to worry—that’s all.”
She nods and starts gathering up her things. I don’t want her to leave. But I don’t know how to get her to stay. “Robert bought an alarm system for the condo,” I tell her. Robert seems as invested as I am in keeping the family safe, and I think it might have something to do with Gina.
“I’m going to install it later today. It links up to your phone, so if someone comes to the door, a motion sensor will alert you via text.”
Zoey nods. “Thanks,” she murmurs. She stands up, and I scramble after her. She slides her feet into her flip-flops and stumbles. I catch her by the hand. That moment of contact between us makes the memory of kissing her explode in my brain. She quickly pulls away, throws her bag over her shoulder, and starts walking. I jog quickly after her.
ZOEY
Even after everything, even after the hurt he caused, every time I’m with him I feel like I can let out the breath I’ve been holding and inhale again. I hate it.
I shouldn’t have told him about Cole or about the phone calls I think are from my dad. It’s just that he’s easy to talk to, and I have no one else I feel like I can talk to so openly. I don’t want him telling Will, though. He’s got enough to worry about, living in a war zone. We’ve been e-mailing back and forth for the last ten days and things are back on an even footing. I’ve said sorry. He’s said sorry. I haven’t told him about the calls or about what happened with Tristan. The first because there’s nothing he can do about it and the second because I’m worried what he’d do about it.
“Do you need a ride somewhere?” Tristan asks as we hit the street.
I shake my head, but then I see I’m late for work and need to head home and shower quickly first. I nod at Tristan. “Thanks.”
He gives me a faint smile, and we head up the street, coming to a stop by his bike. Tristan pulls a helmet from some hidden compartment and hands it to me. I stare at it as though it’s an alien object.
“Here,” he says, taking it out of my hands and then putting it on me. I don’t say anything, but as he does up the strap, his fingers graze my chin, and I have to stop myself from remembering the last time he touched my face and where it led. But it’s too late, and now I’m staring at his lips, remembering how soft they were and how desperately we kissed, like time was running out. I didn’t know a kiss could feel that way.
Immediately, the image of Tristan kissing Brittany appears in my mind’s eye, erasing my sentimentality. I wonder if, since I told him I wasn’t interested, he went back to her. Did he call her up and arrange another booty call?
“Okay, you ever ridden on the back of a bike?” he asks when he’s done fixing the helmet.
I shake my head, the helmet so heavy it feels like I’m wearing a bowling ball as well as earmuffs. Tristan swings his leg over the seat, and I get a lurch in my stomach at the sight. He’s so comfortable in his body, his movements so certain and so fluid. I notice the ripple of muscles in his forearms as he grips the handlebars and get another pang that I don’t want to admit is desire and longing.
I climb on the bike behind him, but I’m not sure where to put my feet, and they dangle until he reaches back and puts his hand on my calf and guides my foot to a peg. I want him to do the same to my other foot, but he doesn’t.
He’s not wearing a helmet, and I’m about to ask him about it, realizing that I must be wearing the only one he has, but he shouts over his shoulder, “Hold on,” and then revs the engine and pulls out of the parking space.
The movement makes me almost fall backward off the bike, but he anticipates it and reaches his hand back, around my waist, holding me in place as he steers one-handed.
I don’t need telling twice. I look for something to hold on to, but there’s nothing I can see, and when Tristan revs the engine again and drives down the street, the only thing I can do is wrap my arms around his waist to hold on. I’m fiercely aware of how I’m pressed up against his back, aware too that my thighs are wrapped around his. I can feel his abs through his T-shirt and remember how it felt to lift that same T-shirt and run my fingers along the ridges of muscle and feel his skin contract into goose bumps at my touch. He brakes at a stoplight, and I’m thrown even farther against his back. He puts his feet on the ground to steady the bike, and I start to do the same, but his hand falls to my leg, just above my knee. “Keep them where they are,” he shouts over his shoulder, indicating my feet. “I’ve got it.”
He takes his hand away and rests it back on the handlebars, and my leg starts to tingle where he was touching me.
The light turns green. Tristan speeds off again, and I feel a rush of exhilaration, laughter bubbling up inside me, threatening to burst out. I get it now—the obsession he and Will have with bikes—because it feels like nothing else on earth, except perhaps kissing Tristan. It’s the same rush of adrenaline, the same dizzy feeling of letting go, of escape. And the best thing is the feeling I have of ceding control, letting Tristan take charge.
I close my eyes, letting my body mold to his. His broad back shelters me from the wind, and whenever he brakes, I’m driven even harder against him, but I notice I’m not doing anything to resist it.
He takes the long way home, but I don’t say anything, and he slows when we turn the corner onto our street—as if trying to drag it out. I want to keep going, keep driving, but I can’t tell him this, so I close my eyes and breathe in deep, eking out every last second.
When I open my eyes, something catches in my vision, and I startle, lurching sideways on the bike, which then swerves dangerously. Tristan fights to keep the balance, righting the bike with his body weight, as I cling on to him for dear life.
My heart is thumping, my whole body shaking when Tristan pulls up in front of the condo. He turns off the engine and kicks down the stand, then turns to me. “Are you okay?” he asks, worried. “I’m sorry about that.…” He gestures to the street, where there are visible tire marks streaking the road where we swerved.
He says something else, but I’m not hearing him. I’m trying to pull the helmet off, but I’m hyperventilating and my fingers are clumsy. Tristan helps, unstrapping it for me, and I yank it off, then try to get my leg over the seat so I can get off the bike, but I’m panicked, and I stumble.
“Careful,” he says, catching me just before my leg brushes the scorching-hot exhaust pipe.
I stagger back, away from him, glancing up the street.
“I’m sorry,” he says again. “You moved suddenly. I wasn’t expecting it. I don’t usually ride with a passenger.…”
He thinks I’m angry and blaming him for the near accident. I shake my head. The words are jumbled in my head. I can’t get them out. Instinctively, I move behind Tristan so his body acts as a shield. “N-no,” I stammer, staring over his shoulder and up the street. “It’s my fault. I thought I saw something.”
Tristan glances where I’m looking, but all there is to see is a row of parked cars beside another apartment block. There’s no one lurking between the two palm trees on the sidewalk; there’s no one hiding in the shadows.
“What did you see?” Tristan asks.
I shake my head, trying to brush it off. I must have imagined it. I almost caused an accident over nothing.
“Zoey, what did you see?” Tristan presses.
He’s not going to drop it. My eyes fly back to the street, to the shadows between the cars, searching for movement, searching for proof I’m not losing my mind.
Finally, I turn back to Tristan. “I thought I saw my dad,” I tell him.
TRISTAN
I sit on my bike and wait for Zoey. I told her I’d wait for her
to shower and then drive her to work because she’s so late. She glanced up the street and then at my bike, weighing her choices, and then nodded.
I took a walk up the street to see for myself if there was anyone lurking around, but there wasn’t. Did she imagine it? Or did she see something and her imagination filled in the blanks? Her dad can’t be here. He’d be breaking his parole terms by crossing state lines. But then what about those phone calls she received? If her dad is here, what does he want? I don’t like to think about it.
A few minutes later, Zoey comes running out of the apartment. Her hair is wet, and her makeup-less face has caught a fresh smattering of freckles from the sun. She’s glowing, and as I watch her walk toward me, my gut tightens. I’m a fucking idiot—that’s what the drill-sergeant voice in my head is yelling. A big fucking idiot. She’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever known, inside and out, and I had to go and screw things up.
I tear my eyes off her and swing my leg over the bike, holding it steady as she climbs on behind me and puts on the helmet, needing no help from me this time. She adjusts her body weight to keep the bike balanced and then wraps her arms around my waist, keeping a rigid distance between us, but even so, just being this close to her is making my brain spin out. I kick up the stand and rev the engine and feel her legs grip mine. I glance down, seeing the smooth, bare skin of her thigh, and have to resist the urge to put my hand on it.
A couple of times when I brake, the forward momentum pushes her against my back—giving me a few stolen seconds of contact before she rearranges her body to keep the distance. I try to brake slowly because it’s pure torture and a major distraction when I’m trying to keep from plowing into vehicles.
When we get to her work, she hops off and hands me the helmet. “Thanks,” she says.
“Want me to pick you up?” I ask, hoping she’ll say yes, but she shakes her head.
“No. I’ll be okay.”