by Sophie Swift
I decide to take advantage of the beach just beyond the Smarts’ back porch. I grab a towel from the linen closet, a beer from the fridge, ditch my shoes by the door, and head outside.
But as I reach the end of the wooden walkway that leads to the sand, I notice Lia on one of the lounge chairs. She’s stretched out, reading a comic book and wearing another pair of impossibly short shorts—yellow with a white belt—and a pink tank top that’s been pushed up to just below her breasts, presumably to give her stomach an equal chance of bronzing as her arms and legs.
I stand there paralyzed for a moment, unsure whether to just pretend I never saw her and return to the house, or to say hello and break the ice.
Breakfast was beyond uncomfortable. She would barely even look at me. I assume she’s just embarrassed for calling me last night. But I want to reassure her that I didn’t mind. That she can always call me if she’s in trouble.
After all, I’m practically her brother.
The sound of that word in my head sends a wave of nausea rocketing through me.
A friend.
I would always be a friend to her.
My decision whether to retreat or stick around becomes moot when one of the wooden planks creaks under my feet and she whips her head around, tearing off her white sunglasses. I see her body visibly wilt at the sight of me, and it leaves me with a hollow feeling inside.
Then she flashes me one of the most insincere smiles I’ve ever seen and turns back to her reading.
Now I have no choice but to go talk to her. If I don’t, then I’m just a massive jackass.
I step into the warm sand, feeling it slip between my toes, and sit down on the adjacent lounge chair. She throws me a sidelong glance and hastily lowers her tank, making me feel like I’m some kind of adult chaperone at a school dance, checking to ensure all the girls’ skirts are up to dress code standards.
She doesn’t look up from her comic, which I now see is an old, tattered copy of Gen13, the same series she used to read over and over again when she was a freshman. I remember it was her favorite because she said it was one of the few comics that featured a kick-ass superheroine.
“Some things never change,” I say with a laugh.
Her eyes flick to mine and I swear I see something that resembles panic. “What?”
I jut my chin toward the comic.
She relaxes. “Oh, right.”
I suddenly feel like I’ve stepped into some kind of time portal and exited eight years in the past. When Alex and I were stupid high school seniors, so naïve and hopeful. And Lia was just Alex’s kid sister, ranting about how much she hated Superman because Lois Lane was always so helpless and weak whenever Superman was around. “She should be called Lois Lame,” Lia would gripe, making me laugh every time.
Back then, it felt like Alex and I were always out somewhere, tearing up the town, while Lia stayed home with her nose in a comic book. Lia was definitely the homebody of the two sisters. She didn’t like parties or social events or all the stuff normal teenagers enjoyed. She would always rather be here on this beach reading, or at the kitchen table drawing.
The déjà vu is overpowering. It’s as though nothing has changed, and yet everything has changed. The idea of being alone on this beach with Lia never used to make me break out into a cold sweat like I am right now.
I never used to look at her and feel like if I lingered near her for one more second it would be the second where I lost control of my body. The second where I lunged for her and crushed my mouth against hers and roved her body with my searching hands.
But then again, she never used to look like that.
She was always so small and gangly and childlike.
Even on that day I saved her from being trampled by drunk high school students. It was like I was saving a baby giraffe from a herd of stampeding elephants.
I allow my eyes to surreptitiously drift over her one more time, trying to memorize every square inch of her impeccable skin. But when I reach her face, I’m surprised to notice that she’s not reading. Her book is hoisted up, her eyes are directed at the text, but they aren’t moving. It’s as though she’s focusing on one word in the middle of the page, hoping if she stares at it long enough, the meaning will change.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
She doesn’t look up. “Sure. Why?”
“You seem tense.” And as soon as the observation is out of my mouth, I realize how true it is. I was so busy trying not to get hard just looking at her, I hardly noticed that her toes are curled against the soles of her flip-flops and her fingers are practically digging into the flimsy cover of the comic, threatening to rip the aged paper clean through.
“I’m fine,” she says briskly.
“Is this about last night?” I venture.
The comic book slips from her hand and lands on her chest. She scrambles to retrieve it.
“What about last night?” She sounds flippant, but I can hear the falseness in her tone.
“I just thought you might be feeling, I don’t know, a little strange about what happened.”
Her body visibly tightens again and I can’t understand what’s happening. What am I saying wrong? I’m trying to clear the air here and she’s making it extremely difficult.
“But you should know,” I’m hasty to continue, “that it’s fine. I’m not mad or anything. I totally get it. You shouldn’t be embarrassed or—”
“I’m not.” The words are out of her mouth too fast to be true.
“Lia,” I implore.
“WHAT?!” she snaps and it takes me aback.
“I just…” I fumble. It’s never been this difficult to talk to her. We’ve always had such a great relationship. An easy rapport. But now it’s like someone has ripped a giant hole in the ground between us and we’re forced to shout across it. “Everyone’s been in that situation before. It’s nothing to feel bad about.”
With that Lia stands up, squeezing the frail comic book in her hand. “I’m tired,” she announces, as though she’s speaking to a room full of delegates, even though it’s just me. “I’m going to go lie down.”
I nod, because I can’t think of what else to do. Am I supposed to stop her? Demand she tell me what’s really bothering her? Or am I supposed to just give her space and let her go.
Option two certainly seems easier.
But as I watch her disappear up the walkway toward the house, without turning back once, I have a sinking feeling that I made the wrong choice.
God, what happened last night?
What did I do? What did I say to make it so unbearably weird between us?
Grayson has totally changed. He’s not himself around me. We used to be pals. We used to laugh and joke and kick each other under the dinner table. We used to play rugby on the beach and he’d pretend to stumble and fall so I could make a goal. Things used to be easy between Grayson and me.
Now things are...
Ugh.
A total fucking mess. That’s what things are. And I don’t know how to begin to fix it. I don’t know if it’s even fixable.
I’m grateful that I’m not around when Alex gets home.
I’m grateful that I have the restaurant to escape to tonight.
I pull on a loose-fitting knee-length black skirt and a gray lace camisole, and slide my feet into a comfy pair of flats. I get to the restaurant early and do a massive amount of prep work just to keep my mind occupied. I chop vegetables. I clean out the walk-in, I roll silverware into napkins, I refill all the sugar and parmesan cheese containers.
In fact, by the time our regular kitchen guy shows up, there’s nothing for him to do. I’ve done everything for him. So he resigns to smoking a cigarette on the loading dock until we open.
Blake shows up fifteen minutes later and starts setting up the bar. Meanwhile, I struggle to find more ways to stay busy. I’ve now taken to recounting all the money in the cash drawer five times. Even though I get the same amount every time.
&nbs
p; “So,” Blake says, sidling up next to me at the hostess stand. “How long have you been in love with your sister’s boyfriend?”
The handful of quarters in my hand splatters to the floor in a cacophony of clanging and chiming.
“W-w-what?” I say, trying to sound irritated. That’s what innocent people sound like when they’re falsely accused, right? Irritated? Or maybe it’s more surprised.
Either way, Blake doesn’t buy it for a second.
“I’m a bartender.” The way he says the word, he might as well have said “psychic.”
I crouch down and start scooping up the dropped coins. “So what?”
“So,” he goes on, “I see unrequited love every day. It’s my bread and butter.”
“I don’t have...unrequited...I’m not...” I’m bumbling so badly I belong in a Woody Allen movie. I finally just resign myself to a sigh. “Is it really that obvious?”
Blake rests his elbows on the hostess stand. “Not to the layman’s eye, no. But to me, yeah.”
“Great.”
“You know,” Blake says, leaning forward, “I’m really good at making people forget about hopeless crushes.”
I roll my eyes as I finish collecting the quarters and stand up, knocking my head on the open cash register drawer.
“Oof!”
Blake is beside me in an instant, helping me up. “Are you okay?”
I rub my head with one hand while stuffing the runaway quarters into the drawer with the other. I close the drawer with a bang, not even bothering to finish my last round of counting.
It’s all there.
And if it’s not...who the fuck cares?
“Maybe you should sit down,” Blake suggests. “I’ll get you some ice.”
“I’m fine.”
“Some wine, then?”
I know I probably shouldn’t. Especially after what happened last night, but what the hell, right? “Yes. Wine. Please.”
Tonight is an improvement over last night. We had five whole tables. But the last one didn’t come in until ten minutes before closing time.
By the time I lock up around midnight, my head is pounding but I’m not sure if it’s the lingering effects of the hangover, which finally started to wear off around seven, or because of the collision with the cash register drawer.
When I slide behind the wheel of my car, I check my phone to see that I have three missed calls. All from Danika.
I tap out a quick text to her.
Me: Sorry. Was working. Everything okay?
I turn the key in the ignition, put the car in reverse, and back out of my parking spot.
Danika: Yup. Just checking on my tragic case.
Then a second later, she adds:
Danika: That would be you, by the way.
I pull to a stop at a red light and tap out a reply.
Me: I figured. Tragic happens to be one of my fortes.
I hit send and quickly follow it up with:
Me: But thanks for checking. Things did not end well last night. But too long to explain in text. And I’m exhausted. Call you tomorrow.
Danika’s final text arrives when I’m pulling into the driveway of the house.
Danika: Your life is a fucking reality show.
I smile and tuck my phone into my purse before getting out of the car and heading toward the kitchen door. I insert my key into the lock, turning it slowly so it doesn’t make a lot of noise. I jump when I see Grayson walking into the kitchen at that exact moment, his face shadowed in the darkness.
He appears startled, too, but it quickly withers away, replaced by a smile.
“Late night,” he drawls in a thick whisper that brings out his subtle Southern accent. It’s not a question. Just a statement of fact.
My breath catches as my eyes land on his bare chest, glowing bluish gray from the refrigerator light, and his black cotton pajama bottoms, riding low enough that I can make out the shallow groove of his hip bones. It’s exactly how he used to walk around the house in high school. Except now it’s worse. Way worse.
And by worse, I mean better.
His skin is the same sumptuous olive color but his chest is so immaculately defined now. His muscles fuller. His shoulders broader and more mountainous, sloping elegantly toward his powerful arms. My gaze dips down his entire body, drinking in every square inch of him. Drowning in his magnificence.
But my wandering gaze screeches to a halt just above the waistband of his pants and I let out a tiny, involuntary gasp.
I spent my entire freshman year memorizing his body. Every time we went to the beach, or he would walk around this very kitchen in only his khaki shorts, I would take mental snapshots and store them away, piecing together the gorgeous memory that would last me all through high school and college.
But that is definitely new.
Just below his belly button is a small patch of dark brown hair that trails down and disappears behind the drawstring of his pants.
The sight of it, like a neon arrow pointing toward heaven, makes my head swim and the room go fuzzy.
It takes me a second to register the fact that I’m staring. Quite blatantly, come to think of it.
I clear my throat and evoke all my power to compel myself to look away.
A playful smile dances on his lips.
Shit.
Do I have to be so fucking obvious? Do I have to stare at his crotch like a horny dog?
“Uh,” I falter for words. Preferably coherent ones. “What are you doing up?”
He holds up his right hand, which is still slightly swollen and tinted red. “It was bothering me,” he says quietly. “I came down to get some ice.”
I immediately jump into action. “Oh, right. I’ll get it.” It comes out in a strained whisper.
As I scurry around the kitchen, grabbing a plastic Ziploc bag from the drawer and a towel from the rack, I can sense his eyes on me. Watching my every move. My hands start to shake as I fumble with the automatic ice dispenser in the refrigerator door.
Only one cube manages to make it into the small bag. The rest tumble to the floor.
I bend down to pick them up and am suddenly aware of Grayson’s presence next to me. Painfully close. The heat from his body radiates off him like a sun scorching my skin.
When I look up, he’s there. Kneeling beside me on the floor. Scooping up ice. His warm maple eyes drift up. Finding me. Imprisoning me in a fierce, unflinching gaze.
I suddenly can’t remember what I’m doing.
Can’t remember why I’m crouched here on the floor.
Can’t remember my own name.
I am drowning in my uncontrollable desire for him. Submerged in the quiet intensity of his eyes.
But I don’t dare look away.
A strand of hair breaks loose from my ponytail and swings into my face. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his hand start to move. Reaching.
Holy shit, he’s going to touch me.
I’m going to feel the blaze of his skin against mine.
And that is something I will certainly not recover from.
I stand up so fast the room spins. I struggle to deposit the ice cubes into the bag where they belong.
He stands up, too, blinking more rapidly than a normal person tends to blink. He dumps the ice he collected in the sink and I thrust the bag at him. “Here you go.”
“Thanks,” he says, setting it against his hand, cringing as the cold settles into his skin. “It’s been a long time since I punched someone in the face. I forgot how much it hurt.”
HUH?
Is that what happened last night? Did he get in a fight?
Over me?
No. That’s not possible. No one has ever fought over me.
Alex. Alex gets fought over. She has the face that launched a thousand punches, or whatever.
I’m just...
I’m not worth fighting over.
He must read the confusion on his face. “You don’t remember that part, do you?”
I shake my head.
“How much do you remember?”
“I...” I start to say.
But I can’t do this. I can’t talk about this. Not here. Not while he’s dressed like that. Or shall I say, not dressed like that. I was kind of hoping we could just move on like it never happened and forget about it. But it’s pretty obvious he wants to hash it out. Right here. Right now.
So I take a deep breath and, battling to keep my voice steady, say, “Look, you were right. I’m really embarrassed about what happened last night and I kind of want to just forget about it and move on. I realize this may not be the mature thing to do but to be honest, at this point, I’m not sure I can handle the mature thing.”
His eyebrows furrow as he takes in what I just said. Or more like just rambled.
“You’re embarrassed,” he verifies, “because you got drunk and called me to come pick you up?”
“Because it seems like every time you’re around I somehow always need to be rescued!” My soft, tentative whispers have turned into throaty, breathy cries. “Because I’m like some perpetual damsel in distress who always needs saving.”
When I finish, he just stares at me, his gaze intense and searching. Then a reticent smile makes its way to his lips.
“I like saving you,” he admits quietly.
Of all the things I was expecting him to say in response to my tirade, this was certainly not one of them.
“What?”
He takes another step toward me. His proximity is intoxicating. Stronger proof than any alcohol. More debilitating than any drug.
“I said,” he replies, his voice deliberate. Determined. “I like saving you.”
My head gives an involuntary, barely perceptible shake. “Why? So you can see what a mess I am and feel better about yourself? So you can sleep soundly at night knowing that you picked the right sister?”
In one fluid motion, he’s closed the gap between us. I don’t know how it happens. I don’t even have time to process it. But somehow, the next thing I know, his mouth is on me. His lips are parting mine. His hands are capturing my face.