by Trish Doller
He looks at me with maple-syrup-brown sincerity and, better judgment be damned, I believe every single word.
“You can’t say something like that and then leave me hanging,” I say. “I still want to know.”
“I, uh …” He runs a hand over his head again, and his expression is so pained I almost take it back. “I broke his cheekbone with my boot.”
“You kicked him in the—”
“Yeah.” The word is made of quiet remorse, but my stomach still churns at the mental picture of his dusty Doc Marten turning someone’s face to pulp. Boys around here get in fights, but it usually doesn’t go beyond a lot of posturing and a couple of swings before someone breaks it up.
“Why would you do that?”
“I thought he was going to kill me,” Noah says. “I was young and stoned and scared shitless and—I don’t know—went into kind of a red rage, and when it was over, I was bleeding and he wasn’t moving. One of my friends stitched me up with dental floss because I was afraid if I went to the hospital, I’d end up in jail.”
I don’t know how to process this. How to imagine a life in which that kind of violence is necessary. The lens through which I first saw Noah has shifted, and I don’t know the right response. “Who started it?”
“Would it make a difference?”
“Maybe.”
“I was defending myself.” His shrug is helpless, not careless. “But that doesn’t make it right.”
“Well, you weren’t wrong about that story.” “I shouldn’t have told you. I’m sorry.” “I guess we all have history.”
“Yeah? What’s yours?”
“My mom died of pancreatic cancer three years ago, leaving me with a dad who is barely functioning and a baby brother I’ve had to raise like he’s my own child,” I say. “And I haven’t really had a life since.”
So much for lifting the flaps.
Our histories swirl in the dust that rises with our steps. The thing is, despite being unsettled by his story, I’m still attracted to Noah. Not out of some misguided bad-boy fantasy, but because I haven’t been this attracted to anyone since Justin. I’m not sure what that says about me, but I want to give Noah the benefit of the doubt.
“Let’s change the subject,” I say, hoping he won’t apologize for my mom being dead. I hate more than anything when people do that. “Socks? Cheese? Favorite board game?”
“None, Colby Jack, and the game that has the popper in the middle.”
“You mean Trouble?”
“Oh, shit.” He laughs. “Is that really what it’s called?”
“It really is. But I’m more interested in your choice of identity-crisis cheese.”
“There is no crisis,” Noah says. “It’s two cheeses in one. Double delicious.”
I laugh, he smiles in a way that makes me feel as if I might not even be walking on the ground right now, and something inside me is set right again.
We’ve nearly reached the bend in the river, where the swing bridge spans, when the crunch of tires on the road steals up behind us. We move to the edge as Justin’s truck rolls up. Gabrielle is pressed against him as he drives, and Jason hangs out the passenger window like a dog.
“Hey, Sparkles, it’s skinny-dipping time,” he says. “Hop in.”
The bed is jammed with people, which would be dangerous if Noah and I weren’t walking as fast as the truck is moving. Jason swings open the door to let me in, but I shake my head. “We’ll catch up.”
“I’m first come, first served.”
“And I will take my chances.”
“Suit yourself.” The truck accelerates slightly and moves on ahead of us. Lindsey Buck waves from the tailgate where she sits with Matt, their legs dangling over the edge. His gaze lingers on me a long moment—almost too long—before he shoots a sly grin at Noah.
“That would be Matt,” Noah says. “He bailed on me to chase down some girl. I guess he found her.”
I could set the record straight, but what’s the point? Instead, I ask why he didn’t come to the party with his cousin.
He shrugs. “Campsite needed to be set up.” Justin’s truck disappears around the curve, leaving us alone again.
“So what’s up with the skinny-dipping?” Noah asks.
“It’s a thing we do.”
Because of the natural springs all over the area—which is why our town is cleverly called High Springs—the water temperature is always around seventy-two degrees. On a hot summer day like this it’s going to feel really good, especially when my skin is aflame from being near Noah.
“You want to go?” he says.
“I don’t know. You?”
He gives a low, slightly wicked laugh that sends electricity zipping down my spine, and I know I’ve got it so bad for him. “Not gonna lie, Cadie. I wouldn’t turn down the opportunity to see your birthday suit.”
“Then I guess today’s your lucky day.”
Up ahead at the river, shouts and splashes ring through the trees as everyone runs from the truck to the river, shedding their clothes on the swimming dock at the river’s edge. We can’t see them yet, but I’ve done this enough to know. Except by the time we reach the riverbank, almost everyone is already in the water, some wearing bathing suits, others not. I’ve never shied away from stripping off my clothes and jumping right in because I’ve known these people my whole life. But with Noah it’s different. I’ve never been skinny-dipping with a stranger before.
Worse?
My bra is hanging over the shower rod in the bathroom back at home, so I can’t hide behind that particular armor of cotton and lace.
With my back to Noah, I pull in a deep breath for confidence, then peel my dress up over my head. Stupid Jason catcalls that I have nice tits, so I cross my arms to hide them, hold my breath, and—leaving on my red polka-dot underwear—leap into the water. Noah splashes in beside me, and just before he drops below the surface, I catch a flash of green-plaid boxer shorts.
“Are there really gators in here?” he asks, when he comes up. We’re face-to-face, only our arms and shoulders exposed as we tread water near the swimming dock. I’m hyperaware of the fact that even in the murky water Noah can see my chest, but at this point any attempt at modesty would be like shutting the barn door after the horse has escaped. Still, I kind of wish we were walking the river trail instead. Noah glances, but doesn’t stare. Thankfully. “Should I worry about being eaten to death?”
Up on the bank is a yellow sign cautioning the lack of lifeguards and abundance of alligators. Just down the dock from us, Janelle Clancy sits on the edge with her feet dangling in the water because she’s too afraid to go all in. Her older brother, Clay, lost a couple of fingers to a gator several years ago. Granted, he provoked the beast by being drunk, stupid, and armed with a paintball gun, but I’d probably be scared, too, if I were Janelle.
“Not really,” I tell Noah. “With all the noise and thrashing around, they’re going to keep their distance. But you shouldn’t go swimming after dark.”
“Not sure I should be swimming now.”
“Don’t worry.” It feels like we’re in our own little bubble as I smile at him. I can’t seem to stop smiling at him. “I’ll protect you.”
“You’re not like one of those swamp girls on TV who kiss alligators on the mouth, are you?”
“No.” I stare at Noah’s lips and wrestle with how shocking my own behavior is right now. But, God, I want to kiss him so badly. “Not gators.”
Like he’s reading my mind, he moves toward me in the water and touches his lips to mine. But trying to kiss someone and stay afloat in twelve feet of water—at the same time—is complicated. We keep kicking each other’s legs and our mouths won’t stay together, and finally we’re just laughing too hard to even bother.
“Maybe we should try again on dry land,” Noah suggests.
“Definitely.”
His eyebrows rise. “Soon?”
“Yes.”
“Now?”
&n
bsp; We haven’t been in the water long enough to even count it as swimming, but there’s only one answer. “Yes.”
Noah climbs the swim ladder first and goes over to our pile of discarded clothes. Aside from his tattoo sleeves, the rest of his body—except the bit I can’t see because it’s covered by saggy wet boxer shorts—is tattoo-free. Lean, but not skinny. Tight with muscles.
“Hey, Sparkles, looking for this?” Jason, his tighty-whities wet, practically transparent, and completely gross, stands on the dock holding my dress.
“Just give it to Noah, please.”
“Come get it.” He twirls it above his head like a lasso.
“Jason, please.”
Justin swims past me and climbs up the ladder onto the dock.
“Why so shy, Cadie?” Jason says. “It’s not like we all haven’t seen you naked before.”
My face catches fire, and I hate the way he makes it sound like a dirty thing. I don’t look around for fear everyone is staring at me, and I don’t look at Noah for fear of what I might see written on his face. Now I really wish I were at home in my pajamas with Daniel Boone. Or anywhere other than here.
“Because every other time we’ve been swimming I’ve been able to get out of the water and put on my clothes,” I say, with a lot more courage than I feel. “But right now, Jason, I don’t have that option. I have to stay naked until you feel like giving my dress back and, quite frankly, that’s kind of rape-y.”
“Jesus Christ, Arcadia.” He says my name like it’s a disease, his voice loud, angry, and echoing through the trees, making me wonder if the whole state park can hear him. “I’m not a rapist. Don’t even joke about shit like that.”
“Give her back the dress”—Noah’s voice is hard, and the fingers of his right hand keep clenching in and out of a fist—“or I will fuck you up.” At the same time he threatens Jason with bodily harm, Justin steps up beside Noah, forming an uneven wall of defense between Jason and me. Justin says his brother’s name like a one-word warning.
“Fine.”
I don’t know whether Jason is giving in to Noah or Justin, but his eyes are on mine—his mouth curled into his trademark smirk—as he throws my dress into the river.
Chapter 4
Holding the sodden fabric to my chest, I climb the ladder and walk up the ramp with all the dignity I have left, which isn’t very much. Water drips off the end of my hair into my eyes, but I don’t wipe it away because I don’t want anyone to mistake it for crying.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Justin demands of his brother, but Noah calls my name, blotting out Jason’s answer.
“Wait a sec.” Noah catches up with me at the top of the ramp, offering his T-shirt. “Here. It’s dry.” He turns around without my having to ask—a sweetness that makes my chest ache—and waits while I wring the excess water from my hair and pull on his sun-warmed shirt.
“Thanks,” I say, when I’m as pulled together as I’m going to get, and he turns to face me. Lifting to my toes, I reach up and curve my hand around the back of his neck. His skin is cool from the river, and I can feel his pulse thumping beneath my thumb—as crazy fast as mine, I think—as I touch my lips against his. I kiss him once. His mouth is so gentle that my brain slips out of focus.
Twice. His hands are on my face, and his tongue grazes mine.
A third time. Stars are born, while others wink out of existence as we kiss, so I’m surprised when I open my eyes and find time has barely passed at all.
“I could kick his ass,” he whispers, our lips so close they brush as he says the words. Between kisses. Because now that we’ve started in earnest, it feels too good to stop. Two years with Justin, and I’ve never, ever been kissed like this.
“You could,” I say. “But I’d rather fight my own battles. I don’t need to be rescued. I do appreciate the shirt, though.”
Lindsey runs up, her dirty-blond hair and green-striped bikini dripping wet from the river, and offers me a pair of denim shorts. “I brought spares,” she explains. “If you, um … if you want to borrow them.”
I accept because she and I are about the same size, but what is more important, her spare shorts are dry and my underwear is not. And I hate wearing wet underwear. “Thanks, Lindsey.”
“Jason is such an”—she leans in close and her little bell voice goes so soft I can barely hear her—“asshole.”
My eyes go wide with shock. Lindsey’s brothers practically wrote the book on profanity, but I’ve never once heard her swear. Not even shined-up substitutes like “fudge” or “dang it.” Hearing her call Jason Kendrick an asshole is monumental. And the word sounds so funny coming out of her mouth that it takes everything in me not to crack up laughing. Before I can agree, she scurries back down to the swim dock, leaving a trail of wet footprints opposite the ones she made coming up, and plunges into the river.
Jason shook me off like water and is now organizing a cannonball competition, while Justin stands down on the dock looking up at me as if I’m someone he’s never seen before. I turn away and shrink inside the comforting bigness of Noah’s shirt to wiggle out of my wet underwear and pull on Lindsey’s shorts, feeling as if I’m in the grade school locker room all over again. So much for beautiful and dangerous.
Arcadia Wells. Soggy. Embarrassed.
Except Noah’s big hand swallows up my own, and all the wild feelings come flooding back until they fill me again. “So,” he says. “What do you say we get the hell out of here?”
“I’d like that more than anything.”
“… I’m just saying I wouldn’t have immediately guessed goalkeeper,” Noah says, as our legs dangle from the edge of a thick tree branch extending out over the river. The water tumbles through a natural rock dam below, and silver-gray tangles of Spanish moss hang down around us. Different boy. Different branch. Seems only fair.
We’re sharing the headphones from his iPod, so one ear is getting the slide of a ska trombone and the other is hearing the dancing song of the river. My voice is worn thin from talking. Trading bits of our lives. His absentee dad for my going through chemotherapy with Mom. His street kid childhood for my imaginary world tour. His magna cum laude degree in wildlife management for my thoroughly unimpressive 57th in a graduating class of 314. I learn that Noah inherited the ’69 Cougar from his recently deceased Savannah grandmother. And that it does, indeed, have the original 351. He hears about my secret wardrobe and how I like to repurpose thrift store church-lady dresses. We collect each other’s stories like a game of Go Fish, swapping until we have a match and our hands are full. Until the sun is about to slip below the horizon. It’s been so long since I’ve really talked with someone. Felt so present in my own life.
“Really,” I say. “Why do I not seem like a goalkeeper?”
“Seems like you bring the fight rather than waiting for it to come to you,” he says. “So—I don’t know—I figured you for a striker.”
I turn the idea over in my mind a few times and decide I’m pleased with his answer. We fall silent for a moment, and the unrelenting sound of the night insects seems to consume the air around us. Noah slaps at his bare forearm, and I dig the bottle of bug lotion from my knapsack. “I was a fullback,” he says. “Usually center, but sometimes left.”
“Any good?”
“Not a contender for the MLS, but not bad. You?”
I shrug. “I’d have liked the chance to get better.”
“You miss it?” he asks.
“All the time.”
“Me, too.” Noah shifts himself from sitting to standing, balancing carefully on the branch, then extends a hand to help me up. “Do you think you’ll be sticking around tonight? I brought a ball, so if you want to stay, we could maybe kick it around tomorrow.”
By now Duane is probably settled in, watching a movie with Jess, so I don’t want to bother him. I could probably catch a ride with someone heading back to town yet tonight, but there are plenty of reasons I don’t want to go home. The biggest one i
s standing in front of me. “I’ll stay.”
Noah reaches for my other hand and brings them both up around his neck. “Good,” he says, just before his lips graze mine. Goose bumps follow his hands down my arms, my sides, back to my waist. We balance there on the tree, kissing until it’s too dark to see—and beyond, now that we’ve learned each other’s mouths by heart.
I find the flashlight at the bottom of my bag as we make our way back to the Magnolia loop. Playing the beam along the path, I search out cypress knees that might trip us up, and Noah moves behind me when scrubby palms squeeze us into single file. He lets go of my hand then, but only until the trail spreads wide again and we can walk side by side. Which is good, because I like the feel of his palm against mine.
When we finally reach the campsite, deep twilight has descended and the party has swollen with people and the music is loud enough to attract the attention of the park rangers. Jason and a few others—including Matt and Lindsey—are gathered by the beer trough doing Jell-O shots. Matt waves in our direction, but my eyes move on, seeking out Justin. He’s toasting marshmallows over the fire with Gabrielle.
“Beer?” Noah asks me, as he sends a two-fingered wave back to his cousin.
I shake my head. “I’m good.”
“Hungry?”
I’d really love to make s’mores with Noah, but it would feel weird. Like I was trying too hard to show Justin that I’m okay without him, even though I really am okay without him. I hate that my present is rubbing up against my past. “I’d take a hot dog if there are any left.”
“Condiments?”
“Surprise me.”
I sit on the end of an adjustable beach chair opposite Justin and try not to watch him feed Gabrielle a gooey marshmallow and remember how she used to be me. How he would kiss me afterward so he could taste the sweetness in my mouth.
Impossible.
Instead, I lie back and search for shooting stars—maybe the one that will shoot me right out of this town—until my ex-boyfriend and his girlfriend and the party itself fade to background noise. Until Noah’s face appears over me with his better-than-a-shooting-star smile and I am reminded why I stayed.