High Tide

by Alyson Santos

  “We should dance or something, right?” His hand hovers at a strange angle between waiting and reaching. Was he going to try to do the hand on my lower back while leading me somewhere thing? Does he want me to take his and hold it? Shake it? Are we high-fiving now? Maybe we need to hit the bar first instead. Then again, the last time I relied on alcohol in his presence wasn’t exactly a win for anyone. Okay, so maybe we need to just talk first. About what? School, no. Does he like sports? Stop it, brain. Just have fun.

  I grab his hand and pull him toward the dance floor. The packed room means our bodies are quickly forced into position. After the last time I found myself in his arms, though, I’m careful not to send any errant signals this time. When Harper and Jakub join us, I do everything to include them and make us a clear, fun foursome. Nope, zero pre-sex on this dance floor. Harper seems to catch on and we spend a lot of the next hour dancing with each other instead of the boys. Even when we disagree, she’s got my back, and the thing is, dancing is actually fun. A lot of fun. The music, the lights, the haze, the security of my best friend, it all filters through me and sucks me away from the haunted halls of my head. There’s no screaming here. No blood or panic attacks or lists. For a few blessed minutes, I’m a college girl hanging out with friends. Nothing more, nothing less. Beautifully, wonderfully nothing.

  I stiffen when an arm snakes around my waist from behind. Opening my eyes, I peek back to find Logan’s expectant smile. He pulls me flush against him, and I huff away the instinctive discomfort. He’s my date. He wants to dance. Of course he wants to dance with his date and he’s been nothing but respectful and polite. He’s done nothing wrong. In fact, he’s done everything right.

  You can do this, Emma.

  I know I can. I focus on the music again, moving in sync with the rhythm. It’s the same process as always. A + B. All I have to do is incorporate his body into the calculation now. It’s just an equation. A simple math problem like the ones he and I love so much. Basic physics. My stomach seizes a bit at the thought of studying physics. Algebra. Algebra is safer. Let’s go with that. Basic algebra. Logan plus Emma equals… this. Whatever this is supposed to be. Doesn’t matter because I can do it. I am doing it, see?

  I thought I was anyway, until a nosy, intrusive roommate yanks my arm and shouts something about needing my help in the restroom. What the hell? I’m at a total loss as she drags me off the dance floor and toward the back of the club. I thought I’d been doing well, actually. I’d just solved the date equation when she so rudely slammed the book shut.

  “So what’s this bathroom emergency,” I ask as soon as we’re safe in the dimly lit restroom. Echoes of synthetic bass still pound through the walls, but it’s significantly calmer in here. It’s soothing almost, and I lean against the counter to study my sweaty face in the mirror. Harper doesn’t make a move for the stall, confirming my suspicion that I’m the reason for this quick retreat.

  “What are you doing, Emma?”

  “What do you mean? You’re the one who dragged me in here.”

  “You know what I mean. What are you doing with Logan?”

  “Going on a date. Having fun,” I say with a shrug.

  “Really? Having fun?”

  “Yeah, actually, I was having fun. If you’d been paying attention as much as you claim to be, you would have seen it.”

  “I did see it. You let go whenever he wasn’t near you. You’re having fun tonight despite Logan, not because of him. So once again, what are you doing?”

  Is she angry? I think she might be from the way her coal-smudged eyes narrow on me, waiting for a defense. I have one queued and ready. At least, I should. It should be easy, right? Logan is…

  Smart

  Cute

  Sweet

  Funny

  Available and logical

  Check, check, and check.

  We turn toward the door when it swings open. A gorgeous blonde woman enters and startles a bit when she sees us.

  “Oh, hi,” she says to me.

  I blink, my stomach twisting into chaos. If she’s here then…

  “I’m sorry. I don’t remember your name,” she continues, her pretty face scrunching into insincere apology. “You are Christian’s friend, yes?”

  I’m sure she knows my name. I certainly know hers. Heck, she’s probably the reason I’m even here right now, caught up in an almost-date Harper thinks I shouldn’t be on.

  “Emma.” I don’t hold out my hand. She doesn’t look like she would have taken it anyway.

  “Oh. Yes. I’m Martina.”

  I know.

  “Great. Well, have fun tonight.” The forced lip-twist is for her. The “You ready?” is for Harper. My friend nods, her gaze still anchored on the intruder. Once we’re outside she tightens me against her.

  “That’s Martina? The Martina?” she hisses.

  I nod, the rocks in my stomach hardening into a crippling mass. I hate that my eyes are already scanning the crowd for a glimpse of him. That my body is aching to be on the dance floor shoved against his. Physics freaking sucks.

  “Maybe we should go before…” Her voice fades when we spot our table, and my feet stop moving. My lungs too, I think, when Christian’s gaze drifts over and locks me in place. He looks incredible standing there, like a fantasy etched specifically for me. Even in the flashing club lights I can tell a girl would get lost in those brilliant green-sparked irises. His t-shirt hangs just tight enough to show off every hard angle he’s earned from his love of physical exertion, the soft fabric tempting a hand to grip it in desperate fists. His hair is just the right amount of messy to force dirty thoughts without even trying. He’s everything I want, my explosive supernova—and he’s not my date.

  “Damn,” Harper mutters, tugging my arm and pulling me toward Hell. She probably doesn’t realize she’s holding me upright as much as leading me. I feel like I’m walking in a canoe, that at any moment my legs will give out and I’ll be overboard, soaked and drowning. I guess it’s good we have three lifeguards in our group tonight.

  “Hey,” I force out.

  “Hi, Emma.”

  My name is a landmine when he says it like that. The accented, deep tone of his voice crashes through my body, wrecking me. Or maybe it’s the penetrating stare and intoxicating scent of soap and sun. Maybe it’s the fact that his constant presence in my head means I’ll always burst into flames when fantasy collides with reality. And maybe all of that is why I don’t even remember my date until he tucks his arm in a possessive arc around my shoulders.

  “Want to dance again?” Logan asks me.

  I swallow, suddenly consumed with guilt and longing and regret and all the ugly things that strip away any chance of enjoying the rest of this disaster.

  “Actually, I’m not feeling so well. I think I should just call it a night.” I don’t look Logan in the eye as I say it. How can I when there’s no doubt in my mind anymore: I’m a terrible person. Harper is right. What am I doing?

  I finally brave a look, forcing myself to confront the pain I’ve caused all because I’m too screwed up for a relationship. Because I’m too broken to be anything other than a long string of rigid checkmarks.

  You’re a list-whore, Emma, and it’s all you should be. See what happens when you stray? When you try for more? Look at the circle of hurt you’ve caused. You, Emma. This is on you.

  Wet heat pricks my eyes. Oh no. Not now. Horrified, I mumble something about feeling sick, and bolt for the exit. They can’t see me cry. Worse, I’m sure I caught a glimpse of Martina returning from the bathroom. Did she see my humiliating retreat? The tears? Gosh, I hope not. What the hell is wrong with you, Emma?

  I make it out into the calm evening air before the real tears come. Gasping, I press my fists against my eyes to block what I can. Not now. Not here! Where’s the car? I stagger toward the parking lot in search of Harper’s jeep. By the time I find it the gasps have become sobs, and I collapse against the locked car door after tugging in vain
at the handle. I don’t even know why I’m crying. The confusion and shame only make the tears come harder.

  What is wrong with you?

  Stop it!

  What the hell is wrong with you?!

  “Emma?”

  No, no, no.

  I turn away from the voice. Wait, the entire audience. Why are the others here? I cover my face and back further away.

  “Can you unlock the door?” I rasp out to Harper, but she reaches for my arm instead of her keys. Logan and Christian hang back, probably as disgusted and perplexed as I am.

  “Emma, just—”

  “Unlock the car, Harper!”

  I don’t know who that shout belongs to. Can’t be me. I don’t have that kind of fire anymore. Harper steps back, her expression sagging as if I’ve slapped her. More to feel guilty about, and I will. Later. Soon. Once I’m safe in the darkness I’ll do my penance for this whole shitshow of a night.

  She fumbles for her keys, and as soon as I hear the click of the lock, I’m in the passenger seat. I fall against the seat but immediately stiffen. Oh no. Harper, still outside, sees it too and marches forward.

  Logan is livid, shouting at Christian and waving his hands. I can’t hear much from my position behind the glass, but clearly he blames Christian for my meltdown. Harper intervenes just as Christian responds and Logan shoves him. She grabs Logan’s arm and pulls him away, while addressing Christian and pointing toward the club. He shakes his head, his gaze crossing the minefield to find me. He starts toward the jeep, and Logan breaks away for another round. He jumps in front of Christian who tries to push him out of the way. Harper is shouting at both of them.

  You did this.

  You did this.

  “Stop it,” I whisper, holding my head. “Just stop!” I shout to the boys. Or the voices inside. Doesn’t matter. None of them hear me anyway. Christian pushes past Logan who then shoves him from behind, sending Christian to the gravel. Harper shouts, her face hot with fear and fury.

  You did this.

  “Stop! Please stop.” My sobs are useless, background noise for the chaos I created.

  Christian forces himself up, and I see the blood on his arms when he turns, stiff and angry.

  “Run, Emma!” So much blood. “Run!”

  “No!” I clench my eyes shut.

  You did this.

  More shouts filter in from outside, present and painful. An accented voice that’s usually comforting crying children with jellyfish stings. A crisp New England dialect that’s usually debating philosophical principles. Both now engage in a clash of hostile words neither deserves.

  I push out of the car and slam the door behind me.

  “Stop it! Just stop!”

  This time they hear me. The violence stills at my approach, and three sets of eyes zero-in on me, almost as if they’d forgotten the reason for this melee.

  “Don’t you get it? I’m not worth it! You both deserve better than… than this!” I wave my hand in front of me. My lip starts to quiver again, my body shaking. “You both deserve better,” I whisper, backing toward the car. I climb in again without looking at them. Shut the door, snap my seatbelt, and close my eyes. Leaning my head back, I don’t open my eyes again until Harper slides in beside me. She starts the engine without a word and rescues more innocent victims from my mess.

  The cold basement reeks of mold. The cot itself is little more than a wire frame with a stained, lumpy pad on top. The supervisor also gave me a blanket so last night’s trembling has been reduced to slight shivering as I tuck it around myself. And it’s heaven. Tonight, I’m dry. Safe. I can close my eyes without fear. Let sleep settle without reserve. No one will hurt me tonight. Yesterday I was exposed. Today I sleep freely. Some would look at me now and feel pity. They’d see a desperate vagrant trapped in circumstance. A casualty. A victim. But they couldn’t be further from the truth because where you are right now doesn’t take into account where you’ve been or where you’re running to. Those are the pieces others can’t see. The invisible banner championing my progress. They don’t know that the desperate vagrant curled up on the shitty cot has more than he’s ever had in his entire life. He has hope.

  Chapter Fourteen: Firework Truths

  I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that the freakish meltdown at Smother would result in a Harper-induced visit from my grandmother. The part that does surprise me is Gram’s backseat full of keyboard equipment when she arrives.

  “I cleared a spot right here,” Harper says, pointing me and my heavy stand to the corner beside the couch.

  “You shouldn’t have done this. We don’t have room for all this crap,” I mutter.

  She shrugs in a too-late gesture and continues outside for another load. It’s been two days since Smother, and although I’ve apologized to Logan and explained that what he witnessed is the rule, not the exception, I still feel awful about it. He seemed to understand, even made a few jokes in an attempt to repair our strained relationship back to bearable. You dodged a bullet, I wanted to say, and pretty much did without ever using those words. I’m sure he gets it at this point. I just hope we don’t have any classes together in the fall. As for Christian, my one brief message to him was read but went unanswered.

  “Where does this go?” Gram asks, holding up my laptop stand.

  “That’s heavy! You shouldn’t be carrying that.” I jump to take it from her, but she shoos me away.

  “Nonsense. Where does it go?”

  I point to the left side of the keyboard stand I just secured into place.

  “Gram, wait,” I say after she puts it down and starts for the door. She turns, and my heart fills with days and decades of emotions. I rush forward and bury myself in her shoulder. She’s a good three inches shorter than my modest height, but she’s never felt small when I’m in her arms. “Thank you for coming.”

  “I’m always a phone call away, sweetheart.”

  “I know. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  She tugs her hand through my hair like she did when I was younger. “You would fight and survive like you have your entire life,” she whispers. I pull back, blinking away concern at the response I wasn’t expecting. Is there something hidden in her expression?

  I bite my lip and almost shake my head, now haunted by her words. She’s wrong. She might believe I’d be fine but she doesn’t see the mess I still am day in and day out. She hasn’t seen my wall. She wasn’t at Smother on Thursday.

  “What if I’m not the person you think?”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “What if I’m not a survivor? What if I’m not strong?”

  Her expression turns stern. “Don’t you ever let me hear that again. You are. You’re stronger than you know.” She squeezes my arms, her gaze lingering a bit too long, but she spins me toward the pile of equipment before I can react. “Now set all of that up while I get the rest of my things. I’ve had a long drive and I’d like to relax to some music.”

  I thought I’d made a clean break with my music when I left for college. I liked playing, but it was just a hobby. It’s not like I was a professional or had any future dreams of stardom anyway. With the tiny dorm rooms and a busy schedule, I hadn’t considered taking my keyboard with me, and really, I hadn’t missed it. At least, I didn’t think so until now.

  As my fingers move over the keys, I get lost in the graceful ambience of piano, pad, and strings. “It sounds like heaven” my grandmother always says, referring to the subtle mix of sounds I add to the basic piano sound to fill it out. I tried explaining a “pad” to her once and we decided it’s best to let it remain a mystery. So heaven it was, and heaven it is now as I improvise absently in the key of G.

  “What song is that?” Gram asks as Harper drops beside her on the couch.

  “Nothing. Just messing around,” I say. My heartrate has slowed considerably. I feel it in the music that started as choppy chords and has softened into the cadence of rolling waves. It makes me long for
the ocean at night, the foamy surf tickling my ankles as I stare out over moonlit flourishes dancing over the water. But with that image comes another sensation: stabs of longing for a lonely, enigmatic boy with eyes I can’t escape. It doesn’t take long for this lost song I’m playing to become his. A message adrift in the flowing chords that don’t require words or translation or even time. If only he were here. If only he knew the part of me that had the music.

  “Are you still up for The Harbour tonight?” Harper calls over. “If so we should start getting ready.”

  I bring the song to its sad, ambiguous end as I consider her question. She’s given up two additional dates with Jakub to babysit me since leaving him at Smother to facilitate my escape the other night. I owe her. A lot. Still, what if Christian is there? Even worse, what if he’s there with Martina?

  “I would, but Gram…”

  “Oh no you don’t,” Gram interrupts, waving her hand. “Gram has crossword puzzles and her gameshows to catch up on. I’m exhausted from traveling anyway. You girls go have some fun.”

  “I know, but you just got in and—”

  Gram holds up her phone and wiggles it. “I just got one of those fancy new applications with all the puzzles built right in. I have plenty to keep me busy.”

  I try to contain my smirk as Harper shoots me a triumphant look.

  “Then I guess we’re going,” I mutter and begin shutting down my equipment. The knot in my stomach grows with each passing second as I pack up, and by the time I finish, I’m on the verge of bowing out again. Wouldn’t they have more fun without me and my brooding presence anyway? But I can’t bring myself to let Harper down again. Besides, I’m an adult. I’ve been through hell and back, so certainly I can survive a night out with friends. Heck, I can even not ruin it for Harper by pointing out the likelihood of another impending disaster.

  Interestingly, The Harbour is not actually a harbor. Well, there is a small manufactured version where they stage live music and kids’ entertainment, but mostly The Harbour is a collection of shops, restaurants and all the touristy magic that’s constantly packed with visitors and rarely attracts locals. We’ve been here exactly once, and I’m pretty sure the only reason we are now is because Harper wants to show Jakub off to a different crowd. Their arms have been entwined since we met the guys in front of the Italian ice stand. At least Christian is alone this time. I’m sure it was a calculated decision on his part to avoid another encounter with Hurricane Emma. Can’t blame him. Does he wish Martina were here, though, hanging on him like Harper and Jakub are draped over each other? How can he not when the alternative is this awkward silence with me?