High Tide

by Alyson Santos

  Please, please, my body screams.

  Still he hesitates, fingers braced against my cheek, eyes searching mine. What’s he looking for? Is he as scared as I am? Afraid this might be real? That some bad decisions are unavoidable because heaven knows I can’t resist this hunger.

  I rest my hand on his hip, then quickly link the other as well. Firm and warm, just like I remember, and I want to be back at Smother, on the dance floor, the music vibrating around us and forcing us close. I want a kiss. I want more.

  And still he hesitates.

  “Christian?”

  “Yes?”

  It’s amazing he even heard me with the softness of my voice.

  “Can you say it in Slovak?”

  “What?”

  “I want to kiss you.”

  That grin. My gosh, I can’t handle it, and I trace his lips with my fingers. I want to feel him say it.

  “Chcem ťa pobozkať.”

  Wow. Just... “Say it again?”

  He laughs, so close now. “Chcem ťa pobozkať.”

  Explosions erupt when my smile is enveloped by his. Taste, touch, so much stronger than the other senses in this moment. I thread my hands in his hair, refusing to let him change his mind. Or my own. Maybe I’m afraid the List Whore will shut down the fire blazing through my veins and consuming me while that brave woman takes what she wants. My leg hooks around his, drawing his body into delicious friction with mine. His muscles tense against me, contracting with each volley of our lips. It’s not enough, and my hands lock behind his neck to trap him into the same position he has me.

  I gasp when he tugs my hair to expose my neck, already surrendered and wishing we were somewhere else. Grateful we’re not because this is insane—so wrong and so incredible. My head rebels with all kinds of naughty, forbidden images that will haunt me later.

  The soft cotton of his shirt does nothing to protect me from the effect of his body, and before I can stop them, my hands are climbing beneath it, exploring his skin with greedy abandon. He feels like I’ve imagined. Warm, solid, tempting to the point of danger.

  “Emma…” He pulls back, breathing hard, eyes heavy with need.

  Understanding, I nod and force salty air into my lungs. I rest my head on his chest and his arms tighten around me. Mine skim to his back and hook into the waistband of his shorts.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, brushing my hair back from the side of my face.

  “Very okay,” I say, burrowing into the clean scent of his shirt.

  He chuckles, and a flash of panic sparks through me at the thought that this will end. This moment. This connection. This person’s role in my life. I pull harder, afraid to let go. Afraid to say goodbye because that’s how every relationship ends—in memories, and memories freaking break people. They take the present and shred it into the same charred remains of the past. Am I ready to add Christian Lukáč to that pile of ash? He deserves better. He doesn’t know what I am.

  Still, I can’t let go.

  Safe.

  That four-letter word crawls back into my brain and filters through my nerves, relaxing muscles that have been corked for years. It’s physical, the way he affects me. Tingles of peace settle over the electric desperation from a moment ago.

  A ripple of laughter from his chest draws my eyes to his, and I follow his gaze to the sand several yards away. I smirk at our friends who are one step away from a public indecency citation.

  “Wow,” I say, biting the smile curving my lips.

  “I think the sand would not feel so nice.” His own smile almost makes me want to test that theory.

  “You’ve never made out with a girl on the sand?”

  “Like that? No.”

  “Oh, but in another way?”

  That shy grin slays me.

  “Come on, be honest. You must have lots of girlfriends back in Slovakia.”

  I love the way his laugh fills his eyes even when he doesn’t let it out. He shakes his head and starts walking, still holding me against him. I keep my arm around his waist, leaving Harper and Jakub to enjoy their sandy rendezvous.

  “No. I don’t have girlfriend,” he says.

  “How is that possible?” I ask, only half-joking. “Do people not date in Slovakia?”

  He shrugs. “Not really. We only have time for our sheep farms.”

  Sheep farms? I study his serious expression, trying to picture this guy herding sheep. “Wow. I didn’t know that. That’s a big part of your economy then?” His grin breaks, and I shove him away. “You’re lying!”

  He laughs, catching his balance before settling back into stride with me. “Of course we date. And no, we are not all sheep farmers.”

  I give him a mock glare. “Well, how am I supposed to know that?”

  “I told you. I study physics at university.”

  “Right but…” Right. I scrunch my nose, searching for a comeback. “I mean, sheep farmers would need physics.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. For, uh, building fences and stuff. Angles. And… velocities.”

  His laugh is contagious, and I swear even the middle-aged couple passing us is smiling.

  “You think I study physics to build fences for my sheep?”

  “No!” I snort out. “Maybe.”

  He shakes his head, still grinning.

  “Christian?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You want to see my apartment?”

  I knock on Kozy’s door, still shivering from the blistering cold. I’m early today but my grandmother and I got into it over the shoes, and I couldn’t stand another moment in that apartment.

  I stomp my feet on the floor to force life back into them. My stomach rumbles with hunger as I wait, listening for voices or footsteps. Finally, the rattle of a lock fills me with warmth.

  “Oh my! Come in, come in. You’re early today, honey,” Kozy’s mother says, ushering me inside. I nod and slip off my shoes.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.” It’s a lie, of course, but I know she doesn’t mind. Memories of my own mother are fading, but I like to think she’d be just like Kozy’s. The woman takes my coat and tells me to sit at the table.

  “I have bread and jam on the table. Would you like some tea?”

  “Yes, please.”

  She smiles and rests her hand on my head as she passes. “I’m sure your grandmother already has dinner planned for tonight, but I packed some things for you as well.” We both know she doesn’t. Sometimes I find enough laying around the kitchen to pull together a meal, but it’s Kozy’s mom who keeps me from going hungry most of the time.

  “Thank you, Auntie.” I used to think it was funny that I called her Auntie since we aren’t related. Now I can’t imagine her as anything else.

  “You’re welcome, sweetie. I’m going to go check on my boy. Eat up.”

  Chapter Six: Lists and Stars

  Jakub drives Harper back to their place in the boys’ car, while I take Christian to ours in mine. I still can’t believe I’m doing this as I fish the keys from my purse and let us inside. Every serial killer show I’ve ever watched starts with this scene. Then again, based on my precautions, I’m the serial killer in this scenario. Humor tugs at my lips as I watch Christian hesitate on the small tile floor at the entrance to our apartment. Does he watch serial killer shows too?

  “Everything okay?” I ask, dropping my purse on the counter.

  He forces a smile, clearly uncomfortable. After slipping off his shoes, he moves further inside and scans the room. Evaluating?

  “It’s small but we like it,” I say, trying to fill the void.

  “It’s not so small.”

  “Come on. I’ll give you the tour.”

  I take his hand, pulling him behind me. Was this a mistake? Probably, but the real mistake was letting Harper convince me falling for Christian was okay. Normal even, to let emotions drive motivation. Emotions make a terrible foundation for decisions, and here we are: two relative strangers excha
nging awkward small talk with no means of retreat.

  “Your floor is nice,” he says, proving my point.

  “Thanks. We chose this apartment for the hardwood.”

  He nods and tosses a quick smile when I glance back.

  “Do they have, uh…” Crap. I didn’t even have a question planned when I started speaking.

  “Floors in Slovakia? Yes, we do.”

  Finally, a genuine smile breaks out on his face when I give him a playful shove. “Very funny.” But damn is he cute. My brain flashes back to our kiss, and heat starts rising through me.

  Focus, Emma.

  “Um… so this is the living room. The kitchen.” I point past the counter connecting the kitchen to the main living area. “Table.”

  His smile widens into a grin. “Very nice.”

  “You’re not impressed,” I say dryly.

  Pretty sure he’s trying not to laugh when he nods. “I am. Well. Your table is… so nice.”

  Okay, yeah. “Jerk,” I tease, shoving him again. He catches me against him this time, still smiling. And this is the trap. The kryptonite for a girl like me who just wants real and deep and forever. I had a plan and it didn’t include a lifeguard from the other side of the world who makes my body ignite and defenses implode. An investment banker maybe. An accountant or IT manager from a nice family who just wants a stable job, health plan, and three weeks of vacation to visit our mountain cottage. Or beach condo. I can be flexible on that point. But this?

  Christian’s eyes are deadly now, the way they penetrate my resistance. The way they make me want to explore hidden depths and scale forbidden moments. I push my hands up his chest, locking them around his neck, aligning our bodies.

  And I wait.

  Searching, sensing, fearing the tension in our muscles and connection of our souls. That moment when a look breaks down barriers and preaches the futility of language.

  “Chcem ťa pobozkať,” he says softly.

  “I want to kiss you too,” I whisper back.

  That smile. I want it so badly. Tugging him toward me, I brush my lips against his. It’s a dangerous game I’m playing, holding back so I can appreciate every flutter and quiver he stirs in my body. I’m afraid of this fire, that allowing it to burn hot will force it to burn out. I want more with Christian. Too much, which is why…

  I pull away. “Um, I’ll be right back. Make yourself comfortable. There’s beer in the fridge, I think.”

  “Emma?”

  The concern on his face is too much. I can’t right now. I can’t, and take off down the hall to the bathroom. After closing the door behind me, I rush to the sink and turn on the faucet. Cold water soothes my inflamed cheeks. I splash more over my face, blinking icy drops from eyes.

  It’s okay. It’s okay. You can do this. You don’t have to do this.

  I want to, that’s the problem. I want to. My body is ready and screaming and—

  I douse my face with another handful of water.

  My head. Wants to.

  My heart. Wants to.

  My plan says no. No!

  Fuck you, plan.

  I pull the towel from the wall and dry my face, staring at my red cheeks and eyes in the mirror. I will. I’m a twenty-one-year-old virgin because my messed-up childhood taught me fear—and lists don’t touch you back.

  Drawing in a deep breath, I clench my fists and turn to the door. I’m doing this. I want it. I want Christian.

  “Sorry about that,” I call down the hall, and freeze.

  The door to my room is open. A shadow hovers just past the threshold, allowing only a streak of light into the darkness. Oh no. My heart starts pounding, heavy in my chest.

  I approach slowly, stalling at the entrance to find my worst fear: the person I want standing immobile, staring at my wall.

  I swallow, blinking back tears at the tension in his shoulders. The way his fists are curled at his sides. My mural of lists that brings so much peace now glares back at us, angry at the intruder who’s disrupted our lifelong rhythm.

  “Is this your room?” he asks after a long, painful pause.

  “Christian, I can explain…”

  He turns, and I gasp at the angry tears in his eyes. “When were you going to tell me?”

  “About what?”

  “This?” He waves at the wall.

  “I…” My own eyes fill, and I shake my head, bolting from the room.

  “Emma, wait!”

  I hear his footsteps coming after me, crushing that hardwood we so admired moments ago. I don’t know where the hell I’m planning to run, but that’s the end, right? Me, alone with my crazy. My fucking lists that steal and lie and own me and make things okay by locking me up.

  Powerful fingers wrap around my arm and pull me around.

  “I’m sorry, okay?” I cry, trying to tug away. “It’s a long story. I…”

  But he’s stronger than I am and soon my tears are sobs and my face is pressed against his chest. My desperate breaths are dragging in detergent and shampoo and sun and all the things I finally let myself want, only to have them ripped away.

  “Then I want to hear it,” he says, brushing his fingers through my hair. I close my eyes at the pressure of his lips on my head, clinging to him, never wanting to let go. Safe. This is safe. This is the boy who cries because somehow he knows what those lists mean. Because the story I suspected since the first time our eyes met is deeper and darker than mine. Because plans are no match for pain.

  Christian remains silent beside me on the couch, slowly spinning his beer bottle in his hands. I’m perched against the armrest, my feet near his thigh, although not quite touching him. My wine glass is empty but I’m afraid what will happen if I fill it for a fourth time.

  I’ve already said too much. Telling him about losing my family, being raised by my grandmother who could barely keep us fed. I told him about the nightmares, the panic attacks, and the flashbacks to the moment I lost everything. How I relive it at the worst times and in the best. I explain the lists. I explain why order matters, why structure brings peace. And through it all, he’s quiet. Not even looking at me for the most part, just staring at the floor, twirling that bottle in absent distraction from what I’m saying. I hate that I’m killing our budding connection, but it’s only fair he knows the disaster he almost invited.

  My lists protect others as much as myself.

  “I guess... It’s really late,” I say quietly. Did he even hear me? He hasn’t spoken in a long time, and I’ve lost any read on where we stand. I’m sure he’s scared. Probably wishing to be anywhere else but there. After another few seconds of silence, he nods, clearly lost in his head. “I’m really sorry for all of this. Thank you for listening. Want me to drive you home?”

  I watch the bottle rotate. Right. Left. Right. Left. “No.”

  Surprised, I sit up straighter. “No?”

  “You are drinking.”

  Right. Yeah, I can’t drive. He’s only had one. “If you want, I’ll give you my keys. Harper and I can pick up the car tomorrow. Or you and Jakub can drop it off. Either way.”

  He shakes his head. “May I sleep on the couch?”

  I hate that my heart races again. That my body reacts to the thought of him spending the night so close to me. Too bad I killed it, like always.

  “Um sure. That’s fine. I’ll get you some blankets.”

  “Thank you. May I use bathroom?”

  I nod. “Down the hall. I can get you a towel if you want to shower or something.”

  He raises a brow, the slightest hint of a smile escaping him. Stupid. It’s my stupid brain that wants to imagine him naked. Of course he’s not going to shower at my place in the middle of the night. After you just dumped a truckload of garbage on him.

  “Thanks,” is all he says before disappearing down the hall. While he’s in the bathroom, I grab some clean sheets, a blanket, and a pillow from the closet. Spreading them carefully over the couch, I can’t help the sense of loss crushing
me. This is it. My last moments with this man because tomorrow he will run like they all do. Like they should. I’m clearly not ready for a boyfriend and probably never will be. No one would want to shoulder this damage.

  He returns just as I’m finishing tucking in the blanket, and I pull in a quick breath. His shirt is in his hands, his jeans unbuttoned. His hair and face are wet as if he did a quick rinse in the sink like I’d done earlier. Fire rushes through me as I watch him, so beautiful, prepare himself to sleep. I don’t mean to stare. It’s just…

  “Good night, Emma,” he says, pulling off his jeans.

  I swallow, blinking to erase the sight of him in his underwear. Of course that only preserves the image in my brain to torture me. And the man is torture.

  “Good night, Christian.” My voice is weak, almost trembling. His eyes search mine, not critical, just curious. I’d give anything to be in his head right now. Somehow I sense even knowing Slovak wouldn’t help me understand what I’d find.

  I force myself away with an awkward smile before escaping to the safety of my own room.

  I wake with a start. An intruder!

  Shuffling sounds filter from the living room. A growling voice.

  Shit! Christian!

  I grab my phone and roll from my bed. By the time I creep to the door to listen for more clues to tell the operator, the apartment is silent again. Weird.

  My pulse pounds as I tiptoe down the hallway, straining for evidence to run in the other direction. Still nothing. Just—wait. There it is again, the shuffling. A groan. Closer, however, it doesn’t sound as menacing, and when I peek around the wall to the living room, I see it’s empty. The door is still locked, the windows closed. Christian’s asleep on the couch, which is strange since…

  He groans again, suddenly thrashing in the other direction. Crap, what is it about nightmares? You are or aren’t supposed to wake the person up?

  The nightlight illuminates his face just enough to show the pure agony of whatever he’s experiencing. How could I stand here and let him endure that? He cries out, flipping to the other side again. These words are more intelligible but in a language I don’t understand.