Inside Out

by Lia Riley

He’s right. We’ve been explorers for some time. During the last little while it’s as if a blizzard descended, we were stuck in a whiteout, so close, but the snow made everything indistinguishable. At last, the storm’s abating and he’s right there, and I’m over here. Suddenly, we can see each other.

  Within us is the way forward. We each possess half of the compass and must join together to find the right direction.

  “You’ve got to know how much I need you.” A lock of his wet hair twists in a boyish curl.

  I go to smooth it down, but my fingers tangle in the thick waves, and instead draw him closer.

  He bows his head, still panting a little. “You can’t check out on me like that again. I can’t live this bloody life devoid of you—”

  I brush my mouth over his lower lip, that reddening mark where his teeth left imprints. “I won’t. I’m so sorry. I-I’m ready to try. Thank you for believing in me.”

  “I’ll never stop.”

  We rest our foreheads together, holding one another upright. Droplets fall from his hairline onto my cheeks, joining fresh tears. He’s water, I’m water, and our flotsam and jetsam fit in a way that’s strange, yet familiar. I have no idea where we’re going, only that the way out is lined with broken feathers, bloodstains, marrow ash, and the serrated teeth of sharks.

  This journey will take all I’ve got, a small price to have everything.

  And that’s exactly what this guy in my arms is.

  Chapter Six

  Bran

  I settle my feet on the veranda’s rough floorboards and bury my face in my hands. There’s a vague hint of coffee in the air. Scott or Jessie must be awake. Might as well get up and fortify myself. Despite what Talia said last night, how she behaves in the grisly light of day is going to be the real test.

  I have just enough hope to hang myself.

  Furtive rustles emit from the wire cage in the corner. Chester the Sexually Deviant Chinchilla stirs. The little bloke’s crepuscular, dawn and dusk are when he’s most active, and that means…wait for it, wait for it…yep, little pervert’s working himself over again.

  “Mate, give it a rest,” I mutter. “You’re going to gnaw your bits off.”

  Chester’s determination to eunuch himself finally forces me into action. If given the choice between watching a rodent self-fellate versus enduring a piece of toast alongside Scott Stolfi—the dad wins.

  Just.

  I open the door into the living room and collide with Talia, who’s holding a loaded breakfast tray.

  “Oh, hell, sorry, Captain.” I reach to steady her. “Didn’t know you were there.”

  You are awake before 2 p.m.

  She’s here. She’s come to find me, and her shy smile makes my teeth hurt from the sweetness. “I wanted to fix you breakfast in bed.”

  “You did, did you?”

  She looks me up and down. “Guess I’m too late.”

  “Hold that thought.” I slip back onto the veranda and hurl myself onto the futon with such force that Chester emits a squeal and scurries into his den.

  “What’re you doing?” Talia stands over me, hesitant, but at least halfway amused.

  “Morning, sweetheart.” I make a production out of exaggerated yawns and eye rubs. “Oh, hello, what do we have here?”

  She giggles and sits, settling the tray between us. “I thought you might accept frozen waffles and out-of-season blueberries as a suitable peace offering.”

  “When you’re right, you’re right.”

  She fiddles with the lid of the maple syrup bottle. An amber drop collects on her fingertip. “I just don’t get it.” She licks the sweet stickiness from her skin in an unselfconsciously sexy gesture.

  “What’s that?” My question comes out a hoarse croak. It’s been five months since I’ve had this girl. My dick perks, sensing opportunity.

  Down boy, don’t scare her off.

  She takes a sip of coffee. “I don’t see what the big attraction is.”

  “Attraction?”

  Bloody hell, the way she palms the mug—

  “Are you getting a cold?” She peers at me. “Your voice is all crackly.”

  I clear my throat and direct my thoughts to things vaguely unpleasant: the prime minister’s smarmy features, paper cuts, or cricket. Desire remains, trapped in a warped eddy, a frothing confusion of conservative politics, pain, and wickets. Quick, divert—what’s 6,426 divided by 6? 1,071.

  “Your attraction to me.” She leans forward, provides an unobstructed view down her tank top. She’s not wearing a bra, and her pink nipples are right there, looking a trifle lonely. “You’re some kind of masochist.”

  “Let’s clear this up once and for all. Every atom, every last one in my heart is yours. When I’m with you…” I wrap my hand around her fingers, still syrup sticky. “Bloody hell, Talia. It’s the only time I’m not practicing at being alive.”

  Talia’s eyes round, match her mouth’s perfect O. “Who are you? It’s like I’ve made you up in my head.”

  “No more make-believe. I’m done being Pinocchio.”

  “And you honestly believe I’m the Blue Fairy?”

  “Whatever you are, you’re some kind of magic.”

  Her sudden tears fall fast and silent.

  I shove away the breakfast tray and pull her close. She buries her wet face in my neck, her fingers lightning quick on my skin. Her little touches aren’t sexual, more like remembering.

  “Tell me what’s up.”

  She shakes her head.

  I rock her gently. “What’s the worst you can say?”

  She doesn’t move, if anything she grips tighter.

  “Look at me, Captain. I need you looking at me.”

  She pulls back with a shuddering sigh. She’s silent. I’m silent. There’s a question she asks with that gaze.

  “Yes.” I answer. “You are worth it.” I walk my fingers to the nape of her neck. Brush my thumb across the base of her skull. “I know next to nothing about love. But I know you.”

  “So you’ll come to Santa Cruz? Suffer through all the pomp and circumstance? Clap wildly while I get a piece of paper that cost nearly six figures and will probably never lead to gainful employment?”

  “It would be a pleasure.”

  She rests her hand on my heart. Her cheeks are red from wiping away tears. “Where do you think we’re going?”

  I muss her hair. “Everywhere good, Captain.”

  “It’s time to get out of Sacramento, huh?”

  “Leave Jessie’s house? In a word, yes. In two, fuck yeah.”

  “Can we have a garden at our hypothetical new residence?”

  I tug her close and flip her to one side so we’re spooning. “Sure.”

  “A four-poster bed?” She nestles into me.

  My knuckles skim the undersides of her soft breasts. “Um, I’ve no opposition on that front.” Indeed, a whole dirty scenario plays in my imagination. Talia tied to a bed letting me have my way with her. Fucking hell, I have so many ways to try out.

  A hint of an eyebrow arch, a cute-as-hell smile.

  “Why, are you flirtin’ with me, Miss Stolfi?” I do my best Texas cowboy impersonation.

  “I do declare.” Abject horror replaces her cheeky smile. She stares over my shoulder in the direction of the chinchilla’s lair. “The hell?”

  “Fucking Chester.”

  “Is he—”

  “Yep.”

  “Whoa. Does he do…that…a lot?”

  “Whenever he finds a spare moment, and seeing as he lives his whole life in a bloody cage…”

  “You’ve been sleeping out here, with him, for two whole weeks?”

  “Bypassed purgatory and went straight to hell.”

  “I am so, so sorry.”

  “I’d suffer through a lot more than a furry horn ball to have a chance with you.”

  “Would you print that on a bumper sticker?”

  “Get over here.”

  She’s Talia, so s
he laces her fingers in my hair and kisses with the same eagerness that used to equal parts frighten and fascinate me. Though so much is different, this rush of sheer disbelief at my own dumb luck remains the same. Our tongues sweep against each other, and everything is maple syrup, spearmint toothpaste, and possibility.

  “Talia!”

  Scott stands in the doorway, frowning.

  Yeah, we have to get the hell out from under this roof.

  “Dad?” Talia doesn’t pull from my arms. She leans against me like she belongs there, and she does.

  Scott gives us a deadpan once-over. “Brandon, come in here a minute.”

  “Are you for real?” Talia’s arced up like an irritated dingo defending its territory. The sight is so bloody adorable I almost kiss her again, dad or no dad.

  “I’m serious. You’re both going to want to see this.”

  The way he speaks dashes my good humor on submerged rocks. He looks perplexed, stares as if I’m this new stranger, worth consideration.

  “Have you heard of a cable show called Eco Warriors?”

  Shit.

  “What’s that?” Talia asks, giving me a puzzled look.

  I can’t search for words of explanation. I’m afraid for what I’ll find. Goddamn it, just when everything is turning around—

  “Bran?” Talia gives up on my stricken ass in favor of searching her father’s face.

  “It’s going to be a new program on the Discovery Channel,” he says. “They just ran a promo ad and Bran was in it, on that ship of his, down in the Antarctic.”

  “I don’t understand.” Her brows knit.

  I shrug. Maybe it won’t be so bad. Maybe—

  “You’re a wild man, bud.” Scott’s tone is awed. Impressed.

  “Look, it’s nothing.” I shift on the bed, knocking into Talia’s breakfast. Blueberries roll over the mattress. Only a minute ago, everything was easy, uncomplicated. Now it’s—

  “Come on, Talia, you have to see this. Bran is some kind of hero.”

  “I already knew that.” Talia disentangles from me. “But I still have no idea what’s going on.”

  I want to order her not to go. This so-called reality television is anything but.

  I know the truth.

  I’m no hero.

  Chapter Seven

  Talia

  There I was, with my morning coffee, watching Shark Week on the DVR, when this happens.” Dad grabs the remote, fast-forwards past an SUV advertisement, and hits play. Bran’s image fills the flat screen. He’s dressed in a black Gore-Tex jacket, a gray wool beanie tugged low on his forehead. Fog eddies around his meditative profile as he leans against the ship’s rail—an anarchist sailor, or a mind-bogglingly hot pirate. He turns slowly, as dramatic music commences.

  Holy sweet Jesus.

  His eyes catch the half-light and shine this unfeasible green. Cameras were invented to make love to his face. He’s not guy-next-door handsome. His features aren’t model perfect. But his aura is hypnotic. You’re simply compelled to keep watching.

  The next forty-five seconds vanish into disorienting cutaways: a dead whale, the sea inky with dark blood, helicopters banking midair, surging waves, crew hastening around the deck, and shots of Bran, time and time again. The clips increase with frenetic energy until the final culminating moment, the one where my boyfriend leaps off the side of a ship that’s rocking wildly on stormy seas, and lands in a Zodiac far below. A woman appears to be sprawled unconscious in the bottom of the small boat.

  “All new episodes of Eco Warriors, coming soon.” An intense, raspy voiceover breaks through the background music.

  We sit in dumbfounded silence.

  “Eco my fucking left nut.” Bran jumps to his feet. “What a bloody joke.”

  “What is this about?” Dad leans forward, ignoring Bran’s curse-laden outburst.

  “A hell of a lot more than me standing around looking like a wanker.” Bran paces in front of the TV while a hunting tiger shark swims on the screen behind. They share identical expressions.

  “You jumped off a ship? In a storm?” The reality of his actions makes me restless. I take a deep breath and hold it, my knee knocks the coffee table, and a stack of surf magazines cascade to the floor. Losing Bran, the idea burns through my brain like my own personal hellfire. “You’re not Batman. What if you missed the little boat?”

  “The Zodiac?”

  I nod, dazed.

  “I’d be dead.”

  “Bran!” My powers of speech freeze, I’m bordering on incoherent. Where was I the day this happened? Probably in my village, teaching English. What if he—

  “Captain.” His face softens. “If I hadn’t jumped over, Juz would have drowned.”

  “Juz?”

  “Justine, the woman I almost killed.” Bran’s voice rises. He passes a hand over his face, and when his features reemerge they are stone. His eyes hood. “Did that clip show me cocking up? No. What you saw right there…” His voice is dead calm. Chills zing up my thighs as he points a shaking finger. “Everything they showed about me is bullshit. Fake Hollywood-style spin doctoring.”

  “I had no idea any of this happened.”

  “Well, you do now. Everyone does. A total cock up.” He continues his pacing. Dad looks at me and raises an eyebrow. I shrug in response.

  “Hey.” I start to rise but he halts me with an upturned hand.

  “Not right now.”

  “Bran—”

  “Soon, okay?” He closes his eyes for a couple of seconds. “We need to talk, I need to talk, but give me some time. Better I go for a run first.”

  * * *

  Bran’s been gone for over an hour. From the way he looked before leaving, he’s plotting a long-distance event. I halfheartedly distract myself by trolling through random jobs and internships on my laptop, postings in the U.S. and Australia. My focus is shot to hell. I don’t know what he and I are doing.

  Apparently I don’t know anything.

  After Bran took off, Dad and I watched the Eco Warriors promotion three more times before he left for work. Each viewing was more unbelievable than the last.

  Why didn’t he tell me?

  Oh, yeah, because I was stranded on Self-Pity Island. How much has Bran carried while I’ve been loaded down with the weight of my own issues? I’d give anything to be a mad scientist and whip up new biochemical reactions for my brain.

  Hello, what’s this?

  I hover my finger over the track pad for a second, two seconds, three seconds—I force myself to click the link: Production Assistant/Put it Past (San Francisco). Put it Past has an entry-level position on public radio with a new oral history program. All my qualifications fit the profile. It reads like my dream job, if I blotted out my worries and allowed myself to dream.

  Yes, I want it, and feel shamefaced for this want.

  Look what happened with the Peace Corps. Maybe I left with a justifiable reason, but there’s no denying the smirking truth. I was relieved not to continue. It wasn’t a good fit for me.

  I’m nervous about chasing hope. Maybe I won’t get the job and I’ll fail again. Maybe I will get the job, I won’t enjoy it, and I’ll confirm to myself that I am this lame and shallow person.

  But inaction isn’t working either.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I whisper to no one.

  A ping from my laptop indicates a new e-mail and saves me from further navel gazing. I click open my inbox and see a message from my friend Beth. Odd. Why wouldn’t she just text?

  The heading says: Bran?

  Figures we weren’t the only ones who spotted the Eco Warriors spot. Beth scored a dream PR internship at an up-and-coming social media start-up, so she’s hip to pop culture.

  T—WTH? This is blowing up!

  —Beth

  Pasted below her cryptic message are a bunch of links.

  Okay, random.

  I open the first one.

  Is this for real?

  I open the second,
third, fourth, and fifth before jerking back. My jaw is sore like I chewed too much gum.

  Bran’s all over the Internet. Clips from the Eco Warriors promo, and stills of his face, have been tweeted, pinned, reblogged, and posted. The online chatter hums the same tune:

  OMG—heart palpitations!!!!!!

  WHO THE HELL IS THIS HOTTIE?

  Come and give me some of that yum yum…

  Squeeeeeee—my new BF!

  When is this show airing—must see (ALL THE GRABBY HANDS)

  #EcoWarGuy is trending on Twitter.

  This is twilight zone territory. If Bran sees this stuff he’s going to lose his shit. Hell, I’m losing mine. My boyfriend’s become international drool fodder. He’s some fine eye candy, but to have the entire Internet lusting after him? Not sure how I feel about that.

  I wander onto the veranda. A steady rain falls outside, rattling the eaves. The tree-lined street is empty, no sign of Bran. I curl up on the futon and bury my face in his pillow. The scent of leaves, soap, and him clings to the cotton.

  I don’t remember falling asleep. I blink my eyes, disoriented from a Southern Ocean dream, being tossed about in a little Zodiac. Bran stands near the edge of the bed, hair sodden, in a pair of knee-length jogging shorts. His white T-shirt is rain soaked and leaves nothing to the imagination.

  Whoa.

  “You were thrashing around.”

  “Bad dreams.” I shift over, making space on the mattress. “You must be cold. Come warm up.”

  His eyes plunder me a long moment before he fists off his shirt. There is nothing sudden about the gesture. The motion is slow. Deliberate. The beauty of his body is fearsome. A poem of flesh and bone.

  My brain collapses and my heart explodes in fireworks that fall and fall but never hit the earth. He crawls beside me and the air is hushed, like the morning wind that blows off the sea.

  “I miss you,” he murmurs.

  “I’m right here.”

  “There’s been so much distance.”

  “That clip—”

  “Was nothing.” His phone rings.

  “You going to answer that?”

  “No.” He throws it to the end of the bed.