by Rose, Emery
I felt so small but not in an insignificant way.
Home, I thought. I’ve found my home. Which was a weird thought for a vagabond like me.
“Because of that,” he said quietly, not wanting to break the trance I was under.
“Because of what?” I asked, still staring at the ocean, barely conscious of the smile tugging at my lips.
“The look on your face. I wanted to be the first person you saw the ocean with.”
Oh. I dragged my gaze away from the scenery, to him. Up close, I could see that his eyes were hazel, swirls of green and brown flecked with shards of amber. There was a hint of stubble on his chiseled jaw like he hadn’t shaved in a few days, and his nose was peeling. For some reason, I found that peeling nose adorable. More human, less godlike. My gaze lowered to his mouth, his lips slightly parted and a little bit chapped. His tongue swept over the full bottom one before he gripped it between his straight white teeth.
What would it feel like to have those lips pressed against mine? What would he taste like? Warm sunshine and the sea?
“Dude. What up?” A male voice from behind us broke the spell we were under and I turned to look at two guys with surfboards under their arms.
“How was J-Bay?” a guy with curly blond hair asked.
Shane grinned, his attention diverted from me to them. “Fucking awesome.”
“No doubt. Saw you snagged a third in the event. Nice one, dude. And what’s this I hear about you wrestling a Great White?”
“The tales keep getting taller,” the guy with a blond buzzed-cut said.
“You’re a fucking legend.”
“Don’t feed his over-inflated ego. They were seals.”
“Seals with fins,” Shane scoffed.
The guys shared a laugh and Shane put his hand on the small of my back, bringing me into their circle.
“Remy. This is Travis. He can’t be trusted.” He jerked his thumb at the guy with a buzzed-cut and then to the other one. “And his brother Ryan. Don’t trust him either.”
“Such an ass,” Travis said.
Shane slung an arm around my shoulders like he was marking his territory. “Stick with me.”
“Better the serial killer you know?”
Shane winked. “Exactly.”
“How did you two meet?” Travis asked. “Did you go out last night?”
“You’re such a jealous lover. And no, I found Remy on the side of the road hitchhiking. The rest is history.”
Ryan bobbed his head like this was nothing out of the ordinary for Shane, like he picked up strays every day. “Wouldn’t surprise me.”
“You believed the Great White story too,” Travis said.
Ryan shrugged. “You never know. Shit happens in Shane’s world.”
“A case of hero-worship,” Travis said. “You’re shameless.”
Shane tsked and shook his head. “There he goes, getting jealous again.”
“I know, right?” Ryan said as we descended the wooden staircase to the beach.
Shane and Travis were discussing the direction of the wind and the size of the swells in surfer lingo. Hollows and tubes. Left and right breaking.
When we reached the bottom of the staircase, I toed off my Chucks and leaned down to pick them up.
“Nice to meet you,” I told the guys, giving them a little wave. They echoed my words and I pushed through the soft sand, striking out on my own. When I reached a spot that felt just right, not too close to the staircase or the empty lifeguard stand, I dropped my board, backpack, and shoes and sat cross-legged, collecting the soft sand in my hands and letting it sift through my fingers.
Shane backtracked and stopped in front of me. He had thin white scars on his shins, I noticed before I lifted my eyes to his. “How long are you sticking around?”
“Not sure.”
“If you’re still here when I’m done surfing, I’ll give you a lift.”
“Thanks.”
He turned to leave then doubled back again as if he’d forgotten something. “Do you want to catch the fireworks tonight?”
Oh my God. He was asking me out. I shouldn’t say yes. I really shouldn’t. “Yeah. Sounds good.”
Shane crouched in front of me. “Cool. Give me your phone.” I dug through my backpack and came out with my cell phone. A pre-paid flip phone from Walmart. In other words, a burner phone.
“Are you a drug dealer?” Shane joked when I handed it to him.
“That’s my side gig. Kind of like your serial killer gig.”
He chuckled as he entered his information and pressed the call button, so we had each other’s numbers. Cutting the call, he handed my phone back to me with a smile. And I died just a little.
“Catch you later, Remy,” he called over his shoulder as he headed toward the water.
I watched him paddle out to where Ryan and Travis were. He looked at home out there, straddling his surfboard. Relaxed, like he was in his element.
When he caught his first wave, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him. He zigzagged across the top of the wave, doing cutbacks, his body bent low over the board and riding the wave for all it was worth. He caught air and did a one-eighty—his board stayed underneath him like it was an extension of his body.
I was all jazzed up just from watching him. Like a vicarious adrenaline rush.
Zooming in with my camera, I snapped photos of him as he rode wave after wave. Stealing pieces of his soul without him knowing it. It was so beautiful. Poetry in motion. Zipping across the waves with so much speed, grace, and flexibility I was in awe. I watched the other two surfers for a comparison. There was none. Travis was good, Ryan was just okay. But they were nothing like this guy. I knew he was special. I knew he was good. Like, really good.
For one, he was a bigger risk-taker than the other two. Shane left it all out there, not holding anything back, yet he made it look effortless. I noticed that other surfers gave him the right of way. Dropping back when he was charging a wave, like a show of respect, a nod to the fact that he was the superior surfer.
I didn’t know how long I sat on the beach. Long enough for the sun to get stronger, the heat more intense. For the surfers to multiply and the beach to get crowded. The ocean color changed, the sunlight making the water sparkle like thousands of blue and green diamonds.
I could watch them surfing all day long. Not them. Him.
My stomach growled, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since last night. Reluctantly, I left my spot on the beach and trudged across the sand. When I reached the top of the stairs, I turned around for one more look. From this distance, I couldn’t be sure, but I thought he was watching me leave.
Did I really have a date tonight?
* * *
“Where’ve you been?” Dylan licked the peanut butter off the steak knife he had used to make his sandwich. His dark hair stuck up all over, an imprint from the nubby sofa fabric on his left cheek.
“I went to the beach. It’s amazing. You’re going to love it.”
He threw the knife into the sink, the metal blade clattering against the stainless steel and leaned against the speckled brown countertop.
“You went without me?” He sounded hurt and angry, his usual tone these days. I missed the Dylan who used to laugh so hard tears sprang to his eyes. But that boy was long gone.
“The ocean is still there. It’s not going anywhere.”
He scowled and took a bite of his sandwich. I cleaned off the knife he used and made my own sandwich, leaning against the counter next to Dylan to eat it. Except for the beige walls, everything was brown—the cupboards, the linoleum floor, the countertops, the refrigerator. It smelled like bleach and the lemony scent of cleaning products. This apartment was cleaner and nicer than the dumps we usually lived in. It was also more expensive. That worried me.
“What’s it like?” he asked, finishing off the last bite of his sandwich. In a better mood now that he had some food in him. He chugged milk straight from the carton and wiped h
is mouth with the back of his hand.
“It’s beautiful. Even better than the photos.”
His dark brows raised in surprise. Usually, I felt the opposite. Photos were better than real life. But this time the photos didn’t do the ocean justice. Photos have limitations. They couldn’t capture the sound of the surf. The scent of the sea air. The power and the vastness of the ocean.
“Wanna go check it out?”
He nodded and graced me with a rare smile. His smiles were heartbreakingly beautiful, but the smile slipped off his face so quickly that I was left wondering if I had imagined it.
I shoulder-bumped him. “What’s wrong?” I asked because I cared. I cared so fucking much. We used to be so attuned to each other, almost reading each other’s thoughts. There was a time that we could communicate without words. Our secret twin language, Mom called it. But lately, he’d been slipping away from me. Putting up an invisible barrier. And it killed me that we didn’t talk like we used to.
He pushed off from the counter and faced me, his arms crossed over his bare chest. He’d gotten bigger over the past few months—leaner and meaner, with broader shoulders, and defined muscles.
“I don’t want to leave.” His gray-blue gaze met mine. Dylan had storms in his eyes, like there was something always brewing just beneath the surface. “I’m staying here. I’m not moving again.”
He clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes on me as if daring me to dispute his words or point out that it was never up to us. I nodded in agreement like it was within our power to make that kind of decision. “Sure.”
“I mean it,” he gritted out, his voice low and angry, his body coiled with tension as if I’d just told him he couldn’t.
“I know you mean it. I’m on your team.” I held his gaze, reminding him that we were in this together. His shoulders relaxed, and he rubbed his hand over his face.
For all that we’ve been through and for all the times that Dylan could be moody and broody and shut me out, our bond was still strong. Sometimes, I needed to remind myself of that. If we didn’t have each other, where would that leave us?
“Let’s get out of here.”
I finished my sandwich and followed Dylan into the living room. He pulled on a ratty gray T-shirt with a ripped collar and stuffed his feet into his high-tops. Skateboard under his arm, he strode to the door, desperate to get out of this apartment and see his new town. The one he’d chosen by marking the map with a purple Sharpie while we were driving, headed west from Little Rock.
“You wanna go clear across the country?” Mom had asked, laughing. She had been in a good mood. She was always happy when we were on the move. You could always tell when she was getting ready to leave. Mom got restless, complaining about the people or her bartending job or the nosy neighbors. She’d get that glimmer in her eye, like she was imagining far-off places where everything that glittered was gold. She used to have the power to make us believe that the next town would be like Disney World, only better. We’d stopped believing her around the same time we stopped believing in Santa Claus. But she acted like she didn’t notice our lack of enthusiasm. Maybe she didn’t.
Dylan had pointed to the map. “I circled the name of the town. That means we have to go there. Those are the rules.”
Mom raised her brows. “Since when do you play by the rules?”
“Since today.” He crossed his arms over his chest and set his jaw, waiting for Mom to agree.
“Well, okay then. Costa del Rey here we come. We’ll just make a pit stop in Vegas.”
I groaned but Dylan was too excited to let it dampen his spirits. We spent four nights in Vegas. Dylan and I watched TV in the motel room and ate food from the vending machines. He scored a six-pack of PBR and a dime bag of weed from a group of guys throwing a bachelor party and came back to our room drunk and glassy-eyed. We didn’t see Mom until the fifth day when she turned up at six in the morning, with raccoon eyes, in a skin-tight black sequined dress and six-inch heels.
“Look who’s a big winner.” She pulled a wad of hundreds out of her bra and fanned them under our noses. “We’re gonna celebrate in style. But first we need to get outta here.”
I didn’t ask why. I didn’t want to know. I suspected that she hadn’t won the cash at the craps table or slot machines. But I didn’t question it and neither did Dylan. When it came to Mom, there were some things we’d rather not hear about. We saw enough to draw our own conclusions. So, we hit the road, laying rubber as she peeled out of the parking lot of the shitty roadside Vegas motel, the manager running after us, waving his arms in the air and shouting obscenities. Mom left him in her dust without a backward glance. She blasted the music and sang along to rock ballads and heavy metal.
We took the scenic route to California. She drove us through the desert, on roads where we didn’t see another car for miles. Skinny-dipped in a lake under the light of a moon while me and Dylan sat with our backs leaning against the pine trees and watched from the corner of our eye to make sure she didn’t drown. She splurged on surf and turf for three and a bottle of champagne for one before I pocketed the rest of the cash. If I hadn’t, she would have blown six months of rent money on a shopping spree for random shit we didn’t need that would inevitably end up at the pawn shop.
Before Dylan and I went to the beach, I checked on Mom. She was still asleep, the blinds drawn, the room plunged in darkness. The scent of stale cigarette smoke hung in the air. She stirred, and cracked her eyes open, trying to bring me into focus.
“Baby?” she croaked, her voice hoarse like she hadn’t used it in a while. “You okay?”
“Yeah, Mom. I’m good. Dylan and I are going to the beach. Did you need anything?”
She mumbled something I didn’t catch and closed her eyes again, curling onto her side. I watched her sleeping for a few moments. Dylan and I had inherited her black hair, high cheekbones and skin tone. Tawny, like we always had the start of a suntan even when we didn’t. She once told us that she was part Cherokee, but Mom said a lot of things and they weren’t always true. Dylan and I didn’t know who our father was, or anything about her life before she had us. Whenever we had asked, Mom always said it wasn’t important, that kids just needed a mom.
Sometimes it felt like we didn’t even have that.
2
Remy
Shane was wearing a white T-shirt that said: Live Fast, Die Shredding, frayed cargo pants with the hems rolled up and Vans. He was straddling a shiny black and chrome motorcycle—a Triumph, according to the logo—and smiled at me as I walked toward him. Like I was someone special and he was happy to see me.
“Are you okay to ride on the back of a bike or would you prefer to go in the Jeep?”
“The bike,” I said without hesitation and was rewarded with a smile.
“Come here, Firefly.” He crooked his finger and held up the helmet in his hand.
“Firefly?”
“You remind me of the blue ghost fireflies.”
“Are they here? In California?” I looked around as if they might light up the sky.
“Nope.” He grinned.
Well, okay then. I stepped closer and he put the helmet on my head, securing the strap under my chin. How many other girls had worn this helmet? How many other girls had ridden on the back of his motorcycle?
“You ever ride on the back of a bike before?” he asked, putting on his own helmet.
“Nope.”
“Another first. Wish I could have them all.”
I wish he could, too, but it was too late for that.
“Do you want to go somewhere with me?” he asked.
“I thought we were going to the fireworks?”
“We are. They’re down at the pier but it gets crowded. I know a better place. Off the beaten track. But only if you’re up for it.”
“Since I don’t know where you’re taking me, how do I answer that?”
“Do you trust me?”
I smiled. “No.”
“A l
eap of faith?”
If he asked me to jump off a bridge with him, I’d be right beside him. “My second one today.”
“Brave girl.” He gave me a mischievous grin. “Climb on and put your feet here.” He pointed to the chrome foot pegs. “I’ll drive safely.”
I climbed on behind him and he reached back and pulled my arms around his waist. “Hang on tight.”
He didn’t have to tell me twice. I never wanted to let go. The engine rumbled beneath me, my body humming from the vibrations and then we were off.
* * *
“Where are we going?” I asked as he led me across the street—we’d parked in a lot next to a library about twenty minutes from Costa del Rey—and up a winding tree-lined drive to a fancy hotel. It was pink sandstone and looked like something from the 1920s. “This is what you call off the beaten track?”
He laughed and took my hand in his. It was warm and strong and callused, probably from surfing.
“Just pretend you own the place,” he said as we waltzed right through the front doors and across the marble lobby dotted with potted palms and orange trees. I was wearing a skull print tank top with ripped jeans and my beat-up Chucks, finger-combing my wind-blown mane. Nobody would ever believe that I belonged here or that I’d even be a guest at a hotel like this. It dripped with money, the guests milling around wore designer clothes and the scent of expensive perfume filled the air.
I glanced at Shane in his surfer-dude clothes, his expression chilled, yet he exuded confidence.
“Good evening,” he said as we breezed past a man in a hotel uniform.
My palms were starting to sweat. Shane was unflustered, greeting hotel employees with a good evening and a charming smile that stopped the words from coming out of their mouths.
We exited through a set of French doors onto a stone patio set up with rows of Adirondack chairs occupied by guests waiting for the fireworks display, sipping cocktails and champagne.