“Do you think there’s something out there?” He shifted his hand to grip hers again. “Something guiding us?”
She turned her head enough to see him. “I don’t know. I hope so.”
“Sometimes I wonder what I’m doing here. Why I’m stuck in this broken body. I want there to be a reason.”
“After . . . after I wiped out last spring . . .” She swallowed back the rawness of the wound and pushed forward. “I thought my life was over. But maybe it was just that life. Maybe it was part of some plan, you know?”
A slow smile lifted the side of his mouth. “What plan would that be?”
“I don’t know, but meeting you feels like something.”
“Yeah.” His thumb swept across her hand, and then he turned his head back toward the sky. “Yeah, it does.”
At the first subtle shift of light, Bastian pushed up from the blanket. He paused to rub his knee, his brow knitted together.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Fine.” He straightened with a smile and held out his hand, helping Summer to her feet. She folded the blanket while he gathered the sand tools, and then joined her on the edge of the sand trap.
“It’s an awful sand castle, isn’t it?” he said.
“It’s the most beautiful sand castle I’ve ever seen in a sand trap.”
He chuckled and led the way back through the gate.
Neither one of them spoke again until they reached the edge of her driveway and Summer caught the hem of his hoodie, pulling him close. “Thank you, Bastian.”
He touched her cheek, fingertips trailing across her skin. “Of course. It’s a lot more fun doing this with someone.”
“I’m kind of freaked out right now,” she said, voice dropping to a whisper.
“It’s not like we actually did anything wrong.”
She smiled, waiting until she had his full attention. So close together, she could smell that fresh, minty scent that permeated his skin, and she wanted to taste it again. “I’m scared of how much I need someone like you in my life—and how much you might need me. I’m not good at being needed.”
He rested his head against hers. “I’m sorry. Call it need or want or whatever, but you make life better.” He pulled away to stare into her eyes. “You make me better.”
“So then what is this? What are we?”
He shrugged. “Friends? More than friends? Is there a word for two people who want to hang out all the time and occasionally make out?”
She gave him a light shove. “We are so not friends with benefits.”
“Whatever this is between us, whatever it isn’t, I’m good. This is enough, until you’re ready for more.”
She shook her head. “I always want more with you, Bas. That’s the problem.”
“Why is that a problem?” A sliver of vulnerability, of hurt, slipped through his smile and sliced her to her core.
“Because I don’t know how to do more. I barely know how to have actual friends.”
“So let’s just hold on to this moment,” he said, moving closer until they bumped against the side of the house. “Carpe diem and all that.”
“This moment?” She toyed with the strings of his hoodie, relaxing under the heat of his body.
He nodded. “This one. Right here.” He bent closer with each movement until his lips found hers and his hands found her hips and they were crushed together in a tangle of mint and hot breath on cool air.
The porch light switched on and they pulled apart.
“Shit,” Summer said, barely containing her giggles.
“Should I go?” he whispered back. “I should probably go.”
She nodded, taking her lower lip between her teeth to keep the laughter in.
He ducked down to kiss her again before dashing off behind her mom’s car and through the neighbor’s bushes.
She waited until he disappeared into the dark before slipping in the back door, her steps so light she might have been walking on air.
Chapter 16
The glossy floors of the high school and the echoing clang of banging lockers compounded the sleepless sting in Summer’s eyes. She closed her own locker, wincing when the door collided with the frame.
“Hangover?” Abby asked, holding out a bottle of bright purple sports drink.
Summer shook her head, but accepted the bottle. “Out too late. Or up too early. I don’t even know.” Her voice came through in that scratchy, sleep-deprived growl.
Abby raised a single, perfectly arched eyebrow. “Is that what’s wrong with Bas too?”
Summer spun around. “Something’s wrong with Bastian? He seemed okay last night. Or this morning. Whenever.”
“He’s limping. That usually means his knee is bothering him.” Abby pointed at his dark head, bobbing slightly above everyone else’s. Bobbing more than usual. “It’s a target joint, but I didn’t think he’d had a bleed there in a while.”
“He said he had to rest it yesterday.”
“Tell me he didn’t go for a walk last night. That boy is an idiot.”
“He wanted to get out after sitting at home all day,” Summer said. “Can you blame him?”
“Sebastian Vega,” Abby screamed across the hall. She marched toward him and shoved her finger into his chest, words lost in the general chaos of the hallway between classes.
Summer leaned back against her locker and closed her eyes, momentarily blocking the rest of the world while Abby lectured Bastian.
Summer had read about the complications that came with joint bleeds and the risk of knee replacements and the kind of pain he must be in, but she still couldn’t make herself regret the light in his eyes when they’d kissed goodnight or the way he’d touched her hand beneath the stars.
“There you are,” he said, pulling her out of the trance.
“There you are.” She was grinning like an idiot and couldn’t bring herself to care. “Where’s Abby?”
“I never know what that girl is doing.”
Summer giggled. “True.”
“I kind of hate that I don’t get to see you until fourth period.”
“I kind of hate that we’re in school right now.” She straightened his shirt, unable to keep her hands completely off him.
“I could use some help in the darkroom,” he said, leaning into her. “If you’re not busy in art.”
“I’m pretty sure I can’t mess up this still life any more. It’s starting to look more like UFOs than fruit.”
“That seals it. I’m rescuing Ms. Fury from your bad art. Come on. I’ll show you how to make prints.”
She slipped her hand into his and followed him down the hall.
Inside the art room, Ms. Fury nodded at them when Bastian pointed toward the darkroom. The door shut behind them, leaving them alone in the dim, cluttered room.
In the narrow space between the counters, Bastian turned to her with mischief brewing behind his glasses.
Summer’s heart bounced between her stomach and her throat and she stepped closer. “I did mean I’d actually work on prints with you.”
“Sure,” he said, wrapping his hands around her hips. “Prints.”
“Ms. Fury will want to see something.”
“Of course.”
Something about the low, warm light and privacy of the darkroom, mingled with Bastian’s scent and the memory of their late night adventures, made her bolder. “So . . . ?”
“So.” His lips crashed into hers, a jumble of heat and goose bumps and fingers tangled in hair.
She pressed into him, hungry and wild after their restraint the night before. Her back struck a countertop and he hoisted her up so their heads were at the same level, so their effortless kisses became even more effortless.
Reckless and desperate and euphoric.
Like she couldn’t breathe without his breath in her lungs.
Like her own body wasn’t enough to hold her in anymore.
Like maybe nothing else mattered but the taste of his
skin and the heat of his hands and the shape of his body pressed against hers.
A knock on the door finally pulled her away from him, wide-eyed, breathless and still wanting more.
With laughter in his eyes, Bastian helped her down and flipped on the enlarger before letting Ms. Fury in.
The teacher looked between them. “Getting much work done?”
“I’m showing her the equipment,” Bastian said.
Summer elbowed him in the ribs, but he managed to keep a straight face while hers burned red and she nervously smoothed her clothes.
“Are you serious about learning photography?” Ms. Fury asked, tilting her head to one side and nearly undoing the elaborate knot of curls perched on top.
“I’d . . . like to try?”
“Drawing might not be for everyone, but I strongly believe that art is. I want you to find your voice. Do you have access to a film camera?”
“I have an old one,” Bastian said, turning slightly toward Summer. They’d drifted closer again, close enough to feel the heat in the air between them. “If you want it.”
“This is school,” Ms. Fury said. “Not a date.”
“Right.” Summer pulled away abruptly. Not that there was much room to separate them anyway. “Yes. Of course.”
“All right, then.” The teacher opened a miniature refrigerator under the counter and pressed a couple of small boxes into Summer’s hands. “Film is a rare, precious thing. Treat it as such.”
Summer scrambled to clutch the little boxes to her chest.
“I want to see ten prints by Monday,” Ms. Fury said to Summer before turning to Bastian. “I want to see an understanding of depth of field, focal length, exposure, composition, and bracketing.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Summer is a fast learner.”
“So I’ve gathered.”
Summer cleared her throat. “Thank you, Ms. Fury.”
“You’re both such old souls,” she said with a dramatic sigh before sailing back into the main art room. “And leave the door open unless you need it dark.”
“She so knows,” Summer said under her breath.
“Of course. She probably knew before we did.”
She buried her face in her hands. “We can’t do this in school ever again.”
He moved closer. “So outside of school, this is fair game?”
It took all her willpower to keep from grinning and launching herself into him. “Maybe.”
“There’s this place, up north along the beach. It’s almost impossible to get to, but the rocks make this kind of cave. We could go after school, catch the sunset. For your project.”
“Right. For my project.”
“Education is very important to me,” he said, leaning in until his nose almost brushed hers and their breath mingled together.
“No more kissing at school,” she whispered.
“I’m not kissing you.”
Summer put her hand flat against his chest, relishing his heartbeat against her palm. “I’m serious.”
“Then I’ll keep my hands to myself.”
Chapter 17
“Not quite golden hour,” Bastian said, leading the way up the beach toward a rocky outcropping at the edge of the water. “But the light should last a little longer.”
“You know I have no idea how to use this thing, right?” Summer said, lifting the old SLR camera off her chest. He’d even had to show her how to load the film. “And why can’t I just use my camera phone?”
He shook his head. “You wound me with your talk of digital photography and optical zoom. No, you’re going to learn real photography, so you can make real prints.”
“Thanks for doing this.” She ducked to follow him through a narrow opening between two boulders sticking up from the sand. “I can barely point and click.”
“It’s easy.” He grinned. “Just a matter of balance.”
She accepted his outstretched hand and navigated over a rock.
“If you have too much light,” he said, scrambling down the near-vertical incline of a rock. “You end up overexposed. Not enough?” He climbed up another. “Underexposed. But if the balance is right . . .” He paused at the peak, perfectly poised to illustrate his point. “Everything falls into place.”
He leaped onto the sand beside her and she broke into a grin.
“How do I find the balance?”
“Shutter and aperture.” He pointed out two dials on the camera. “How long light is let in and how big the opening is to let it in. The in-camera light meter shows you where your exposure is. To start, try to keep it centered.”
She lifted up the camera and focused on a rocky projection over their heads. The ocean had carved away the sea cliff to create a kind of cave, leaving lichen and tiny mussels behind. She turned the little dials to get the balance right, then clicked off a few shots.
“Good,” Bastian said, his voice calm and steady behind her. “Now experiment. Try over and under exposing. Try keeping the balance, but changing the aperture. We’ll look at them all tomorrow to see how different settings alter the image.”
She fired off a few more, feeling a little lighter with each click. Then she turned enough to catch Bastian’s profile at the edge of the frame. He didn’t notice until she had a few shots.
“You are not taking pictures of me, are you?” he said. “There’s a reason I’m the photographer.”
“You told me to shoot the things that interest me.”
“All this and you want pictures of me?”
“Variety, right?” she said. “Maybe portraits are my thing.”
“Fine. But you have to let me take your picture.”
She clutched the camera to her chest. “Don’t you have enough of me already?”
“Not like this.” He threw out his arms toward the sea and the stone and the wild, living things surrounding them. “Not here.”
She slowly relinquished the camera. “What should I do?”
“Act natural?”
“Why do photographers always say that? There’s nothing natural about someone staring at you through a lens.”
“Tell me about the ocean.”
“What?”
“The ocean. Why you love it. What it says to you. What you’re thinking when you’re staring at it like that.”
She took in a breath of cold, salted air. “The ocean is the one constant in my life. I’ve lived in so many places. Apartments and trailers and motels. I’ve gone to a different school almost every grade. Sometimes two or three in a year. But the ocean? She’s always been there. She sounds the same and smells the same and the way the water rushes over my feet is the same. From Crescent City to Imperial Beach, this is my home, my ocean.”
“There,” he whispered. “Hold still.”
“What?” She tried to stop her hands, midway through brushing the hair from her face.
“The light,” he said. “You’re perfect.”
“I’ve never been perfect.”
“That’s the thing about perfection. You’ll never see it the way I do. You’ll never see yourself the way I do.”
She stared out at the sea again. “Aren’t imperfections what make life so good? I started skating because I’m too much of a baby for surfing. I came to Oceanside because I messed up. I’m here, with you, because I can’t draw apples. I think imperfections are better than perfection.”
He lowered the camera. “Then you’re the most imperfect girl I’ve ever known.”
She laughed and reached for his hand, drawing him down beside her on the rock.
With their arms and legs pressed together, he leaned into her and rested his head against hers to watch the sunset.
“The best part of being with you,” he said, “is that I can forget about my disorder. You never tell me to be careful or act like I shouldn’t live because I might get hurt. You’re the only person I know who actually treats me like I’m normal.”
She slipped her arm into his, hugging him closer to her bo
dy. “What’s the point of being alive if you don’t live?”
He wrapped his other arm around her and squeezed her tight.
“What do you think?” she said. “Can we manage a selfie with this camera?”
“Worth a shot or two,” he said, struggling a little to get the camera into position. With his arm outstretched, he leaned into her again and fired the shutter a couple of times.
“And now we wait?” she said.
“Now we wait.”
Nestled into the rock, with the boom of the surf and the calls of the gulls and the shimmering coral and tangerine sunset on the water, Summer closed her eyes and sank deeper into Bastian’s side.
“We should probably head back,” he said. “The rocks get hard to navigate once the sun goes down.”
“Sure.” She twisted to kiss his arm. “A couple more minutes?”
“Just until the sun is gone.”
She watched his face, watched the reflection of the sunset on his glasses, watched the soft way his smile spread in time with the sun disappearing into the ocean.
In a second, it winked out, leaving the same gentle, even lighting as the second before but without the fire on the horizon.
Bastian lowered his head to kiss her, a soft, sweet kiss like moonlight on the waves. “Thank you,” he said.
“For what?”
“For existing.”
Anxiety fluttered in her chest, the weight of his heart in her hands momentarily stealing her breath.
Bastian stood and stretched, then held out his hand for her. “Ready?”
She sighed. “No. But we should go.” She hoisted herself up and followed him back to the makeshift trail through the rocks.
With the rising tide, the path was slipperier and it took longer to make their way to the sand. Summer slipped and clutched his arm, only to return the favor moments later. She caught his arm again, using his body to keep her balance.
Each touch, no matter how casual, sent chills through her, raising goose bumps along her arms and twisting her stomach into knots.
“This part of the park is closed,” a rough voice barked.
Summer jumped, gripping Bastian’s arm and ducking behind him. “Shit.”
“We’re leaving,” Bastian called back. “Just watching the sunset.”
The Trick to Landing Page 9