“We’re waiting!” Bethany, Miss Bleach-Blonde, Queen of Tan herself calls over to our group. She winks at Nick, flirting with him—teasing him—and it bugs me, though I should be used to it by now. She’s playing volleyball with Farris, the other Josh on the baseball team, hence Reilly’s last-name moniker.
Nick and Mac follow after Bethany.
“Come on,” Reilly says as he entwines his fingers with mine. “Let’s go for a walk.”
My heart soars to have his hand around mine, and I feel my face flush as I try to process what this means—a walk with Reilly . . . just the two of us and not at the lake. I drop my beach bag next to Mac’s, and Reilly and I walk hand in hand down the beach, away from everyone else.
The breeze is crisp, but it feels good against my perspiring skin. Its whoosh fills my ears, overshadowing the sound of my heart thrashing around crazily in my chest, so I relish the feel of Reilly’s warm, somewhat clammy hand firmly wrapped around mine.
Our walk is lazy, and at first we’re content with companionable silence. But eventually it just feels like silence: unsettling, awkward silence. Reilly’s expression is thoughtful, I can see it from the corner of my eye. My heart swells this time, part in fear and part in excitement, as I realize he’s nervous, too. Although it’s difficult to picture Reilly at a loss for words or nervous in a silly girl’s presence, I love that he is.
His thumb strokes the back of my hand absently, methodically, and part of me wonders if his thoughts are as chaotic as mine are—or if they are miles and miles away.
The chatter of our group behind us is long gone by the time I finally have the nerve to say something. “Is everything okay? You seem distracted. Maybe a little nervous?”
Reilly squeezes my hand slightly. “I am,” he says with an awkward laugh.
“Yeah? Me too, a little,” I say. And then it’s quiet again. Reilly’s lost in thoughts I wish I could see, and I’m trying to build up the nerve to kiss him again, away from the comfort of the lake and the familiar easiness of us there.
Abruptly, Reilly stops his slow stroll, and I pause beside him. “Sam, I can’t stop thinking about us, about . . . well, what it all means.” He stares into my eyes, searching for something, then peers down at our hands, which he holds at his chest between us. I want nothing more than to crumple into him, to feel his arms around me and hear his heart beating in his chest, to compare it to the erratic thump of mine.
“Sam . . .”
When he finally looks at me, there’s pain and confusion in his clouded gaze. I want to take every uncertainty he has about us away. As a sudden spur of guts and determination blooms inside me, I lift onto tiptoes.
His lips part to say something, but I don’t give him the chance. I drop my full wine cooler onto the sand and wrap my arms around him. His kiss is stiff and surprised at first, then gives way to pliable lips, a seeking tongue, and his arms wrap around me, just like I wanted them to, pulling me up against him. Our chests rise and fall together.
My anxieties melt away, and I’m a pool of unbridled wants and needs I’ve never felt before. I kiss him, like air doesn’t matter, like his lips against mine is all I need.
Gently, Reilly breaks away, his arms tightening around me as he catches his breath.
I don’t want to stop, but I bite my lip, trying to control myself. I don’t want to be impatient and needy, though my body trembles and tingles with everything it wants. Every nerve ending is singing with the desire to be closer to him.
Reilly lets out a deep breath.
Steadying my own fluttering heart, I inhale the scent of him—so close, so real.
“That was nice,” he says, finally opening his eyes.
I smile in answer, and he brings his lips to mine for another brief kiss before he takes a step back.
Both of us are smiling like buffoons.
The wind picks up again, and as I giggle and screech, trying to keep my hair under control and my dress down, Reilly takes my hand and pulls me toward the protective cover of a jagged rock situated against the cliffside. Some sort of grass grows from the crevasses and the remnants of a bonfire are half-covered with sand in the corner, but it’s protected and dry, and it’s our own little secret space for this stolen moment.
Reilly pulls me in, out of the wind and onto the soft sand beside him.
Still giggling, I lean into him, kissing him without thought, because that’s what feels right.
Reilly cups the side of my face with his palm and his kiss becomes deeper, more urgent and desperate. The sand is malleable beneath me as he lowers me onto my back. When he brushes his lips against the sensitive skin of my neck, I can’t help but snicker. “That tickles,” I say, gripping his bare arms to steady him or myself, I’m not sure.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you since prom, when you showed up with Justin.”
My heart palpitates, thinking that Reilly could’ve been mine for weeks—maybe even months—before our first kiss on the dock. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Reilly looks down at the grains of sand he lets fall from between his fingers. “At first it was because I didn’t understand how I felt. I thought it was more of a protective-big-brother thing. At least, that’s what I convinced myself.”
Reilly stares at me, like he wants to say something else, and I could easily lose myself in his familiar gaze—the crystal-blue pools of his eyes that are filled with lust and promise and what I hope might be love.
But while I’m feeling like I could float away I’m so happy, the way he stares at me is almost sad and lonely, and I don’t like it. I pull his mouth to mine again, wanting him to know how badly I want to be with him, hoping that whatever reservations he might have can be dispelled with another earth-shattering kiss.
I want his hands on me. I want him to pull me closer . . .
Reilly stills as I run my hands up the inside of his shirt. When I open my eyes, his are wide with surprise.
“I want to,” I breathe, knowing I’ve never wanted anything more in my whole life. But then embarrassment turns my body cold, and I feel the color drain from my face. “Unless you don’t . . .” I swallow thickly.
Reilly’s hesitation nearly brings tears to my eyes and a blush begins to curl up my neck as the horror of rejection sets in. But then he strokes the side of my face and a small smile curves his lips. “Why couldn’t all of this have happened sooner?” He says it almost sadly, then bends down and kisses me, soft and careful at first—it feels like he’s trying to memorize this very moment. He kisses me more hungrily, and I greedily pull him to me, wanting him closer than a simple kiss.
It’s easy to forget about the breeze and the sand beneath me with Reilly’s body over mine, with the sound of the ocean between thudding heartbeats and raspy breaths. My nerves tremble, my mind races and blurs, but I feel like I’m dreaming too. And as I’m lying there in the protection and warmth of his arms, everything feels absolutely perfect.
Our motions and words exchanged are a haze, there’s pain and pleasure as Reilly moves slow and then faster until eventually, when my unfamiliar appetites are sated and my body’s a little sore, Reilly lies back on the sand to catch his breath beside me. After our heartbeats slow and the stickiness of our exposed skin subsides, it’s still quiet. The ravenous fog has worn off, and the feeling that we’ve done something terrible, that Reilly thinks we’ve done something terrible, starts to creep in.
My contentment quickly fades when I look over at him, his face pinched and contemplative as he stares up at the pale pink sky.
The stories I’ve heard about the jocks and their sexual appetites personify. My mind starts reeling and I wonder if I’ve made a huge mistake—if I’ve misread something and been completely blind. “What’s wrong?” I whisper. My voice is hoarse and wobbly, but I try to brace myself for his reply, for his rejection.
Reilly growls and rubs his face. “I’m sorry, Sam, I shouldn’t have done that,” he says, and my eyes begin to burn. I sit up, horrified and tuggi
ng my dress down as far as it will go. I want to run away. Reilly sits up and stares into my eyes, brushing an errant tear away. “There’s something I need to tell you.” His eyes search my face, but he doesn’t smile, he doesn’t reassure me. “Something you’re probably not going to like.”
I shake my head, not wanting to hear any of it.
“I’m leaving,” he whispers.
All I can do is scream inside.
What have I done?
Eighteen
Reilly
Hickory-smoked bacon . . .
The aroma revives me from sleep—that and Mac’s cursing in the tent next door. Peeling my eyelids open, I blink the world into focus. The memory of a faraway place, where my mission was to keep the upper hand by blending in and remaining silent—a place where men were brothers and every day was uncertain, but predictable, too—quickly dwindles from thought.
“Shit!” Mac rasps.
I tap on the nylon walls separating our tents. “Everything okay in there?” I ask, trying to keep my amusement to a minimum.
“Yeah, sorry,” she breathes, and then I hear what sounds like her falling over.
I can’t help but chuckle. “You sure? You need some help?”
“Ha. Ha. As much as I know you want to see me in my skivvies, I think I can manage.”
“Darn,” I say and sit up.
“Hey, Reilly?”
Flinging my sleeping bag off my bare legs, I stretch and reach for my duffel. “Yeah?”
“Are you naked in there?”
Again, I laugh, unable to resist. I look down at my boxer briefs. “Not exactly,” I say and reach for a rolled up clean t-shirt in my bag. I’m shaking it out when a thought occurs to me. “Why, are you naked?”
“Of course,” she says lightly. “Sam and I always sleep naked together. Didn’t you know?”
I grin at the thought. Hearing zippers and more rifling around, I assume she’s nearly dressed.
After I pull my t-shirt over my head and don a pair of shorts, I stand, hunched over in the crux of the tent and off-kilter as my mind and muscles gradually awaken. Water. I need water.
Grabbing my toothbrush and Titans baseball cap—my favorite cap I’d found in my room from when I was in high school—I unzip the tent and step outside into the warm morning. I’m momentarily blinded as my vision adjusts. The tan tent beside mine shakes like a wild animal is loose inside until Mac tumbles out and into my arms.
“Shit!” she rasps again and looks up at me with eyes and skin devoid of make-up for the first time . . . ever. “Thanks,” she says, righting herself and pulling down her tank top. “My foot got caught up in the strap thingy.”
“No problem.” I bend over to pick up the Ziploc bag containing my toothbrush and paste. As I straighten, my gaze meets Sam’s. She’s wearing her glasses. Though they were a Sam staple growing up, she rarely seems to wear them anymore. It brings me unexpected pleasure to see fragments of the old Sam as she stands over the large, cast-iron skillet, flipping bacon as she takes a sip from her mug.
I nod a good-morning.
“Morning,” she says before dipping her gaze back down to the frying pan.
I walk past her to the spigot up against a redwood trunk. After splashing water on my face, I go through the motions of readying my toothbrush and brushing my teeth.
There’s movement from Nick’s tent, and he gradually climbs out. “What’s all the damn noise about?” he grumbles, running his fingers through his hair. Within seconds he’s lighting a morning cigarette, yawning every few breaths as he tries to wake up. “It’s too early to be awake on my day off.”
“It’s eight o’clock. Time for breakfast if you want to get on the river,” Sam says, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose, though I think she does it out of habit more than because she needs to.
“At least you’re making bacon,” Nick mutters. He smashes his cigarette between his fingers, then saunters by me, a towel draped over his shoulder. His eyes are still foggy with sleep and a trail of smoke follows behind him as he exhales. “Off to the showers.”
“Showers?” Mac says, incredulous as she applies sunblock to her exposed arms and neck. “Did you somehow forget how drunk you get on the river and how many times you tip? Why are you going to shower?”
“Not even Mac showers on canoe days,” Sam teases and chuckles softly.
Nick flashes them a smirk over his shoulder. “If you want me to have half a brain this morning, I need a shower,” he says, his flip-flops dragging in the dirt as he plods away. “Don’t worry,” he calls, “I’ll shower after, too!”
“Savannah will appreciate that,” Mac mutters. “And you owe me for canoeing with her!” she calls back. I’d forgotten Savannah was on her way up, having had to work late the night before.
Nick waves and disappears into the trees.
“Wait, you’re not canoeing with me?” Sam holds up her tongs, casting her gaze from Mac, to me, and then back.
Mac shakes her head impishly.
“Why not?”
“Nick asked me to ride with her as a favor. He knows she’ll hate him by the end of the day if she doesn’t. How many times did he tip over last year, three? Four?” Mac glances at me as I spit out the remnants of my toothpaste, then she looks at Sam. “Reilly’s here, so I figured you guys could share a canoe.”
“But . . .” Sam’s gaze skirts to me and then back to Mac. I can tell she’s trying not to make a scene, which leads me to believe Mac said it in front of me on purpose.
“Well . . . ” Mac shrugs. “I can tell him no, I guess.”
“It’s fine,” Sam says, though she’s obviously uncomfortable with the arrangement.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, wiping the excess water from my mouth. I don’t need to be anyone’s charity case today. “I’m perfectly capable of canoeing by myself or with Nick.”
“No, it’s . . . it’s fine. I didn’t mean it like that,” Sam says. A twinge of guilt crumples her expression.
“Great, then it’s settled,” Mac chirps. “This is good,” she adds as she glances between us. I wonder if it’s more of a self-reassurance than an accurate depiction of the situation. Mac grabs a little pink zip-up bag and heads in the direction Nick disappeared, toward the bathrooms, leaving Sam and me at camp alone.
Sam focuses intently on the bacon, and I can’t help but fill the silence. “We don’t have to share a canoe,” I say. “I can get my own.”
Sam fumbles around by the stove. “Really, it’s fine,” she says and smiles at me, but it’s not a real smile. I can tell her mind is somewhere else as she frantically searches inside the camping bins for something.
Unzipping my tent, I toss my toothbrush and paste inside. “You forget how well I know you,” I say. “You’re full of crap—”
“Dammit!”
I look back to find Sam crouching over a broken mug. Blood smears her hand as she collects the pieces.
I rush over to her and take her hand in mine, eyeing the cut on her palm. There are two, actually. The fresh one isn’t bad—a little deep, and there’s a lot of blood, but nothing requiring urgent care. The cut on her thumb looks a day or two old, so I don’t worry about it. The way Sam just sits there staring at the wound, though, at all the blood, alarms me. I wait for her to say something, to cry or curse again in pain, but she just stares at it.
“Sam,” I say softly, wondering if she’s going to pass out at the sight of crimson covering her hand.
She doesn’t even blink.
“Sam?” I say more forcefully.
Finally, she looks at me, her expression open, then it narrows as she pulls her hand out of my grasp and bends to gather the remaining ceramic pieces.
“Hey,” I say, trying to take her hand in mine, but she resists. “Sam.” I finally get her attention. She looks at me, her eyes distant. “Don’t worry about the mess, I’ll clean it up.” I nod at the picnic table. “Sit down.”
“I’m okay,” she says, b
rushing away the fact that she’s still bleeding.
“I know you’re okay, but you need a bandage, and if you don’t want Mac fussing over you, then you better deal with it before she gets back from the bathroom.” This seems to get her attention.
Sam nods once, and I pull her up to her feet. I point to the picnic bench again. “I’ll get the first aid kit. You—sit.”
Her gaze shifts from me to the direction of the bathrooms. It’s obvious she wants to argue with me, but decides against it. It’s like the day I fell off the ladder all over again, only Sam’s reaction isn’t what I would’ve expected. She’s not cool and calm like before, and she’s not queasy at the sight of all the blood—she seems indifferent, numb.
Reluctantly, she sits on the edge of the bench, staring down at her blood-covered hand.
“Our roles are reversed this time,” I say, making a bad joke, but at least it seems she’s paying more attention now. She makes an amused sound and watches me as I fold a stack of paper towels and place it over the wound to absorb the blood. Meanwhile, I fumble through the bins of eating utensils and cookware, searching for the medical kit. Finally, I find it. It’s smaller than I thought.
“Hopefully there’s a cleaning pad or something in here.” I open the box and search its contents for something to clean the cut with. “Here,” I say, handing her an antiseptic pad. “We need to see how deep it is.”
Sam just stares at me.
I inch the cleaning pad closer until, finally, she takes it, her eyes still locked on me.
“What?” I ask. I can tell she wants to say something, but she’s holding back.
Sam opens her mouth to speak, but stops. She blinks and turns her attention to the small paper package in her hand.
“Thanks,” she says, tearing it open.
I’m desperate to know what she was going to say, but instead I nod and set a bandage on the bench beside her. “For when you’re ready,” I say, then set the medical kit aside and start picking up the bloodied ceramic shards. I drop them into the garbage bag. “I guess this means we’re even,” I joke. Sam smiles weakly and moves slowly at the picnic table, tending to her wound. When I’m finished with the broken glass, I remove the nearly-charred bacon from the flame. “Nick’s going to be heartbroken,” I say absently.
Saratoga Falls: The Complete Love Story Series Page 19