Four years I spent remembering what that mouth felt like wrapped around me. Two weeks ago she showed me how not even close to the truth those memories came. If she doesn't stop chewing on that lip, I'm going to have a problem.
"It's nice out here," she says, tilting her head to the ocean, visible up the street a block away. We can hear the waves from where we sit.
"It is," I agree. "Good views." But right now I'm thinking more about the girl sitting in front of me.
"So, about Jess…" She trails off, waiting for me to tell her to continue. To tell her I want to know what's going on with him.
If she's still hesitating, this might be worse than I'm thinking. Which helps dampen the wood in my shorts, but I'd rather suffer through blue balls than deal with the anchor of dread sinking in my stomach. "Tell me."
"I ran into him a couple weeks ago on the beach." She twists her hair up away from her shoulders. Her neck is long and tempting. It makes me not want to be all the way across the table from her. "He was drunk."
I let out a breath. "That's nothing new, unfortunately."
"No, you don't get it. He was drunk in the water when it was about to storm." She swallows heavily and now her lower lip quivers, and it slays me that she still cares so much about my brother. It's so much more than I deserve. Not Jess, though. He deserves someone like Quinn to want him to be okay. She looks out at the ocean in the distance for a moment. "He almost drowned. I had to save him."
"Are you sure he wasn't fooling around?" I pull in air through my nose, slowly. Please let him have been fooling around. "He's an idiot sometimes, but he wouldn't—"
"He nearly killed both of us, Sawyer. He's a mess."
This instantly infuriates me. Rage is hotter than the damn sun and my blood's about to boil over with it. "Jesus, Quinn. I'm sorry. He's a little dickhead."
He never told me. He almost drowned and didn't think it might be information to share with someone who'd care about it. I see him at least twice a week, and he never mentioned it. So much for the day I found him at Kelly's being a one-off.
Why did I believe him? Wishful thinking, maybe. Fuck.
"And last week he showed up wasted at Gianna's ice cream shop. What happened to him, Sawy?" She uses her nickname for me for the first time since we were teenagers, and if I wasn't paralyzed with the terror that comes with imagining my little brother almost dying—and dragging Quinn down to the depths of the ocean with him—it'd probably make me happy.
"Life," I say, my voice rough. I clench my jaw to keep from saying more.
"Where have you guys been this whole time?" She's not asking for herself, not trying to wheedle information out of me like the last time. She wants to connect the dots between the Jess she knew then and the Jess she met two weeks ago.
"Different places," I say. "Jess moved around a lot with my dad."
"I saw Brock, too," she says. "That day in your shop. He…" She looks away again, but her expression is determined when she looks back. "He's a mess, too."
There's no judgment in her voice, but guilt shotguns through me anyway. I should've done a better job holding us together. I failed. "Yeah."
She opens her mouth. Closes it. She gets that I don't want to talk about it. "Where were you while they were moving around?"
"College." I can't stop picturing Jess going under, taking Quinn down with him. Drunk in the ocean before a storm. What is wrong with him? I want to kick the shit out of him. I want to hug him until he cries and just fucking lets me fix things for him.
"But… I looked for you at Duke. I drove up almost every weekend for two months searching for you. Directories. Classes I knew you'd registered for." There's no emotion on her face or in her voice, which must take a lot of control. Again, she slays me. I hate myself. Now I'm picturing the weekends she spent searching for me in a place I was far away from. And wondering, though I have no right, at what point she gave up searching.
"I withdrew my acceptance," I tell her. "Took a year off."
"What about your scholarship?"
I shrug, like it doesn't still pain me. "I went…elsewhere."
"Where?"
I shake my head. It's too easy to talk to her. Too easy to slip into old habits. We're dangerously too close to having the conversation there's no way I'm going to have. Not when it will destroy me. Not when it will destroy her.
She shakes her head right back at me, her eyebrows arching above the oversized ovals of her shades. "Come on. You've got at least a year left and now that we're back in each other's lives—I mean, even just for right now, at least—you think I won't find out where you go to school?"
"I'm not going back."
"Well, that's just stupid. Why? You're just going to quit? God, Sawyer, you have all the—"
"I graduated in June," I say.
"You can't waste your…" Finally, she stops talking. "Oh."
"Oh." I let out a small smile. This is kind of fun, watching her do the math, watching her readjust her assumptions. Almost as fun as it'd be to let her discover the diploma hanging in my otherwise empty guest bedroom. But that'd mean she was in my guest bedroom. And I'd really want to make sure I had a bed in there first. Not that I should be thinking like this. Shit.
She puzzles her brows. "You took a year off, which means… You graduated college in three years?"
I nod.
"But…why? Why push yourself like that?"
I tested out of most of the intro level classes. But that wasn't the real reason I worked as hard as I did. "Someone told me once I'd never amount to anything. That I'd end up like my old man." The memory still burns. Enough to make me want a drink, something stiff, something with a burn to cover the shit I'm remembering now. "Want to go get a drink?"
"I—what?" She offers half a smile, confused. "Aren't you on the clock?"
"Am I?" I gesture to us, to the table, to my bare shoulders. "Not very professional here—might as well take it to a bar."
Half a smile turns into half a laugh. "You really already graduated from college?"
"That's the word on the street."
"What was your major?"
"Engineering."
"Biological?" She remembers.
"Agricultural," I say, nodding.
"Like you always wanted." She throws a real smile at me this time. Brilliant enough to make me look away.
I want to tell her what it was like, what I've done. But all I say is, "Yeah."
"But…" She glances at the shop behind her, biting her lip again when she faces me.
"But why do I work at a surf shop?"
"Yeah."
"I enjoy it, Quinn. I like the work. I like the hours. I like that it lets me stay near the ocean." And, for now, near you.
Also, I'm halfway paid off to owning this place. But let her think whatever the hell she wants.
"Did you…did you believe it, when that person told you you wouldn't amount to anything?" she asks, lifting her sunglasses to look at me directly. Bright blue eyes, dipped in an emotion similar to sadness. Similar to understanding. Another glancing blow to my gut.
I shrug. "Doesn't really matter anymore. I know my worth now."
"I hope that's true."
"Why?" I ask. "After…everything." I wave a hand, like I can just wave off the past four years. "Why would you hope that still?"
"I know your core, Sawyer. I know who you are. You're a dick and I hate you for not telling me everything, and you broke my heart and I'll never forgive you for that. But I know you. You're the same you've always been."
I shake my head again, sadly now. "I wish you were right, Quinn. But you aren't. You should stay away from me."
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
QUINN
SAWYER TELLING ME to stay away from him is like a challenge. And I don't back down from challenges. Especially because I mean every word I say to him. I do know his core. I see his love for Jess. I see the dedication in his soul—the one that pushed him to graduate college a year early. God.
> He is a dick.
And he did break my heart.
But I see what it does to him, when I look him directly in the eyes. I see the way he tries to keep a straight face, the way he doesn't want to be affected. He is, though.
For the first time in forever, I allow myself to believe that, whatever made him leave me four years ago, he didn't do it to be mean. He didn't walk away laughing, which is something I've had plenty of nightmares about. He had a reason and, whatever it was, it was bigger than how much he loved me. It still is.
"Why?" I ask him. "Why do I have to stay away from you? You're back. I'm here. And there's still something unfinished between us."
"It's not a good idea, Quinn. I can't tell you what you want to know. If there's anything between us, we need to remove it."
If there's anything between us? Please. I almost roll my eyes. And the rest of what he says… Well, his words hurt, but not as much as they would if I truly believed he wanted to remove it.
"Can I take you somewhere?" I ask, the words just popping out. I don't have a destination in mind, but I'm pretty sure he's close to ending this conversation, pretty sure he's retreating back into the shell who won't share himself with me, and I'm not ready for it.
"Where?" His one word answers are annoying.
I shrug. "Just somewhere. We can get lunch. Or a drink, like you wanted. Just somewhere to talk."
"I'm working."
"Are you?" I gesture to us, to the table, to his bare chest. "Not very professional here—might as well take it somewhere else."
He laughs. "Throwing my own arguments against me?"
"No need to create my own material when you've already laid the groundwork." I smirk. "Like a good engineer would."
"Different kind of engineer, Quinn." He stands. "I need to get back in there."
"I promise I won't ask you anything you don't want to answer," I say, not standing. "Just…hang out with me, Sawyer. Give me an hour. We haven't even finished speaking about Jess."
He scratches the corner of his mouth and looks over my shoulder for a moment. He sighs when he looks back. "An hour. I can leave for an hour, but I have a client coming in after that to pick up a board… Don't get any ideas about what we did the last time."
"Okay." But it's like another challenge, and now my mind's flooding with plenty of ideas about what we did last time. Especially because if he really wanted to remove this thing between us, he wouldn't be coming with me.
He goes to grab a shirt and tell Brandy to watch the shop. By the time he's back with me, unfortunately shirted, I've got the most innocent of expressions across my face. "My car or yours?"
"Still got the Jeep?"
I point to it down the street.
"Always loved that ride."
I pull my keys out of my bag. "Then let's go."
The passenger side's all jacked up, has been for over a year, and I have to unlock it from the outside to let him in. "See. I'm such a gentleman," I say, opening his door. He laughs.
When I slide into my seat, he glances at my legs, so I hike my knees up a little—still so innocently—so that my dress rises higher along my thighs. God, I love making him swallow as hard as he does right now.
"Where do you want to go?" I ask, driving to the main strip, picking a direction at random.
"Anyplace you feel like," he says. "I'm not eighteen anymore. I can actually afford to go the places you're used to."
"The places I'm used to?" At first, I'm offended, but a second later, it rolls away. What he says isn't about me; it's about him. "The only places I've ever wanted to go were the ones where you are."
If he notices my slip into present tense, he doesn't show it. "There were places you deserved to go where I could never take you. Just the way things have always been. People born in the gutters and people born to be better."
There's not a trace of self-pity in his voice, but it hurts my heart that he stills thinks about the world this way. He always has. It was such a struggle for him that his father was a cashier in my parents' store. Like he wasn't good enough for me.
But if his father never worked for my parents, I might never have ever spoken to him. He might not have ended up with a flat tire in the parking lot the same time my tutor was dropping me off to grab dinner with my mom, who was working that night. I wouldn't have been able to offer him my father's Jeep's spare.
And, okay, it totally didn't fit his sedan. But it got us talking.
We talked, and we talked, and we talked, and somewhere right there I started to fall in love.
"Never mind," I say, pulling a U-turn. "I know exactly where we're going."
"Out for lobster?"
I laugh and shake my head. "You have your secrets, now I have mine." I glance at him, and he's already focused on my face. There's nothing like the thrill of his gaze. Intense in every way, every time he's ever looked at me, from that first day we met to right here in my car. My abs tighten involuntarily and saliva gathers beneath my tongue. "To clarify, you think I was born…to eat lobster?"
"I always wanted to take you someplace fancy." He pauses. "And, honey, yes. You were. You've got more class in your pinky finger than anyone I've ever met."
I can't help it. I crack the hell up. "What if I was allergic to shellfish? That would suck."
He clenches his teeth, not amused. "That's not what I'm saying."
"I know, but come on. How the fuck do you define the word class, Sawy?" I pause to laugh a little more. "Hell, I just said fuck. Twice. And hell. And I made sure my dress hiked up higher when I sat down because I knew you were looking. That is not classy, I'm afraid to say."
"I knew you did that on purpose." Finally, he laughs, too. "Okay. You're crass. You happy now?"
I nod. "Yes."
"But you were also built for the best life has to offer." He says it so quietly, so sincerely, I sober straight up.
"And you think you weren't?"
"I think…" He shrugs. "I think I don't give a shit what people think I was built for." His hands are fists in his lap; the muscles in his forearms strain with how tightly he's clenching his fingers into his palms. It hurts him to admit this. Or maybe there's more. I'm not sure.
But I am sure, now, that I'm heading in the right direction.
"Did you leave something on my Jeep?" I have to ask, closely watching his expression. Wondering if—hoping—he'll smile and confirm the frame was from him.
"What do you mean?" He doesn't blink an eye, and his tone is halfway puzzled. Not forced at all.
"I just…never mind." I stifle a sigh and do my best to ignore the spiral of disappointment in my belly. I knew it wasn't him. I'm still curious about who really left it for me—but right now, all I want to think about, all I have room for, is Sawyer. Sitting next to me, sharing the same air. And it's amazing.
We drive in a quasi-comfortable silence for almost twenty minutes. We've only been here once, years ago. I wonder if he'll recognize it, but he stays quiet as we pull onto the busted-up street. I do my best to avoid broken bottles, but it's difficult.
"Remember this place?" I ask, pulling up in front of a small, crumbling one-story house. One of its windows is boarded.
"I do." He studies the house. "And I get what you're trying to prove. But it's not the same."
"You're right," I say. "It's not the same. Because this is where I grew up—where I spent the first eight years of my life. What your father provided for you and Jess? It looks like the Ritz compared to this. So if you're not meant for the best life has to offer, I'm sure as shit not, either."
"Quinn—"
"No. Listen to me." I wait for him to face me. "It hurts me, Sawyer, that you might consider my worth based on the money my parents have. Which, by the way, they came into when I was eight because my grandmother slipped in a freaking convenience store and sued." I can't remember if I ever told him this. I must have because there was a time when he knew every single thing about me, but maybe he needs the reminder. "Because, you know, w
earing flip-flops while it was raining wasn't her fault. Clearly, the store was to blame. I mean, if that's not trashy, I don't know what is." I swing my door open, slide out. "Yeah, my parents took the money and made it grow—but so would so many other people if they were handed a check like that."
"Where are you going?" He leans across the seats to look up at me.
I hold on to the hood and swing myself partially back in. My face ends up closer to his than I intend, and his gaze drops to my mouth so quickly I almost miss it. He swallows again, and I…
Kiss him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
QUINN
ONCE. LIGHTLY. A brush of my lips against his.
Again, with a little nip of his bottom lip.
I pull away and deserve a freaking gold medal for resisting a full-on daylight make-out session.
"Quinn," he growls my name and I almost dive back in. "What did I tell you?"
"Don't tempt me like that, then," I say. "Plus, you could've pulled back."
He's fighting a smile. I don't fight mine at all. Finally, he blows air through his lips and lets himself out of my car, too. "What are we doing?"
"It looks empty," I say.
"That doesn't mean you can go in." He walks toward me, halfway around the back of my Jeep. "Where's your spare?"
"Live a little, Sawyer. Wait. What do you mean where's my spare?"
"Pretty easy question, I think."
"Smart-ass." I make my way to him—and discover an empty space where my spare used to hang at the back of my Jeep. "What the hell?"
"You didn't use it? Was it there earlier?"
"No, and…I don't know. I haven't been studying the back of my car recently." I trail my finger over the hinge where it usually hangs and a trace of unease passes through me. "Someone might be fucking with me. Stuff keeps going missing from my Jeep."
"Have you reported it?"
I shake my head. "Small things. Sunscreen. Phone charger. Shit I could've easily lost on my own. Then my wakeboard…and now my tire."
Who would take my things? And why those things? It seems so random. But also not random—because they're all from my car. A stronger tremor of unease swims over me this time.
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