“Listen to that accent,” he says, putting the truck in reverse. “Such a Southern girl.”
“Please!” I cackle, amused. “It is not that strong. You make me sound like Scarlett O’Hara!”
“Where was she from, again?” he asks. “Georgia, wasn’t it?”
“My accent’s nowhere near as strong as yours.”
“I have an accent?” He’s teasing me, but I play along.
“You do. It comes and goes, but you do—especially with Orion and Nando.”
Rigel isn’t joking about not going far. Ten minutes after leaving Jasmine’s, the quiet neighborhood road we’re following culminates in a grassy, overgrown dead-end. Rigel turns so we’re facing out and then parks, cutting the lights. This isn’t like the windy bluff he took me to before, in Orion’s neighborhood. This reminds me more of the defunded, abandoned housing developments back home, where roads were built but never the houses.
“It’s cute, though, your accent.”
Rigel changes the song, turns it down. “Yeah?”
My gushing would probably be better off kept private, but the rum’s got me talking. Getting tipsy was a great idea when my evening consisted of giggling with Jasmine in her room. But now Rigel and I are together in the dark, and attraction is coursing through my veins. I peer out into the inky dark, made bottomless by Rigel’s extinguished headlights. “Where exactly are we?”
“Sugar Mill Cove. It’s supposed be a neighborhood, but the developers left after a hurricane in the nineties.”
“There’s something like this near my friend’s house back home. We used to play in it when we were kids, running around in the grass, exploring the roads.” I sit back, shuddering. “Kind of creepy at night.”
Rigel unbuckles his seatbelt. Our eyes meet. I’m trying to think of something witty to say, but all I can think about is how much I want to kiss him. “I remember the first time I saw you.”
“I remember, too.” He cants his head, eyes catching the small bit of light coming from the moon.
“At the gas station?”
“Was there another time?”
I unbuckle my seatbelt, too. “No, that was it.”
“I could tell you were new.”
“You could?”
“Yeah, I’d never seen you before.”
“Come on.”
“That’s how it is here.” He shrugs, resting a hand on my thigh. “But I saw you with Camille, so I knew it was a matter of time.”
I rest my hand over Rigel’s.
“It was pretty there,” he says. “In South Carolina. Some of the trees still had red and orange leaves. Reminded me of you.”
“South Carolina’s like Georgia,” I say, glancing at his mouth. “Mild winters.”
“We went to Athens, by the way. It was cold enough for me.” Before I can really process what he just said, he curves his hand around the back of my neck and kisses me. It’s slow and very thorough, and my eyes close as we float through a kiss so deep it almost puts me in a coma. One second I’m beside him, straining to be closer, the next I’m on his lap, my knees bracketing his thighs.
I’m lost in the taste of his mouth, the push and pull of his tongue as he unzips my hoodie and slides it off. Pressing his lips just under my chin, he trails kisses down the column of my neck and across my collarbone. I know he’s leaving marks, because he usually does when we’re like this, but it feels so good I let him do it. And then we switch, and I leave marks of my own on his neck until he groans and laughs and distracts me with more kissing.
Somewhere, in the heady rush of hormones and horniness and intense-like, I’m aware that we’re ships at sea, rudderless and anchorless, nothing to guide us or stop us. No parents or friends, curfews or commitments...just us. No boundaries. I rock against Rigel, eager for the closest contact, and he inhales sharply, stilling my hips with his hands. He’s hard and tense beneath me, and I imagine what it would feel like if there were no clothes between us.
He’s thinking it too, because our kisses slow, and then he’s looking up at me, playing with the hem of my shirt. “Can I take this off?”
He’s seen me in bikinis, but this is different—I don’t even have a bra on. I lift my arms, want and curiosity overriding self-consciousness. Rigel slides the thin shirt over my head and drops it to the seat beside us. I’ve never been so bare with a boy. My heart pounds so hard it hurts. Hands spanning my back, he brushes his lips over the contours of my breasts. The sensation steals my breath and, swallowing, I twine my fingers behind his neck. Then he uses his tongue, and goosebumps ripple over my skin because nothing has ever felt like that.
And then all I want is to feel his skin on mine. I tug the hem of his t-shirt until he gets the hint and peels it off. He’s warm and smooth and I wrap myself around him, pressing my chest to his. He slides his hands down over my butt, drawing me closer still. The shorts Jasmine loaned me aren’t that skimpy, but they’re not substantial, either, and it doesn’t take much effort for Rigel to get his hand inside…
...or for him to find what makes me feel good...
...or for me to find bliss.
On the last day of the year, I wake to rain. A damp, cool breeze lifts the curtains, making them billow and swell before sucking them back against the screens. Snuggling down beneath a blanket, enjoying the brisk morning, I think of last night, watching movies at Rigel’s with his family. Orion was there for awhile, giving me a glimpse into what life might have been like for their family before things changed.
Diana Thomas’ affection for her eldest was obvious, and he was unbearably sweet, too, hugging on her and teasing her. Raymond wasn’t too physically affectionate, but he and Orion talked quietly for most of the movie. I’d like to believe that, beneath the bravado, he’s just a guy who loves his family. One of the hardest things last night was watching Orion try to connect with Rigel. Rigel listens and responds, but there’s this impenetrable wall between them. It’s subtle.
Because he’s far different with me. He’s wide open, generous and easy with his words, whether they’re face to face or via text message. His full attention, eye contact and conversation make it easy to give him mine. He gives me his pieces, even the parts that are hurt and bitter; the parts that worry Orion will be arrested again, that he won’t be good enough to compete with the swimmers in the states, that finances might interfere with tuition if things don’t change with his dad’s business. Every time I’m tempted to freak out over my own stuff, like Daddy’s absence and the hiatus of my parent’s marriage, I remember that everyone’s got their own mess. It’s sort of reassuring in a depressing way.
Last night was an effort to spend time in what’s been a frenetic holiday season. Christmas and its endless parade of parties, festivals, family dinners and church services have kept everyone busy. I’ve seen Rigel a total of two times, and neither time we were alone.
But tonight's New Year’s Eve, and my parents have agreed—after an extensive long distance conversation—that I could celebrate by camping out with friends. It’s tradition to party downtown and then watch the first sunrise of the New Year. When Mama and Aunt Greta were teenagers, people went to Grassy Point, an isolated bluff on the South Shore. Eventually, though, the land was bought up by a statesider and developed, much to the dismay of, well, everyone. Camille says that by the time she was old enough to stay out, people had started going to Ha'penny, a beach further down the South Shore.
“It’s one of the few beaches on St. Croix that occasionally has big swells,” she says. “It’s pretty far away, but sometimes the boys go to surf.”
I’m glad my mother agrees to let me go. She did this when she was younger, and anyway, I turn eighteen in January. I’ll be living parent-free by the fall. Mama’s loosened up, ironically. We drink more here, socially, and I’m in the most serious relationship I’ve ever had, but my mother’s trust in me seems to be growing. Maybe it’s the environment she trusts.
The tropical rainshower shifts into a torrential downpour, rai
ndrops coming sideways at the house. “Shoot,” I mutter, tumbling out of bed to close the louvers a little. By the time I’m in the kitchen, trying to decide between frozen waffles and leftover Chinese food, the sun is out again, shining so brightly that the rain could’ve very well been a mirage.
“I was wondering when you were getting up,” Mama teases, joining me in the kitchen.
The clock on the stove reads 9:57. Nearly ten. “It’s not that late,” I croak, giving her a sleepy smile as I fumble with my coffee.
She squeezes my shoulder as she passes. “Excited about tonight?”
“Really excited.” I haven’t been camping in forever. It’ll be interesting to do it on a beach.
“I think you’ll have fun. Greta says it’s grown over the years. Not as big as Easter weekend camping, but still something.”
I nod, wrestling a carton of milk from the overstuffed fridge. “Any suggestions? Grandpa Harry said he had a tent.”
“That old thing?” She laughs, wrinkling her nose. “It’s in the shed, if you want to venture back there and look for it.”
“Gross. There are probably cockroaches and cobwebs in it.”
“Camille’s is probably big enough. Ask her.”
I do, wiping my hands on my pajamas before typing out a text. And then, because he’s never far from my thoughts, I message Rigel too, asking him the same question.
hey, how big is your tent?
Asking him feels way more brazen than asking my cousin, but at least this way, I’m covered. For all I know, Cam’s already decided to have Jasmine stay with her. Or Nando. I close my eyes, shuddering at the thought of catching those two in an awkward position.
She responds first, though:
It’s pretty roomy. You and Jasmine can both fit. We’ve had up to 4.
I pass this on to my mother, who seems gratified I won’t be sleeping alone in the cold. Sweetening my coffee, I blow and sip on it as I return to my room to pack. My phone chimes with another notification.
It’s Rigel this time:
big enough. stay with me.
There’s a big jam in Christiansted with live music and free champagne for the ladies until eleven. We stay until midnight, ringing in the new year with confetti and kisses, snagging another bottle of champagne for the road.
Ha'penny Beach is a scene by the time we arrive. The parking lot, a space cleared of bush at the end of the road, is packed, forcing us to circle several times before finding a spot. Grabbing our bags and cooler, we join the steady stream of people trickling onto the beach. Nando and a bunch of his cousins already have a spot, and they’re waving us down with the glow of their cell phones. Camille and Jasmine arrive with a huge group from the Palms, popping their tents beside ours while the boys fashion a makeshift bar.
“There are more people here than I expected.” Shivering, I huddle against Jasmine. The late night wind coming off the water is brisk.
“Me too,” she says. “Definitely more than last year.”
“I heard they’re doing it at Green Cay, too,” Cam says, pulling cut-offs on up under her dress.
“I’m glad we came here though,” Jasmine says. “It’s still officially the first.” Because St. Croix is technically the easternmost part of the United States, it’s the first place the sun shines every new year. Beaches on the southeast are packed tonight for this very reason.
Everyone else is changing, so I trade the classy dress I wore out for a bikini and one of Rigel’s hoodies, which is so long it nearly comes to my knees. A bonfire goes up at the edge of the gathering. We sit around it for awhile, talking and drinking with people from all over.
Rigel’s cousin Junie, who I met at Rory’s birthday party, pops up, giving me a hug...and a joint. “Happy New Year’s, empress,” he says, clasping my hand to Rigel’s.
Chuffing quietly, I drop the joint into Rigel’s hand once Junie leaves. “Here you go.”
He looks down at it, unsurprised. “He grows it.”
“Really?” I giggle, imagining Junie out in the field, long dreadlocks tied back as he nurtured his plants. It’s not hard to see. “In the rainforest?”
“No, he has a place out west, up in the hills.” He closes his hand around our contraband. “Close to the rainforest.”
“Do you…” I trail off, realizing I’m unsure of his stance on the stuff. Even as we sit here, the smell of it is thick on the air. Someone around here is smoking.
“Nah. I mean, I have.” He shrugs, looking over his shoulder. “Nando!”
Nando wanders over, staring down at us. “What’s up?”
“You want this?”
Nando grins, plucking the joint from Rigel’s fingers. “Maybe. Where’d you get it?”
“Junie.”
Nando sniffs it, shrugging. “If you’re gonna twist my arm…” He’s gone before either of us can say anything else, absorbed by the darkness beyond the firelight.
Rigel looks at me, brushing his hands against each other. “Sorry...I didn’t even ask you if you wanted it.”
“I don’t.” Playing with the zipper on my hoodie, I shake my head. “I mean, I’ve never done it.”
“Never?” He seems surprised.
“No. My friends weren’t really into that scene back home.” I glance up at him. “Everyone here does it though, huh?”
“No.” He leans back on his elbows, and I follow, watching him. “It’s like any place. There are the kids who do and the ones who don’t. I don’t do it mainly because I swim. I have to take care of my body...my lungs...and I can’t afford to get in trouble. Not at this point.”
I nod, because that’s smart.
“I don’t even morally oppose it,” he continues. “It’s just more trouble than it’s worth.”
“I think so, too.” I laugh, tossing a twig into the fire. “It was nice of Junie to share, though.”
“Junie’s always sharing. He’d be happy to have us go completely veggie, live in the bush and start a family.”
“At seventeen?”
“I’m eighteen.” He jerks his chin at me. “And you have a birthday soon, right?”
“This month.” I press my lips together. “Still a little young for kids.”
He grins, raising his eyebrows. “Just a little.”
We talk and dance, take quick dips in the cool water. And then we dry ourselves by the fire, making s’mores with the marshmallows Jasmine brought. One moment I’m floating in the tepid water, watching stars wheel through the sparkling sky. The next I’m looking at the horizon as its edges start to go grey.
“You see that?” I ask Rigel, pointing. We’re at the shore, trying to dry off with damp towels.
He hangs his on his shoulders. “Sun will be up soon.”
Word spreads, and people congregate on the sand, mellowed out from a night of revelry. The water’s calm, a silver mirror reflecting the sky above it. At first, the sunrise is gradual, but then it explodes, melting peaches and pinks across the sky. By the time the sun itself comes up, I’m so overwhelmed I have a lump in my throat. Except for the push and pull of the tide, it’s completely silent. Nobody says a word.
The crowd disperses bit by bit. Some start packing up, ready to leave, but most tuck into tents or blankets on the sand. Rigel nods for me to go on ahead into his tent. Early morning light glows cozily through the tent’s red material, filling it with a warm blush.
“I haven’t watched the sunrise in a really long time.”
“We do it once a year,” says Rigel, zipping us into our little cocoon. “At least.”
“It’s been years for me,” I murmur. “But it’s crazy how something that happens every single day can be such a miracle.”
“It never gets old.” Rigel joins me on the blankets, which are way more comfortable than they have any right being. “And it’s always different.”
“I’m glad I got to see it.” Yawning, I roll on my stomach. Sleep is so close, maybe a breath away.
Other than the crashing waves,
the beach has fallen quiet. I’m just starting to doze when Rigel runs his hand over my back, sliding his fingers beneath the string holding my bikini top. Shivering from the feeling, I turn my head. We share a smile, delirious from a lack of sleep.
And then he loosens the knot with a soft tug. I feel the slight pressure of it give, the fabric brushing the sides of my breasts. He unties the other knot, the one at my neck. I want whatever we’re going to do, because I want him, but he’s only ever seen me this way once before and that was in the darkness of his truck. This is nerve-wracking. But it’s sexy, too. I turn onto my back, letting the top of my suit slide off. Rigel’s eyes go right to my chest and I clap my hands over my face, laughing.
He pulls my hands down, grinning. “Hey.”
Wrapping my fingers around his wrists, I pull him closer. “Hey.”
Sliding his knee between my legs, he eases down and kisses me from my mouth to my neck, and down to my breasts. “No hickies,” I whisper, gasping when his tongue begins to play.
“No hickies,” he agrees, coming back briefly to quiet me with a small kiss before heading south again.
Running my hands over the smooth expanse of his back, I catalog by touch the angles and planes of his shoulder blades and spine, the way his hips narrow between my knees. He resumes his explorations, making my stomach flip with every kiss...and he kisses it a lot, teasing his fingers around the strings keeping my bikini bottoms together.
“Leave those on,” I whisper, reaching down.
Climbing back up, he presses his body to mine and runs his tongue over the shell of my ear. “Probably a good idea.”
I close my eyes, swallowing. It’s hard to talk when he touches me like this. “Yeah.”
We kiss, and I wrap my legs around him, letting his hands traverse the mountains and valleys of my hips and thighs. “I love the way you feel,” Rigel says, and I press my lips to the curve between his neck and shoulders because I love the way he feels, too. He cringes like it tickles, coming back to bite my bottom lip. Our kisses coalesce, our bodies move, locked into a rhythm. He feels it, and I feel it, and my eyes close as we fall.
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