High Tide

by Alyson Santos

  Thus dismissed, I stand at the entrance, smarting from the blow. He’s in no better state the way he rifles through the bin with aggressive strokes, probably disorganizing more than organizing.

  “I was just trying to help,” I say quietly.

  He doesn’t look at me. “I don’t need help.”

  “I know but—”

  “Emma, please. I need to work.” His sharp response cuts deep, his expression totally closed off from me now.

  I swallow hard, trying to piece together a response but he’s far away. Five feet and a million inches. “I miss you,” I whisper into the void between us. Then I escape before he sees how much.

  I turn the handle as quietly as possible. It’s late. So late that even if my uncle had been out all night drinking, he’d be snoring in bed by now. I poke my head into the darkness, scanning for any sign I should run. Nothing, only the shadows I expect courtesy of my grandmother’s heirloom lamp on the hall table.

  The sudden growl of my stomach sounds like a freight train as I enter. I whisper a curse and close the door behind me. My food ran out yesterday, my clean clothes this morning. I need more of both and figure if I can fill my bag and sneak back out I’ll be good for another few days. Creeping toward the kitchen, I do my best to stay silent as I round the short wall separating it from the living room. I’ve just turned the corner when I freeze.

  “There’s the little prince,” Marik slurs from the floor. He’s propped up against the fridge, half-empty bottle in hand. “Where have you been, my liege?” He snorts a laugh and salutes with his bottle.

  I draw in a deep breath and fight my racing pulse. “I’m just picking up some things. I’ll be gone in a minute,” I say as evenly as possible. But my fingers are trembling and I have to grip the bag straps around my shoulders for support.

  “Ah so you’re good enough for our food, but not our presence?”

  “You don’t want me here anyway,” I manage, stepping in a wide arc around him. I reach for a box of snacks on the shelf and flinch. Strong fingers lock around my ankle.

  Stay calm, I breathe to myself. I try to pull away but his grip tightens. I gasp when he yanks hard, sending me crashing to the floor.

  “What’s in the bag? What else are you stealing?”

  He grabs the top strap and pulls, flinging me into the lower cabinets. I groan, struggling to keep my arms in the straps so he can’t take it from me. He wrenches it back, swinging my body in the opposite direction. My face hits the floor with a crunch I know will bruise badly. Dazed, I can’t keep him from peeling the bag from my back this time. I push up to my knees, trying to regain my breath.

  He fishes through the contents, laughing and dumping what little’s left on the floor.

  “Are you enjoying the bum life, little prince? Where are you sleeping? Under a bridge somewhere? Or maybe you’re letting some old lady fuck you for a scrap of bread and a place on her couch?”

  “Fuck you!” I lunge for my bag, but he’s prepared, and I meet his fist instead. I land hard, stars crystalizing in my vision. Blood streams from my nose and skims over my lips. I roll to my back, trying to blink away the spots and cough out the pungent taste. It’s a mistake I realize too late.

  “Welcome home, little prince,” snarls a rabid bear as it climbs over and straddles me.

  I message Harper to let her know I won’t be going back to the beach. If she needs a ride I’ll pick her up when she’s ready. I ignore her question about how things went with Christian. I also ignore the call and subsequent voicemail from Gram. By the time I get home, my sporadic breathing has transformed to full-on trembling. I wrestle with my keys, somehow managing to shove them into the lock and stumble inside. Slamming the door shut, I lean against it and sink to the floor.

  “Run, Emma! I love—”

  Bang. Bang.

  Tears stream down my cheeks, my hands threading into my hair and pulling with hostility to counteract the violence in my head.

  Bang. Bang.

  Run!!!

  I fall to the floor, sobbing as the cold tile seeps into my skin. He wants to talk to me. Fuck him for thinking he could ask. Fuck Gram for letting him. My phone vibrates with a text, clattering on the floor where I’d dropped it. I see Harper’s name on the display but she’s not the one I need right now. I reach out and capture it with a shaking hand, sliding it toward me. Unlocking the screen, I scroll through recent calls until I find the number. Then I touch the screen before the darkness stops me.

  I knock on Kozy’s window, one of the benefits of his family living on the first floor. He sleeps like the dead, so I’m not surprised when I have to knock a few more times, and harder, before he finally stirs and finds me hovering outside.

  “Tian, what are you doing here?” he whispers through the opening.

  “Can I come in?”

  “What happened?”

  “Just let me in. Please?”

  He shoves the window up the rest of the way and helps pull me inside. I groan and collapse to the floor.

  “Fuck!” he cries after turning on his desk lamp. “Fucking fuck!”

  “Shh,” I hiss, motioning for him to quiet down.

  “What happened? You look like shit!”

  I swallow what I can of the pain. I’m sure at least a few ribs are cracked and my nose must be broken. Who knows what else my uncle wrecked in his attack.

  “I’ll go get Mom. We have to get you to hospital.”

  “No! Don’t. I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine! You’re totally fucked up. We need to get you—”

  “No! Please.” I’m begging now but I don’t care. The last thing I want is for others to be involved. More pity and choices being made on my behalf. I’m eighteen now and I’m tired of other people thinking they control my destiny. Good intentions turn out bad just as often.

  Kozy shakes his head. “I get it, man, but you need help and I’m not going to just—”

  “I don’t need help! Jakub, please…”

  My best friend freezes at his given name, his stance softening while he studies my desperate expression. Finally, he draws in a deep breath. “Fine. Take my bed and at least let me get some ice and bandages.”

  “Emma? Are you there?”

  I dialed the number and now I can’t find the voice to speak, only more tears.

  “Emma what is it?”

  My sister’s voice is frantic. I do my best to suck in enough air to respond. Since her move to Italy five years ago I rarely call her unless it’s an emergency. She’s in recovery too, trying to survive as much as I am. Sometimes tragedy brings people together. Often it sends them as far away as possible.

  “Dad wants to talk to me,” I manage. “He sent a message to Gram.”

  I use the silence that follows to build a new list:

  Eastern Standard Time three o’clock PM.

  Central Standard Time two o’clock PM

  Pacific Standard Time twelve o’clock PM

  Italy…

  I clench my eyes shut, squeezing out any remaining tears.

  Central European Time. Six hours. So…

  I start to shift up from the floor.

  Central European Time nine o’clock PM.

  By the time I finish my list, I’m sitting again, propped up against the edge of the couch. Did Sarah hang up?

  She spouts off something in Italian and it’s then that I’m able to focus on her side of the line for the first time. Dishes clatter, shouts ring out, and I realize how worried my sister must have been to answer her phone while running the kitchen at her restaurant.

  “I’m sorry. You must be very busy right now.”

  “No, it’s okay. I get it. Gram called me too.” She pulls in a deep breath I feel across oceans. Sarah’s the strong one. The survivor. I’m… less. “I love you, Em. You know that, right?”

  “I know.”

  “Good. Well hey, I’ll call you tomorrow morning when I have more time. Can we talk through this then?”


  “Of course.”

  “Perfect. See you later alligator.”

  “In a while crocodile.”

  The line clicks dead.

  I lock myself in my room for the rest of the afternoon. A new pile of lists has blossomed on my desk, the theme for each one telling a convoluted story like chapters in a book. A book no one would want to read, of course—especially not the author who glares at them before curling up on her bed.

  I forget my promise to pick up Harper if she needs a ride. In fact, I forget all about my roommate, Slovak lifeguards, traitorous grandmas, and murdering fathers as my brain drifts into a fitful sleep. It’s not until a pound at my door startles me awake that I remember what a terrible friend I am.

  “Emma? Emma!”

  Groggy, I force myself up to my elbows and try to blink away the shadows.

  “Emma? Answer me! Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I mumble back. “Just napping. I’m sorry for not picking you up. I’m a crappy friend.”

  A pause. “No you’re not. I know something’s up. I got a ride from Jakub. Can I come in?”

  I pull in a deep breath. “Can we talk later?”

  Her fingers tap against the doorframe. “You promise you’re okay?”

  “I promise. I just need more time.”

  “Okay.” After a pause, “Do you mind if Jakub stays for a bit? After all, he did give me a ride.”

  Despite my dark state, a smile slips out. “Sure.”

  Several seconds later, muffled voices filter back from the living room, and I’m glad she’s having fun. If anything, the fact that she cares so much makes me want to protect her from the heaviest of my baggage. No one should have to shoulder that weight, especially someone who lives in a rainbow and can’t possibly understand.

  I jump at the second knock and try to check my irritation. She means well. I know she does.

  “Please, Harper. Can we talk tomorrow?” When I’ve got my shit together and can communicate safely?

  “It’s Christian.”

  Crap.

  My retort catches in my throat, caught by the swift pound of blood. Christian? I bite my lip, staring at the door like it’s a foreign object. Maybe a stronger person would send him away too, punishment for his earlier rejection. That person would probably be okay with a fractured relationship, just further proof of what never should have been. But I’m too weak for that. Too broken to play games. So instead of telling the man outside my door to fuck off, I reach for the lock.

  He enters cautiously, saying nothing as our eyes meet. Mine from the pillow on my bed, his staring down and erasing the distance of the last few days. I shift toward the wall in a silent invitation to him. He closes the door and lowers himself to the twin mattress. His hand rests at his side, inches from my face, and I’ve never wanted to hold onto something so much in my life. When his expression softens at the new piles of lists on my desk, there’s no other choice.

  “I’m sorry,” I say quietly, reaching for the hand I want to be mine.

  “I am too.”

  I tug gently, drawing his gaze. Then harder until he understands. Until he has no choice either, and I move just enough to accommodate his body. My own starts to burn as he settles beside me, his frame too big for my single bed. No, actually, it’s just right because I can turn and lift my head for him to slip his arm underneath. I can rest on his chest and listen to the beat of his heart, absorb the gentle rise and fall of his breaths. I can close my eyes and inhale the familiar scent of soap, sun, and faint cologne. My arm tightens around his body as I breathe him in, slowly at first, then faster when my pulse takes over the rhythm of my lungs. God he feels good. How well do I know him? Well enough to let my fingers climb the soft fabric of his shirt, up his neck, and trace the dark stubble over his chin? Well enough to let my nail slide over his lips, my eyes searching his and begging for more than an apology?

  He captures my exploring fingers and holds them against his lips until the heat of his breath rushes through my skin, into my blood, and beats with each pound of my heart. A stronger person would demand a conversation now. Open apologies, explanations, and definitions. They’d sigh and pull away until mysteries were revealed and questions answered. But I’m not the strong one. No, I’m the one who wants this person regardless of his faults, regardless of mine.

  I want Christian Lukáč.

  I push up on my elbow until I’m leaning over him, my hair hanging down and tickling the bare skin on his neck. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t speak as we study each other in silence, but nor does he retreat. He watches, waiting for my next move. I pull my hand from his and run it over his chest, my blood igniting at the motion of his throat when he swallows. Except for that one sign, he still doesn’t react. I push myself up higher. My fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt now, enjoying the tension beneath, massaging until he blinks and loses another point in our standoff. Still no words, no open reaction. Is he daring me? I move lower.

  Down his chest, pushing hard against rock hard abs that have clenched in anticipation of being touched. His breath starts to betray him, hissing out in a traitorous exhale of pleasure. My own accelerates, feeding oxygen to the fire blazing hot and deep.

  How far will I go? How far will he let me? I can’t answer either question and let my hand do the thinking. Right now it’s playing with the button on his jeans, circling the cold metal, pressing when he reacts with another quick breath. Do I want it open? Does he?

  I check his expression, and still nothing. Just a studious blaze that’s watching me, probably asking the same questions I am. Do I want her to open it? Does she?

  I slip my fingers behind it. His eyes close this time, urging me on, his body taught and exposed, even fully clothed. I see it in the slight arch toward my hand as I move it, the way his fingers clench and seem to long for the same access to me.

  “Touch me. Please,” I whisper.

  His gaze meets mine, a lifetime of words passing between us as he reaches. I gasp when his hand travels across my shoulder and lands on the sensitive area of my chest. His own agony at holding back becomes apparent when my body instinctively presses into his palm.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, almost pleading as my own exploration intensifies.

  “Say it in Slovak,” I breathe back, brushing my fingers over the course hair beneath the band of his underwear.

  He sucks in a breath when I press lower, his hand crushing my breast and making me crazy.

  “Je mi ľúto.”

  Damn. “Say it again?”

  I rest my lips on his. Letting him breathe the words into me.

  “Je mi ľúto,” he murmurs.

  And I’m done. Next my leg is around him, my hips fighting to align with his and let the delicious friction rage into a fury. Do I want this? I want nothing else right now. Nothing, and I lean down to lock my hands in his hair. My hips move with the rhythm of our kisses, the fire burning through our clothes and igniting the air around us. His shirt is in the way now, and I yank up the hem. We separate enough to pull it over his head, and come back together hard, the leather necklace he always wears falling askew on his bare chest. I tug it gently, suddenly captivated by the small, intricate pendent.

  “You always wear this.”

  He nods, those gorgeous eyes saturated with history. “It belongs to my father.”

  I trace the leather, soft with age, cool compared to the hot skin beneath it. God he’s beautiful. My fingers slide down his chest again.

  “Christian, I have to tell you something.”

  He waits, patient and impatient, and I’m scared. Paralyzed, even, as I watch his mind work, wondering what mysteries it’s exploring while I explore him. Finally, I know the answer. Straightening above him, I pull off my top. I sit still for a moment, a naked statue for his evaluation. Admire or critique, I need him to decide before I confess.

  “You are very beautiful,” he says. His eyes said it first though, and I’m already breathing in the heat of his appr
eciation. If only he knew the perfection I see when I look at him.

  I stop his hand as it traces my skin and bring it to my lips.

  “I want you to know…” I pull scorching air into my lungs. “I’m a virgin. And I want you to be my first.”

  Something flickers across his face, dark and raw, then comes to rest in his eyes. He lets me look, and I hold my breath, waiting for the verdict. What if he doesn’t know the word? I can’t stomach the thought of explaining it right now. What if…

  His gaze darts away. “Emma…” I bite my lip, my heart lurching at the rejection I know must be coming. Of course he wouldn’t want me now. It’s too much and too little to accept in someone you’ve only known for a few days. It’s why I felt the need to tell him. To confess and—

  “Then you should know, I am not.”

  I’m gone by morning. Kozy did everything he could to talk me out of it, but I saw no reason to wait another day to escape. If his mother saw my state I’d never be free.

  As soon as I board the bus I send a message to Alžbeta thanking her for everything and informing her I’ll be heading to Bratislava early. She doesn’t have to know that I have no plans beyond that. That despite my hours at the restaurant, I have almost nothing, with the little I earned going to necessities along the way. I had barely enough for this bus ticket, let alone the two months until school starts when I’ll have access to my dorm. Until then I’ll need to do what I’ve done since I was seven years old: survive.

  A young woman gets on at the next stop and takes the seat across from me. I feel her intense gaze, probably studying the bruises on my face, and I instinctively burrow further into the hood of my sweatshirt. It’s hot to be wearing such a thing, but I’d rather that than deal with the curious looks. Too bad I couldn’t escape this one.

  “You don’t look well,” she says.

  “I’m fine,” I reply. It’s not a lie. I’m free now. I’m more than fine.

  She continues to watch me, and I avert my gaze. I’ve never gotten used to the attention of girls. While Kozy and Ciky live for the hunt, I’ve always been too busy surviving to worry much about the games my peers would play. Sure I’ve kissed some, even touched a few naked parts, but beyond that nothing lasts for someone who loses everything. When your present is Hell, you learn to focus on the future, and no girl from our small town would be my future. Mine is far away.