by Laney Wylde
“But you do have twenty grand to spare for the stripper next door?”
“Sure.”
“How?”
“I have a job.”
“As a drug dealer?”
“As a freelance hacker.”
I had never liked Cash more. He was dirty, too, in his own geeky way. “So people pay you to hack into other people’s systems or something?” I wasn’t really a computer person, clearly.
He looked amused. “No, into their own systems. To improve their security.”
“Ah.” I nodded, slightly disappointed. “How’d you get into that?”
He turned a corner onto a coastal highway, the dark ocean glowing in the moonlight. “I started the summer before my senior year in high school by hacking our family bank’s online customer interface. You know, for fun.”
“Wow. You were out of control.”
“Right? No, actually I got this nasty flu for a couple of weeks, so I was home sick and bored.”
“And that’s what we all do when we’re bored.”
“Anyway,” he continued, pretending to be annoyed. “I was able to break into my parents’ account without their login information and set up bill pay to myself. So, I told the bank—”
“That was your mistake.”
“—and they paid me to fix it.”
“Seriously? You know how to do that?”
He nodded.
“Then why are you majoring in Engineering?”
“Because I already know how to program. I’m not going to pay someone six figures to teach me.”
“Makes sense. Although, I wish you would’ve told me this back in September.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m in this programming class, and it’s killing me. I’d drop it, but it’s required for my major.”
“Really? I didn’t know undeclared had any required classes.” I avoided his gaze as he turned his head to me, eyebrow raised, the heel of his hand resting on the top of the steering wheel.
Touché. “Mathematics with a minor in American Literature and Culture.”
“American Lit,” he repeated under his breath.
“Any excuse to read and talk about Hemingway.”
“The Gillian Flynn of the twentieth century.”
“Right!” I grinned like an idiot. “I have an incurable crush on him.”
Cash snorted. “Isn’t he old? And dead?”
“He wasn’t always old. And you know what I mean.”
“I can’t even begin to understand what you mean.”
“Like I’d be his girl if I was born a century earlier. Well, not his girl really. You know how good girls always fall for the bad boy and are all like,” cue mocking voice, “‘Oh, he’ll change for me. He loves me.’ Hemingway was the bad boy of twentieth century American literature. Philandering, alcoholic, tortured writer haunted by the image of his father’s suicide. Mmm…”
“You think that’s sexy? Promiscuity and childhood trauma?”
“Don’t you?” I raised my eyebrow.
“Okay, just so I understand…” Cash glanced at me with those island-blue eyes when he stopped at a red light. “Your fantasy is to have been born at the turn of the century and be the good girl Hemingway changed for?”
“No, that’s ridiculous. I’m not stupid.”
Cash chuckled as if I had said something silly.
“No, I want to be the bad girl he thinks will change for him. I imagined we’d meet in Cuba, you know? I catch his eye on the beach after he’s had a rough day fishing. We run into each other again at a bar off the shore. He buys me a whiskey neat. I drink one. Then another. He out-drinks me. Then he wakes up after our moonlit night together, and I’ve fled to America. He never hears from me again. I’m the ultimate girl who got away. He’d sit outside at a cafe and see a dark-haired woman pass by on the street, and his heart would jump because he’d think it was me, but it’s just another dark-haired woman because, you know, there are a lot of them in Cuba. And so he’d take me to his grave.”
Cash was pressing his lips into a hard line, his cheeks tight to keep from laughing.
“Maybe I’d be his muse for a character. I don’t know. I haven’t really thought all that much about it.”
Cash glanced at me before pulling into parking garage. “Wow, I’m not your type at all.”
I nodded and pursed my lips. “We should probably just go back to the dorm, huh?”
“Nah, I think I’m just going to abandon you on a mountain like I originally planned.”
“Aren’t we in Santa Monica?” There was no mountain in sight.
He flicked his fingers through the air to brush me off, then opened his door. I pulled the handle on mine, then heard, “Stop,” as I cracked it open. I rolled my eyes, but let him open it for me. Must be a southern gentleman thing. I wasn’t sure a guy ever opened a door for me unless I was too drunk to. “So, do you want to skate or eat first?”
Ah. Socks. “Eat. I at least don’t want to be hangry when I fall on my ass.”
* * *
We sat down at a table for two in this seafood restaurant on the pier. I flipped open the menu. Nothing was under fifteen dollars. There was no way I would be able to afford dinner here. “Do you want to split something?”
Confusion crossed his face. “Why?”
Oh, right. Cash had money. I shook my head. “Never mind.” I scanned the appetizer page and picked out a starter salad I could afford.
The waitress stopped at our table. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
“Water’s fine, thanks.”
“Coke for me,” Cash ordered.
“Separate tickets, please.”
Cash shook his head. “Just one.” He smiled at the waitress. After she left, he turned to me. “Get whatever you want.”
I leaned my head toward him and whispered. “But I’m not putting out, right?”
He ran his hands down his face, his fingers lingering over his lips. Had I said something wrong? “Sawyer, what do you want to drink?”
Beer. “Ice tea.” I scrunched my face as I relented. “Sorry. I’ve never been on a first date before.”
He studied me a moment. “How is that possible?”
“Unless holding my friend’s hair while she puked up rum at a party, then having my date drive me and her home counts.”
“When was that?”
“Like three years ago. She puked in his car, too.”
“Nice.”
“Actually, it was his mom’s car. We spent the rest of the night cleaning it up. And I felt awful because he was trying to ask me out, and I’d dragged him to that party even after he said he didn’t like people or drinking.”
“He doesn’t sound like your type either.”
“We actually dated for a couple years after that.” Ah! Shut up! “But, that’s not what you’re supposed to talk about on a first date, right?”
He shook his head and half-grinned. “It’s better than castration.”
I took a sip of my water. “All right, then I’ll keep going, you know, since I’m on a roll.”
“Might as well.”
“What’s your deal with sex? Are you like an after-the-third-date kind of guy, or only with your girlfriend, or fiancée, or—”
“Wife.”
“Ah.” I sat back and scanned him. “Wait, you’re a virgin?”
The waitress set our drinks on the table. “Could we have an ice tea, too, please?” Cash requested.
She nodded and walked away.
“Yes.”
My eyes widened. “What? So you’ve never had like a girlfriend or—”
“Had a girlfriend for two years. We broke up this summer.”
“And you didn’t—”
“No.”
“Not even—”
“No.”
“How?”
“We were almost never alone behind a closed door. And our families and friends held us accountable because they knew it was importa
nt to us.”
My eyebrows stitched together. “Wow, so you’re like a good guy.”
He lifted a shoulder. “I guess.”
“Or secretly gay.”
“I don’t think that’s it.”
“So why are you slumming it with a hooker?” The waitress set the tea in front of me with a variety of sweeteners. I picked out a raw sugar and started shaking the packet.
“I am on a date with an inexplicably gorgeous girl who is stronger and brighter than anyone I’ve ever met, who, yes, did some illegal things to get by for a few months.”
“That’s precious.”
“You never did tell me why you needed to get by on your own, though.”
I smiled and combed my fingers through my hair to distract him from my abrupt subject change. “What’s your family like?”
“Well, like you said, there are a lot of us.”
“Do you have a picture?”
He reached for his phone on the seat next to him and swiped until he found a group photo from a wedding. The first thing I noticed was they were all model tall and stunning like Cash. “That’s my older brother Johnny’s wedding in June.” He pointed to the bride. “That’s his wife, obviously, Caroline, and that’s my older sister June and her fiancé Armi.”
“How old are they?”
“June’s twenty-two and Johnny’s twenty-three. You know Jo, and there are the twins, Jackson and Carter. They’re fifteen. And that tiny thing is Sue.” I took the phone and pulled it close to my face to see the sweet little blonde with sapphire-blue eyes. “She’s five.”
“Whoops.”
“Yeah, vasectomies are not one-hundred percent effective.”
“Good to know.” I inspected the girl a little closer. “She’s so freaking adorable.”
“I know. We’re all wrapped around her finger.”
I sat back and tapped my fingers on the table. Something about those names. They weren’t just southern… “Hold on. Johnny, Cash? June, Carter?”
“Yeah, I was hoping you wouldn’t notice that.”
“Jolene’s the only one who got out unscathed.”
“Well, not really.”
“Oh, no!” I cupped my hands over my mouth. “I did ask her if she was named after that song.”
“Yeah.” Cash grimaced.
I looked at his phone again and started singing, “But I shot a man in Reno…”
“Nope.” He shook his head. “Date over.”
“Just to watch him die.”
Cash shuddered like a chill went through him. “That’s even creepier when you sing it.”
“Excuse me?”
“No, your voice is just so haunting.” He pulled up the sleeve of his sweater. “See, goose bumps.”
“It’s pretty cold in here, but nice try.” I scanned the screen again. “Is that your ex?” I pointed to the slender blonde his arm was around.
“Charlotte.” He nodded and took his phone back.
“Sorry.”
“No, it’s fine. We only broke up because she couldn’t handle long distance. Didn’t want to stay together when she went to college this fall. I guess a year of that was enough for her.”
“So, she made you stay loyal to her for your first year of college, when you were meeting all these new people, but she didn’t want to do the same for you?”
“Huh.” He sat back, his eyes considering. “I never thought of it like that.”
“That’s pretty fucked up, Cash.”
He burst into laughter. “Yeah, I guess it is.”
“Your family—are they all perfect and moral like you?”
“They’re Christians if that’s what you’re asking.” He took a drink, then asked, “You were raised in a Christian home, right? I mean, besides your stepdad.”
“Right. Went to church and Christian school through eighth grade, then my mom let me go to the public high school and decide if I wanted to keep going to church.”
“Is that when you stopped?”
“Yeah, I figured there was no point, you know? Because I’m eternally damned and all. I might as well get to have some fun.”
“I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “Damned? What is that supposed to mean?”
“You know, not chosen. Not elect. Not died for.”
“Hopelessly hell bound?”
I swallowed a drink of my tea and nodded. “Exactly.”
“Sawyer, that’s not—” He shook his head again.
“What don’t you understand?”
“Okay, so, you believe in God, Jesus, the Bible—”
“All of it,” I confirmed. “I mean, I’ve done so much research over the years, especially about the historical evidence of the resurrection. It’s impossible to deny. Those Jews wouldn’t have ditched so much of their religion and died at the hands of their own for a lie. And if the resurrection is true…” I sipped my tea again before adding, “It’s all gotta be true.”
“Okay. So what’s the problem?”
“My name’s not in that book, babe.”
Cash refuted with an emphatic, “That’s not how it works.”
“Lots of people believe that’s how it works.”
“Hmm.” Cash narrowed his eyes on me. “You don’t seem like the type to give up that easily.”
“Don’t I? Two weeks without a job in Los Angeles and I resorted to stripping.” I pointed at him and said, “That’s the attitude of a quitter.”
“No, a quitter would have gone home.”
I glanced up at the ceiling and muttered, “Lesser of the two evils.”
“You don’t have to be hell bound.”
Reaching for his hand, I quirked a sardonic smile at him. “That’s cute, and you’re wrong.”
He pulled his hand back and crossed his arms. “Prove it.”
“How?”
Cash leaned his elbows on the table and folded his hands at his chin. “You’re going to hell, yes?”
I mimicked his posture and affirmed, “Yep.”
“Then you should be afraid of dying.”
Holy shit, where was this going? “Are you going to point a gun to my head?”
“No! Sawyer, what’s wrong with you?”
“It’d be faster to list what’s right with me.”
“But you should be afraid to walk on the pier railing, right?”
I stared at him. “And if I’m not scared?”
His eyes shot wide open. “You’re going to do it?”
Ah, I called his bluff. “Why not?”
“You might die.”
“Isn’t that the point?”
“I only said it because I was sure you’d say no.”
“Then you don’t know me very well, do you?”
After dinner, we walked out into the brisk December air. I ran my hand over the cold metal railing, the pale blue paint bumpy under my skin. Cash’s anxiety was thick as we reached the end of the pier. “Let’s go skate before the ice rink closes,” he suggested. I shook my head.
Even with my gymnastics training, I couldn’t balance atop the narrow cylindrical bar. So I stepped on the bottom bar, then the next, before swinging my leg over the railing. An onshore breeze picked up, whipping a few strands of hair into my eyes. I pressed the back edge of my left heel and then my right into the inch overhang on the boardwalk. My heart pounded as I stared at the glistening black water below my feet. My fingers gripped the top rail as I smoothly extended my arms until my elbows locked. My chest and neck hung over the ocean, my sweater flapping like a ship’s sail.
Cash’s warm hands slid over mine. He leaned over, his face against my neck. “Come back,” he whispered.
“You were wrong.” I felt my arteries swell with each vigorous pump of my heart. I could barely breathe, but not from fear. It was exciting, flirting with death and feeling safe. “I’m not scared of hell,” I announced. Hell held no terror worse than Third Street. “I’m more afraid of here.” Cash’s fingers slid up, tightening around my bruised wrists.
I squeezed my eyes shut against the pain.
“Sawyer, come back here,” he said a little louder.
I gazed out at the silvery horizon meeting the ocean miles away in a dark line. Maybe I’d be safe somewhere out there. Alone. Off the grid where no one could find me. But that wasn’t real, was it? They’d always find me. Unless there was no one to find. I relaxed my fingers and let them slip over the paint of the bar, which was now warm from my skin. I imagined how quickly that railing would cool if I let go of it, how fast the ocean spray would erase the evidence of my life here.
Cash moved a hand around my waist. “Now, Sawyer.”
I eyed the water. It was too close. I wouldn’t die. I’d drown or get hypothermia, but the impact of the fall wouldn’t do it. It’d be slow agony drifting toward that horizon I’d never reach. All the exhilaration of the fall drained out through my toes. That familiar fear, so comfortable under my skin that I didn’t notice it until it was gone, sank back through me. It couldn’t be now. Hell would have to wait.
I turned toward the rail. When I started to pull my body into it, Cash helped me climb back over. He stroked my arms, and I tried to smile up at him.
He pulled me into him and pressed his lips into my hair. “You’re brave, Sawyer,” he whispered, and I knew he meant for not letting go.
I buried my face in his chest and let the tears fall, soaking through his sweater to the tee shirt below. Time stopped. I was warm surrounded by him, protected from the biting ocean air swirling around us. He pulled back and wiped the tears away with his thumbs. “I want to show you something.”
His fingers laced between mine as he led me down to the sand. He took his shoes off a few yards onto the shore, once we passed most of the cigarette butts and litter. I did the same with my knee-high boots and socks. I hadn’t felt chilly sand between my toes since I fled Oregon. It reminded me of home, in the best and worst ways. We made it back to the pier, though under it this time. All the trips I took to the beach during the summer, I had never done this. The waves echoed under here, making the rest of the world a silent memory. I leaned back against a splintering wood pillar, my hands in Cash’s swinging back and forth like pendulums. I closed my eyes as I listened to the ocean’s symphony with the sand. In that moment, it was enough to pretend that this strip of shore was all that existed, that Cash and I were the only people who existed.