High Tide

by Alyson Santos

  “No you’re not.”

  His glare confirms that I’m right and he’s still insisting I’m not.

  “Christian…”

  “I’m fine!” he snaps. “I don’t need…” His gaze turns up in frustration when he can’t find the English word he wants. I suspect we have his anger to thank for the lapse.

  “Help?”

  “Yes. I don’t need help.” He doesn’t look at me, and there’s that fist again, balled defiantly at his side.

  “No one is saying you do.”

  I hate his blatant grimace.

  “I care about you,” I say, tugging his hand until he lifts his eyes to mine. “I want to take care of you because it makes me happy, not because you can’t do it yourself. Of course you can.”

  Please understand. I do everything I can to explain with my expression where words seem to fail. His attention shifts away again, and I see an entire story I don’t know flicker over his features. How much did he lose in that fire? More than a family, just like I lost more than my mother that day?

  “Tell me, Christian.”

  “Tell what?”

  “Everything. Your entire story. Have you ever done that? I know you’ve been through hell. Have you ever let go of the pain and allowed someone to help you carry it?”

  “My story is my own.”

  “Not anymore. Now it’s mine too.”

  His eyes flash, but I don’t back down. In fact, I settle further into the mattress, securing his hand in mine. “Your story is my story now, so tell me about growing up without a family and why you don’t need or want anything except your stars.”

  He remains quiet. Only his set jaw lets me know he’s listening. That he understands.

  “Tell me why you don’t need me, Christian. Tell me why you have to keep running.” I place my hand on his chest, directly over his pounding heart. “Let someone in here so you can finally stop. Aren’t you exhausted?”

  My palm absorbs the deep rise and fall of his chest, along with a racing panic I know just as well. It creeps up my arm now, crushing my ribs when his gaze trails to my wall of notes. “If I do this, will you stop running too?”

  We drift to another plane after his question. The physics of time and space become irrelevant as we stare at my mural, each of us absorbed in a private journey skimming parallel to the other’s.

  Is Christian right? Am I running too? My lists are a fortress. A bastion of control in this sea of chaos. I’ve relied on them for as long as I can remember. A little girl cataloging her toys, crayons, and books while tempestuous guardians inflicted violence on each other. A timid pre-teen inventorying her small collection of clothing over and over again. First by type, then by color, then by brand name. Then brand name, color, and type. Then color and… With music blasting and a gentle breeze rustling through the open window it was almost possible to pretend. Pretend, pretend until (Run, Emma!) there was no imagination anymore. No dreams or hope or freedom, only the blackhole-abyss of confusion that had to be tamed. One list. And another. And another, folded into a paper fortress that kept a drowning young woman above the surface. Drowning until a lonely lifeguard from the other side of the world reached into her void to pull her out.

  I’m leaning against his good side now, his arm tucked around my shoulders. It’s not enough, though, not where life-saving arms that need to hold and be held should be. So I tilt us back until we’re reclined against the wall. Better, but still not right. No, not until my head is on his chest and his fingers comb through my hair at a leisurely pace does the alternate dimension start to blur back to reality. We finish the journey when my own fingers tug at the soft fabric of his shirt, running over the hard grooves beneath it in soothing patterns.

  He shifts and draws my gaze.

  “I will tell you my story. Everything.” His eyes search mine, pleading and stern at the same time. “Will you do the same?”

  My throat closes around my response, the instinctive fight that feels so wrong all of a sudden. “Tell you everything? I already did. My mom, and the lists, and—”

  He shakes his head. “No. Not tell me.” He lifts a hand and points at the wall. “Fix that. Odpustiť.”

  I close my eyes to block the sting of tears. “Forgive?”

  He nods. “We both stop running. Together.”

  “I don’t…” I suck in a long stream of rickety air. Forgive. What had he said once? Lists are fine until they become traps. Until those illusions become barricades that keep you from grasping the hand that shatters through the surface of your blackhole. What do you do when there’s only one way out? One horrible, impossible way to break through and reach for boundless stars?

  “Christian?”

  His gaze is already locked on me when I look up.

  I’ve tried before and failed. Failed so hard I thought I’d never consider trying again. But here I am, blinking up at the one who broke through and made me braver. Stronger. Forced me to believe in things that couldn’t have been before he exposed them as truth. I know now more than ever that his past is as ugly and disfigured as mine. I know I was an obstacle for him as well, and he’s still fighting the fact that he wants me, needs me maybe. That after a lifetime of being abandoned he’s found someone who won’t let go. Maybe that terrifies him and excites him and confuses the hell out of him to the point where he can only sit here considering impossible questions. Question that now have answers, because maybe that’s me too.

  “If I go visit my father, will you go with me?”

  His smile. That’s the solution that’s been missing for so long. That’s the distant star, the hope, we’ll both need if we’re going to keep our new promises. “Yes. We go soon.”

  I settle against him again, feeling like I’m breathing air instead of water for the first time in years.

  Christian’s story is worse than I thought. He tells me about losing his entire family. About being locked in the grip of a cold, resentful grandmother and abusive uncle. He tells me about all the hungry days and homeless nights, and the stream of people who ignored it. He learned how to hide in the open and trust no one. To run. Focus on a future in order to survive the present.

  Watching his face while he talks is the best feature length film I’ve ever seen. His tone remains even and matter-of-fact with each chapter, but I’m fascinated by the way his eyes tell one story, then flash to another that may or may not match his words. He turns guarded into a work of art. I can’t be upset though. He tells his story the only way he can, and I suspect he holds back some details, not for himself this time, but for my sake. Maybe I don’t want to picture what it’s like to sleep on the street or feel a fist slam into your face. I think of blood-matted hair and open dead eyes. Does he want to know how loud a gunshot is when it’s inches away and killing your mother?

  Tears have welled in my eyes by the time he finishes, but I’m not sure they’re entirely for him. So much of his story is my own. Not in the details he doesn’t share, but in the cost of living it. Stripped. That’s what we both are. Stripped of the things that make children children and turn them into adult fortresses. For Christian, he became his own barricade. I fabricated one I could see and hang on a wall.

  His soothing voice comes to an abrupt halt. I straighten at his wince and the careful adjustment he makes to his position. Crap, his wounds. I forgot all about that.

  “You okay?” I ask, noticing the way he clearly favors his right side. Has he been in this much pain the whole time or did exposing emotional scars trigger a physical flareup? A quick glance at the time and I realize it’s been a while since we arrived home. How long until pain medication wears off?

  “I’m okay. Just sore.” He pushes himself up with his right hand and hisses in a breath. “The bandage… it pulls on stitches.”

  “Oh no, really? Here,” I’m already pulling at his shirt without thinking. He lets me lift it and shrugs out of it as much as he can. I flinch at the picture underneath. No wonder he’s in pain. I do more math and decid
e the meds must have worn off by now. “Those dressings look like they should be changed. I can help you.”

  “Dressings? Is that same as bandage?”

  “Yes. I’ll go get the bag of supplies we brought home from the hospital.”

  His lips open in protest, then shut again at my hard look. They slip into a smile that almost makes me forget my mission.

  “Okay. But maybe first I shower? Then new… dressing.”

  Right. That makes sense. I keep forgetting the old world we left still has a hold on this new one.

  “Sure. I’ll get you a towel.” I reach out to help him up.

  It’s not easy pulling an injured man who has eight inches and seventy pounds on you to his feet. I’m pretty sure I was more successful in reopening a few wounds than actually assisting in any way, but he doesn’t say anything as he braces a hand against the wall for actual support. No, he’s quiet as he stands shirtless in my room, looking like some badass Slovak god (do they have different gods than we do?) who doesn’t seem to know if he should be laughing or writhing in pain. Pretty sure he should be doing both, and I’m not surprised when he chooses neither. But gosh, he’s beautiful. Those eyes sifting over me are even more spectacular now that I know the story behind them, those muscles more perfectly sculpted now that I know the cost of their struggle. I can’t even consider the thought of him naked in a shower right now… shit, too late. Muffled gasps of pleasure and pain from hot water streaming over…

  Wow, all that talking has made my mouth dry and skin flushed. Yep, that’s what it is.

  “Do you need any water?” I blurt out, practically shoving my hands in my pockets to keep from fanning myself. I’m pretty sure I was supposed to get him something else instead but all I can think about now is ice-cold… anything.

  “Sure. Thank you. I will start?” He nods his head in the direction of the bathroom down the hall.

  “Oh, um. Right. Yes, sure. I’ll put the water—and your towel!”—thank you brain—“On the sink in there. Just leave the door unlocked.”

  His nod is dangerous in the way it seems to hesitate, distracted by another piece of information that’s missing. My heart pounds as it fills in the blank with so many possibilities. My cotton tank top feels so heavy and scratchy now that it’s still on me and not discarded in the same pile as his shirt. He needs help cleaning those wounds, right? Didn’t the nurse insist that was the highest priority?

  I swallow, watching his paralyzing gaze skim up and down my body.

  “I know you don’t need help,” I say quietly. “But do you want it?” I hold my breath, shocked at my boldness, terrified he didn’t understand and yet praying for the same. By the burn in his eyes, he did. My fingers twitch in my pockets, angry at being locked away when all they want to do is explore hard, heated, water-drenched skin. I ball them into fists. Bad fingers.

  His gaze lands on my hips, and I wonder if he sees the active battle going on in my pants. Pun intended, stupid fingers.

  “Maybe help is good.”

  Throbbing blood pushes relief through my veins in a blistering mix of hormones. I shove it all back down so I can continue to function. Wait, is that a smile? The slightest hint of amusement flashes over his face, and there’s no doubt in my mind. He’s loving my bumbling, nervous reaction to him. Scratch that. To the thought of him. What would reality do to me?

  “Water is… and a towel. That way.” I point toward the door, and the trace of humor spreads into a full-on grin when he nods.

  “Okay,” he says with all the calm of someone who can function in these types of situations.

  “I’m just gonna…” He’s standing too close to my exit. Is there another way out of the room? He’s enjoying this inconvenience as well.

  My fists push down in my pockets, also tugging down the waist of my shorts. I realize this too late when his gaze falls to the precariously low appearance of my panties. Frozen, I battle the urge to yank my pants back up and push them lower at the same time. He seems incredibly invested in the verdict as well, and I realize he still hasn’t moved. Hasn’t spoken. Hasn’t done anything except allow me to dictate this encounter like every other time we’ve strayed into carnal tension. Why is that anyway? Because he’s shy, or because I’m a virgin? Or maybe it’s a cultural thing. I think about Jakub and Harper and decide it’s not that. I think about Martina and the smile he’s tossed around freely all over the beach. He’s not shy either. Suddenly irritated, I vote for up.

  Maybe there’s the briefest glint of disappointment in his eyes when I secure my cutoffs higher around my waist, but I’m tired of always being the one to want. What’s he waiting for? Chivalry is supposed to be dead, right? Just take me already. Did I just think that? Great, now I’m blushing from literally nothing.

  Water. Towel.

  I brush past him and push through the door without another look because I’m a grown adult and can do things like get a freaking bottle of water from the fridge.

  I take my time with my task. After all, a few minutes to collect myself from my own lunacy is probably a good idea for everyone. We’re mature, sober adults. We’re also not the first couple in history to consider getting into the shower together. At least, I’m pretty sure that’s what we subtly decided. Crap. What if I read it wrong? What if he’s in the bathroom now enjoying a nice private soak and bam! there I am all naked to ruin it? No, I know what I saw. I know what I’ve felt every time we allowed our innocent contact to stray into something decidedly less so. I’m a human. I instinctively know need and lust and the horrible things they do to a body when they unite in a combined, pulsating attack.

  I also know there’s a naked man down the hall that needs—no, wants—my assistance.

  The bottle feels extra cold in my hands as I move toward the bathroom. It was quiet when I emerged from my room earlier, and a note on the counter explained that the others had gone out to get groceries and dinner. A private text from Harper further confirmed the obvious: Christian and I had been deep in conversation and clearly could use some alone time. Maybe a dual shower wasn’t what she had mind, though… then again, it’s Harper, so that’s probably exactly what she had in mind.

  I rap out a quick knock on the bathroom door before pushing it open, hearing the sound of water on fiberglass. It thunders even louder from inside, and I pull in a long draught of humid air.

  “I have water and a towel for you,” I call out, placing both on the edge of the sink.

  “Thank you.”

  His response draws my gaze to the opaque glass door, and I’m grateful for pounding water that drowns out pounding blood. Just an outline. That’s all I see from my stalker-perch. He’s facing the showerhead, one arm outstretched and pressed against the wall beside the faucet handle, the other shoved into his hair as he stands immobile beneath the cascade. How can he breathe like that? Is he breathing?

  Concerned, I tap the glass. “You okay?”

  His head turns slightly, and although I can make out more details it’s still not enough to read an expression.

  “I’m fine,” he says.

  Really? Because there’s nothing about his stance that supports it. His head angles back to the faucet wall to finish whatever bitter stare-down is going on in there.

  “Please let me help,” I say. “I can tell you’re hurting. Just let me in. Let someone carry your pain for once.”

  Curse the opaque, foggy glass. That boy is hard enough to read point blank, face-to-face. I hold my breath, watching the silhouette for any clue of his response. I’m prepared for the inevitable, of course. Ready to return to my room and wait while he fights back his demons to a manageable distance alone. I’m just about to stage the retreat when the door slides open a crack.

  Stunned, I stare at the gap. Small curls of steam gust through the opening, beckoning and taunting me at the same time. No words accompany his invitation, and when I focus back on the outline, it’s returned to the same braced position against the wall. With shaking hands, I slip ou
t of my clothing as well, having no idea what to expect inside that steamy crypt.

  The muscles in his back tense even more when I step inside. I watch the sharp lines constrict and ripple with each clench of his fist against the wall. Because he doesn’t actually want me here? Or because he doesn’t know what to do about the fact that he does? I suspect the latter from the way his back also seems to lift and fall in heavier breaths. I study the dark tan line running along his hips and pull in a breath at what perfection looks like below. He still hasn’t acknowledged me, and I still have no words for this, so I let instinct drive the situation like we have so many times in the past. Intuition brought us together, shoved us into this moment. It can lead us closer.

  I move until I’m directly behind him, brushing ever so slightly. He flinches, then straightens when I skim my fingers over his tattoo. My touch follows the path of the water down his back, and his body goes rigid. Heat stirs deep in my chest, need, but not the animalistic kind from before. This one is cavernous and clamoring for touch. I slip my arms around his waist and lock our bodies together. Resting my cheek against his back, I almost feel the tension release from his muscles. I pull tighter until even hot shower water can’t sieve its way between us. My heart nearly explodes when I feel the brush of his fingers on my hands. First it’s a light drift over my skin, then a firm grip when he takes them and peels them away. He doesn’t let ago until he’s turned to face me so I can lock them around his back this time. I lift my gaze to his, reading the words he still hasn’t spoken. Fear. Relief. Uncertainty. Hope. Everything I’m feeling in this moment as well. So much pain and history being washed away as we share a silent conversation we’ve both seemed to understand since the beginning. It’s impossible to detect tears in his eyes with water streaming over his head, but I know they’re there. I know what it cost him to give up his story and let me in. I see the fresh wounds, scraped open and raw on his face like the physical ones marring his chest. And I crave them.