by Bourne, Lena
I park right next to the sand and slip off my shoes, carrying them as I walk onto the beach. The sand is dry and brittle against my toes. The thought I might step onto a piece of glass or a needle passes through my mind, but I chase it away. I'll take my chances. I'm sick of fearing fate, and I dare it to do its worst. At least that way, I get some control back. Because my life is slipping from beneath me as though it's all just so much sand, and I'll fall right through, cut to pieces by the little grains, and disappear.
There will be no sunset tonight. Dark blue clouds are already rolling in from the sea, and the humidity in the air is like a physical presence, stretching across the beach with arms open wide welcoming the winds and the rains.
To my left a few stubborn beach goers are still sitting in the sand, so I turn right and walk toward the old pier that the last hurricane finally destroyed. I can't be still. Not today. From this far away, the pier looks like just a few piles of driftwood. I sometimes wish they'd rebuild it, but at least as it is, people avoid this part of the beach.
The wind is picking up now, flinging my hair in my face, but I don't do anything to stop it. I love the strong winds that blow right before a storm hits. It feels like change, like all my problems will be blown away, and I'll be strong again. Not that it ever happens, but each windy day renews my hope regardless.
The pier is actually more than just driftwood. The stairs that lead up to the platform are still intact, as is a few feet of the platform. It's the rest of it that lies in heaps across the beach, as though someone began to clear it up but gave up halfway.
The pier isn't deserted as I hoped though. A guy is sitting on what remains of the platform, hunched over what looks like a notebook. A bright yellow bolt of lightning shoots across the dark clouds. He looks up, and my breath hitches in my throat. Scott. No way. I should stop, turn around, and walk back. But the command doesn't reach my feet. They're still moving stubbornly forward. The last thing I need is to make a fool of myself in front of him for the fourth time today.
Yet somehow, it's as though an invisible rope is pulling me toward the pier. Before I even realize it, I'm right under the pier, and Scott hasn't seen me yet. I drop my shoes in the sand at the foot of the steps and begin to climb up. The step creaks ominously, but if it held his weight, it will support mine. It's like my fantasy of the two of us together is driving me forward, and it makes no sense, but I want it to be reality. That fantasy is the only thing that chased away the prickly tears from my throat and the dark abyss from my mind in a long time, if only for a few moments.
"Hey," I say as I reach the top. There's such a shocked expression in his eyes when he sees me that I have to laugh. He flips closed his sketchbook and sits up straighter.
I walk over and sit next to him, hugging my knees to my chest. He's wearing a black long sleeved shirt now, and it strains against his biceps. He still hasn't said anything.
"So, you come here often?" I ask. It's lame, but the best I can do. His eyes are a dark blue now, almost black, and he's still staring at me like he can't believe I'm really there. Maybe I'm not. This isn't the sensible and dreamy Gail I was before my mom fell sick. This Gail wants no regrets and no pain, and it feels nice sitting here. Like it's just the two of us in the whole world and time is frozen still.
Scott clears his throat and puts his sketchbook on the ground between us. "Are you following me or something?"
I throw my head back and laugh. He sounds almost like he's scared of me. "Maybe I am."
He's smiling now too.
"No, seriously, I'm not following you. I'm not that crazy," I say. "I'm sorry about before. It's been a long day."
"Tell me about it," he says and gazes out at the sea. The day is giving way to night faster now, with no setting sun to ease it away. He turns back to me and grins. "Do you come here often?"
I shrug. "Sometimes. I like this beach. There are hardly ever any people here."
I relax the grip on my knees and lean back, letting my leg rest against his just a little. Warmth pools in the spot where our legs touch, and I want more of it, want it to consume me whole. It's a primal urge, there's nothing I can do to fight it. A gust of wind blows past us. He smells better than I'd imagined he would after a full day of working in the sun. A hint of cologne, manly and hot, mingles with a mustiness that hits me hard in the stomach and melts nicely upwards into my chest and down.
I clear my throat a little and reach over to pick up his sketchbook. "Can I see?"
He stiffens like he's going to say no, but I wasn't really asking for permission. I open the sketchbook in the middle to an empty page. The sketchbook is new; only the first few pages covered. The paper still has that new parchment smell, and I run my finger down the side of an empty page.
"I wish I could draw. I love parchment," I say. It's the truth. I used to buy sketchbooks just like this one and pencils, trying to draw. But I have no talent. "Don't you?"
"I guess," he says quietly.
I flip back to the first page, to a drawing of this very pier, just as I saw it when I walked up to it. "Wow, this is awesome."
All the details are perfect, even down to the peeling white paint.
There's another of a car, a shiny black BMW, kind of like the one Kate got for her birthday a few months ago.
The next drawing makes me gasp. Scott reaches for the sketchbook as though he's going to snatch it from my hands, but stops himself, and lets his hand fall down by his side. I'm staring at myself, just as I must have looked this morning. My eyes wide, my wet hair hanging down the sides of my face, droplets of water clinging to my eyelashes, and my wet tank top hiding nothing.
My face is a perfect likeness of what I'd want to look like in every photo. Except my eyes. I let out the breath I didn't even realize I was holding. "This is amazing. But do my eyes really look so haunted? So lost?"
"They did this morning," Scott says and takes the sketchbook from my limp fingers, closes it, and stuffs it into his backpack. I want to ask him to take it back out, show it to me again, give me the drawing, but I don't.
"You're really talented," I say instead.
He gives a noncommittal grunt by way of an answer.
"I'm serious. Why are you gardening for a living if you can draw like that? You could be like, I don't know, doing portraits," I'm rambling, saying the first thing that comes to my mind, and I should stop. "Or something..." I finish lamely.
Scott's staring off at the waves. "I might take some night classes, do something useful with it."
"Oh, yeah, high school can be... why don't you just get your GED and then maybe try to get into college," I offer. Though I'm not even sure an art degree gets you anywhere these days. At least not according to my parents.
He laughs a little too huskily. "I finished high school thank you very much. I was talking about college night classes."
"Oh," is all I can say. "Well, I hear Hunter has a good art program."
"I was actually thinking about something more practical, like graphic design maybe."
I nod and let the silence drag. It's almost full night now. Lightning is coursing through the sky above the sea: yellow, white, and hot pink. Scott shifts beside me, and his leg is no longer touching mine. His smell hits me hard again, manly and clean. I liked him better when he was just a high school dropout gardener in my fantasy, with bulging muscles and not much to say beyond, 'are you alright?' and 'I'm just sayin.' Not sure how I feel about actually getting to know talented artist Scott, who wants to take night classes at college. I don't want him to be a real person; I want my fantasy. I want this attraction he stirs in me, which is boiling now and making me shiver, to be all there is to it. Physical and nothing more. Half the world does it that way, guys especially, so why can't I? And Scott seems like the kind of guy who would fuck a girl with no strings attached, no problem. If his drawing proves anything, it's that he's into me too. Why else would he rush out here after work, just so he could draw it so quickly?
He glances down at
my bare feet. "Aren't you cold?"
I smile and turn to face him, hoping my eyes are seductive now, not haunted and sad.
"Not really," I say and do what I wanted to do since this morning. I twist and move my leg so it's pressing against his thigh. His arm tenses as I run my hand down his biceps, feeling the cords, the dips and valleys. He's staring at me like he can't really believe I just touched him, but his eyes are soft now, and his breaths shallow. I could go further, nothing's stopping me. So I do.
His breath hitches as my hand slides across the bare skin of his neck, along the taut muscle. He's still not stopping me, so I keep going, tracing the line of his collarbone to the soft spot where it ends. My tongue should really be making this journey, and I bite down softly on my lower lip. I slide my hand down the center of his chest, which is as hard as his arm and his neck. Damn, why does he have to be wearing two shirts?
My fingers brush against his nipples, and I squeeze. He gasps and pulls away, but he's staring at me like he just might eat me. His parted lips are glistening as wet as the sea.
My hand travels down his stomach, over the dips and hills, along the center ridge. I'm breathing hard now in anticipation. But he grabs my hand and pulls it away before I reach my final destination.
"What?" I ask. His eyes and his wet lips are saying yes, his hard breathing is saying yes, so why is he stopping me?
"You're moving real fast," he says, still staring at me and still holding my hand. His eyes are sad now. Like mine were in his drawing. And I don't want to see any sadness.
"Is there something wrong with that?" I ask and force my mouth not to pout.
"Are you for real?" he says and barks a laugh. "I feel like I'm in a dream or something, and you want to keep going?"
He's holding my hand loosely but firmly like he's afraid I'll touch him some more if he lets go.
I lick my lips and smile. "I do."
"Wow." He shakes his head like he doesn't believe me. "I know some fast girls, but none of them has ever come on this strong before."
He's mocking me; I know it. But why doesn't he just get up and walk away then? Why is he still holding my hand, staring at me like he doesn't think I'm really there?
The winds are blowing in ceaseless gusts all around us, stirring the embers of hope in my chest. Maybe today, the wind will blow everything away, and tomorrow all will be well. I feel like we're the only two people in the whole world, like there's nothing beyond the wind, nothing beyond the sea. Like neither of my parents will ever die. I'm not planning it; it just happens.
I lean forward crushing our two hands between us and kiss him. The warmth that's been coiling around itself inside my body finally has an outlet. It rushes out and engulfs us. His lips taste salty, but there's a sweetness there too, something I can't name, can't describe. For all the hardness of his muscles, his lips are soft. He lets me kiss him, and kisses me back. I run my tongue against his teeth and feel his hot breath against my wet lips. I push my tongue through the gap between his teeth and try to find his.
He grabs my shoulder and pushes me back, moving his head away, his stubble brushing against my cheek. I lean forward, wanting more, but he's holding me at arm's length now and won't let me near.
A blinding light follows a crack of thunder almost immediately. I shiver, belatedly realizing the whole pier is actually shaking. I don't care. Nothing can touch us up here. It's only the two of us. And all I want is for Scott to pin me down against the wooden planks and have his way with me.
"I should go," he says instead. "You should go too."
"Fine, we can go together," I say. I'm still clutching his hand, though he's let go of mine.
"I'll walk you to your car," he says and twists his hand out of my grasp.
The car sounds like a good idea. "But there's more room in yours," I blurt out.
He grabs hold of my shoulders like he's going to shake me but he doesn't. "I'm sorry. This can't happen. It's like I told you before. I need the job."
"I can get you a job," I stammer. I can't believe he's rejecting me. I'm not Kate pretty, but I'm not hideous either. I work out, my skin is clear, and my teeth are straight. My boobs are just the right size, and one's not bigger than the other.
He lets me go and stands up, picking up his backpack. "Are you coming?"
"No."
But I'm on my feet, blood rushing to my head. "What's wrong with me anyway? Why are you being like this? I'm not ugly or fat. And look, my boobs are both the same size. Besides, no one needs to know."
I grab his hand and smack it against my breast, wincing in pain as his palm slams into my boob. It's like I'm watching myself acting like an insane child, but I can't stop it. Can't be the sensible Gail who never does anything like this.
He yanks his hand away without touching me. "You seem a little high-strung. Like maybe this is not who you really are."
Great, now he's getting all perceptive on me. Like he cares. I'm just following my desire, forestalling regret. I definitely liked him better when he was the sexed up, dumb gardener I thought I met this morning. That guy wouldn't chase me away like this, that guy would do me up on the pier.
"Fine, but you don't know what you're missing," I huff, and walk past him, making sure to run into him as I do. The jolt hurts me more than it affects him I'm sure. I run down the stairs, miss the last step, and tumble into the sand.
"Are you alright?" he yells after me.
I pick up shoes and stand up, dusting the sand off my legs. "Ask me that one more time, and I swear!" I yell and run back across the beach, swallowing 'you piece of shit,' because I don't really mean it. Or maybe I do. I don't know anymore. All I know is that he ruined everything. We were so safe up on that pier, so alone. Time didn't move, the world stood still, and there was no sick bed waiting for me back home. And then he fucked it all up.
CHAPTER FOUR
The next morning is Friday. Kate's ringtone blares through my dream.
"What?" I manage before my lips stick back to my teeth. I need more sleep. I'm not even sure if last night on the pier was real or if it was just a nightmare. I'm hoping the latter.
"Cocktails, that's what!" Kate chirps into the phone. "By my pool, now!" she adds and hangs up the phone.
Sand crunches under my feet as I get up to walk to the bathroom. So it wasn't just a nightmare. That's just perfect.
I take a long, hot shower, during which Kate calls two more times, but I ignore it. It's only after she calls for the third time, that I realize she's probably going to come up and drag me to her house next. So I reluctantly turn off the water, put on a bathing suit, and drape my silk robe over it. I have no idea what time it is, though by the sun I'm judging it's about noon. I slip on the charm bracelet, put on my flip-flops, and walk to my mom's room. The shades are drawn, and she's breathing, rasping evenly. Asleep. "I'll come see you later, Mom," I whisper into the dark room anyway. "We can finish the movie."
I grab half a bagel from the counter and chew it slowly as I walk across the lawn. Kate's laughing and talking to someone on the phone, and I hope that it's not Brandon. I glance around the garden, but not too well, since I really don't want to know if Scott's working today.
Kate waves me over when she sees me and points to the waiter that he should get me a drink. I recognize him vaguely as the bartender at Dante's, the high-end bar Kate likes to go to. I swallow the last bit of the bagel and lay down on the beach chair. Kate is laughing softly into the phone, holding an orange drink in her hand. I tell the waiter to get me whatever she's having. Kate's green eyes are slits, and she's twirling a lock of her dark hair around her finger.
"Oh, you're so dirty," Kate breathes into the phone. "I'll talk to you later. I have company now."
She hangs up and eyes me up and down. "And where have you been?"
"Around," I venture, fighting the urge to tell her everything about Scott and my humiliation. "How's whatshisname? Still married?"
Kate tosses the phone onto the little table separa
ting our two chairs, and takes a long sip of her drink. "Mark and yes. But I like him right where he is. He's such a pig. But in a good way. I'm sure he never does any of those things with his wife. And I don't want him to ever stop."
Visions of wild, animal, passionate sex flash through my mind. "I wouldn't mind some of that myself."
Sunlight flashes off metal in the bushes just a few feet from us, and a moment later Scott emerges. Our eyes meet and lock. His are blue like the sky today, but mine must be shooting flame. He turns his back and goes back to pruning the bush or whatever. He hardly even acknowledged me, like I wasn't there at all. I take a long swallow of my drink, gagging a little since I expected it to be a different cocktail.
Kate follows my gaze, which is still piercing Scott's back and chuckles knowingly. "I see... Yes, he might do."
I slam my glass against the little table, making a mess. "No, he won't. He's just the help. I need one of those classy, married, millionaire bankers you like so much."
Kate blinks at me a few times then laughs. "The help? Isn't that what your grandmother always says?" She stops laughing and pinches her lips together. "'Old money does not date the help,'" she says in a good imitation of my grandma's haughty accent.
"Gran actually says 'marry', but it's close enough, " I say and toast her, taking another long swallow of my drink. I wish Scott would disappear back into the bushes and out of my sight.
Being with Kate is easy, carefree. I've known her all my life, and I can say wicked and crass things like that around her because she knows I don't mean them. I've never treated anyone like they were just the help, and I wish my Gran didn't either. And I'd never date a married guy because it's wrong.
I wave my empty glass at the waiter but opt for a Long Island Ice Tea, which is what I thought I'd gotten before. That's more my type of drink. Sex on the Beach clearly is not.