“You shouldn’t be out here all alone.”
I ignore the comment, knowing who it is and hoping he will just go away.
“Some guy might take advantage of the—the situation.”
“What?” I turn with a sneer. “Some guy like you?”
“Nah, not me,” Doug begins, “I’m here ’cause you want me here—you want me deep…down...inside.”
I step toward him. “You disgust me!”
“What? You’d rather be with a pansy like Ryan?”
“No.” I brush past Doug and head back toward the party. “I don’t think I’ll ever see him again.” I experience a hollowing in my stomach as the words escape my lips.
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that?” He chuckles.
“Why?” I ask, even though I probably know the answer.
“’Cause,” Doug says, “he just showed up.”
“Great,” I announce. “I’m so out of here.” I do not need to see Ryan because I do not want to feel the wrenching pang of rejection all over again. As much as I needed him to stay and comfort me last night on the boardwalk, I really do understand why he left. After all, I’m moving to Tennessee in a matter of days.
“You want me to walk with you?”
“Nope.” I head down the beach, noting the dark outlines of the high-rise condos in the distance.
“You always walk this fast?”
“Only when I want to get rid of someone.”
He laughs and sidles up next to me. “What grade are you in?”
“What grade are you in?”
“High school was a while ago, babe.” He pauses. “I bet a pretty girl like you gets tired high school boys.” He steps in front of me. “I could show you how it feels to be with a real man.” His breath reeks of liquor and stale cigarettes. He moves closer, slips his hands around my waist, and yanks me toward him.
I shove him in the chest. “Get your hands off me!”
I turn and walk faster toward Courtney’s beach house. I sense that Doug is still behind me, and I search my brain, trying to figure out what to do now. I start to panic a little, wishing I would have read some of those mass emails or magazine articles about self-defense. Why did I think it wouldn’t happen to me? It happened to Chloe. Hadn’t her experience changed my view on drinking at parties, but why—up to this point—hadn’t I considered my own vulnerability?
I continue walking, wishing the beach wasn’t so dark, so empty, with only the stars to watch over me. With every step into the cool night sand, my confidence sinks and makes room for the rising fear.
“Like I said,” his voice a few paces behind me, “it’s not safe for you to be out here by yourself.”
I respond with silence, not looking back.
“It’s okay. I’ll make sure you get home,” he pauses, “eventually.”
I increase the pace, my heartbeat accelerating with each step.
“And don’t worry. I can keep up with you,” he snickers. “I jog several miles every day.”
“Great,” I return, masking my escalating fear with mock confidence.
He chuckles again.
Is hate a viable weapon of self-defense? Because I hate this guy so much, and all guys like him. Anger grows inside of me, burning in my chest, ready to fire a round of verbal ammunition, and a part of me wants to turn around and kick him where it really hurts.
I look ahead at the long line of houses, and I consider the two destinations: Courtney’s house or the party. I turn, not afraid to conquer this problem, or any other problem that comes my way. I’m not weak; I’m not vulnerable. I sprint past him and head back toward the party, running at top speed, my arms pumping in pace with my growing fear, knowing someone will see me, and if it comes to it, hear me.
Out of the darkness, a figure advances toward me, coming from the direction of the party. I try to make out the shape, the gender, the age. Something is familiar about the walk, and as the distance decreases, I realize who it is.
“Callie?” Ryan asks. “What the hell is wrong?”
Breathless, I just point behind me. I lean over, resting my hands on top of my thighs and suck in air. Then I straighten up, slowly, seeing Doug sauntering toward us. I point again. “He won’t leave me alone.”
“Is that so?” Ryan advances on Doug, and they square off. Ryan keeps his eyes on Doug, but his words are meant for me. “Go back to the party!”
I ignore him and remain, not wanting them to go to blows. “He isn’t worth it, Ryan.”
Doug closes the gap between them, glancing in my direction. “This isn’t really about you, sweetheart.” He looks back at Ryan. “Maybe if you would have been there and not been sitting at home that night—”
“Shut your mouth, Parker!” Ryan yells, then turns back to me. “Go inside, Callie. I mean it!”
As Ryan begins to turn toward Doug again, Doug’s fist hits Ryan’s face while these words leave his wicked lips: “Why, you don’t want her to see this?” Doug makes quick contact with Ryan’s mouth. Then Ryan retaliates with a sharp blow to Doug’s jaw and Doug stumbles back.
“Stop it!” I yell.
Ryan rushes up on him, his palms ramming Doug’s chest. Doug stumbles back a few feet but regains footing and confronts Ryan again. Ryan is ready; he offers a sharp punch to Doug’s face and then one to the stomach. Doug caves, crumbles, gasps for breath.
“C’mon.” I move closer. “That’s enough! Stop it! Both of you, stop it right now!” I look back up at the party, but we are still a few houses down. No one notices the fight on the beach, and I consider getting help, but what will happen while I am gone? I decide to stay and put an end to this. “Stop it!” I scream, but my words have no effect on them.
Doug lunges forward and tackles Ryan to the ground. They roll around in the sand, but Ryan proves victorious, dropping punch after punch into Doug’s face. Doug blocks a hit and then manages to slide out, crawling forward in the sand. Ryan gets to his feet and hovers over Doug. He breathes heavily, and under the soft moonlight, I notice his crazed expression. The fight could end there. It should end there, but it doesn’t. Ryan moves forward and kicks Doug in the side. I rush forward and scream for him to stop, but he doesn’t hear me. Then a low moan oozes out of Doug, and Ryan kicks him again, harder. The next sound is muffled agony, a sound I have never heard in real life—only witnessed in movies or on television.
I yell again. “Stop it, Ryan! You have to hear me!” Tears slip down my cheeks. I worry for Ryan’s sake and what he could do to Doug. “You have to stop! You could kill him!”
Ryan finally hears me; he takes a step back, stares at Doug’s listless body, and then glances in my direction. He breathes heavily but finds the energy to shout, his voice a deep, guttural tone. “Get the hell up, Parker! Now!” Doug rolls up on his side, slowly. “And don’t ever go near her again!” Doug army-crawls for a few feet. “And this,” Ryan begins, pointing at me, “was about her!” Doug finds the strength to make it onto all fours and eventually staggers back toward the party.
Ryan remains a few feet from me, breathing heavily, while my thoughts remain on his last words to Doug. His defense of me softens my heart, and even if Ryan and I will never see each other after tonight, I will remember him always. No guy, not even one of my brothers, has ever gotten into a fight over me.
I step toward him. “Are you okay?”
He touches his mouth gingerly. “Yeah, but he got me pretty good.”
The first punch flashes in my mind. “You should really get some ice on that.”
His eyes drift toward the party. “I don’t want to go back there…or home yet.”
“I’ll take you to Courtney’s then. You okay to walk?”
“No.” He steps closer with a smirk. “You’ll have to carry me.”
I shake my head. “Apparently, that blow to the face has impaired your judgment, and you have vastly overestimated the power of these pipes.” I point at my bicep, and he laughs lightly.
As we start
toward Courtney’s house, Ryan starts reciting the alphabet backward at a rapid speed to prove his mental clarity. “See my mental faculties are still in order.”
“People do that to prove their sobriety.” I turn, lowering my voice. “Sir, have you been drinking tonight?”
“No, ma’am, I never drink,” he slips in some southern sincerity.
“Neither do I.”
“I know. Ian told me…on the night he first met you.”
I glance in his direction; my interest piqued. “What else did he say?”
“He said that he had found the perfect girl for me and that I better show up for Saturday’s game to meet her.” He pushes out a breath. “It was the first game that I made all summer.”
I sense the gravity of his statement and how it hints at some deeper truth. “Are you ready to talk about last season yet?”
“No.” He turns, anger resurfacing. “What’s the point? You’re moving to Tennessee now.”
I stride closer to him. “And you’re still mad at me about that? Like it’s my choice, Ryan.”
“You should have told me sooner.”
“Really?” I press my lips together as tears well in the corners of my eyes. “You were the first person I told.” I recapture the hurt from the night on the boardwalk. “And when I told you, Ryan, you stormed off.” I pause, gaining momentum. “Do you know how hard this is on me—to move right before my senior year?”
“I get that, but can you understand why I got mad at you?”
“Yeah, you got mad at me for something I couldn’t control. Well, Ryan, I’m mad at you for something you could control. Your reaction. You should’ve reacted differently when I told you.” I bare the truth. “It really hurt me when you walked off.”
He lowers his voice. “Yeah, I shouldn’t have done that to you.”
“Well, it’s easy to say that now, Ryan.” I talk to him, but I’m speaking to a myriad of people: “It’s so easy to apologize afterward, but it doesn’t erase anything. The damage has already been done.”
My words silence him and then we amble down the beach as the night whispers around us. We stroll past his house while an older couple, holding hands, edges along the waves on our other side.
Ryan punctures the silence. “Sentences backwards in conversation a on carry can I.”
“I can so.”
“Before this done ever you have?”
“No.”
“Fun it find you do?”
“Nope.”
“Me at mad still you’re?”
“Well, I find it hard to focus on being mad at you when I’m trying to decipher your every sentence,” I turn in the sand and head up toward Courtney’s house.
“I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”
“Who says there will be a next time?”
“Ouch,” he mutters, “that hurt worse than Doug’s fist.”
I glance over at him, seeing his hurt expression, and try to soften my approach. “Ryan.” I push out a breath. “I’m sorry about the fight, and just so you know, I never gave Doug any reason to pursue me.” I step on the wooden walkway which cuts through the sea dunes and stroll toward Courtney’s house.
“He doesn’t need a reason, Callie,” Ryan’s voice comes from behind me, “and just so you know, this wasn’t the first time he and I went to blows over a girl.”
“Yeah, I figured that out,” I say, turning slightly, “so what happened the last time?”
“I won the fight and the girl.”
“Well,” I begin, turning to face him, “you definitely won the fight tonight, but I’m not so sure about the other part.”
I drop my shoes on the porch and open the sliding glass door, hearing his soft chuckle. Ryan follows me into Courtney’s house and sits down at the kitchen bar. I slide ice into a Ziploc bag and then wrap the ice in a blue washcloth from the linen closet. I return to Ryan, yet I remain on the other side of the counter. I hold the ice pack out to him, but he grabs it and my hand, bringing them both to his mouth. Standing at arm’s length across the counter, I watch the clock, thinking how he should ice for at least ten minutes. I begin to process the night’s events—from Ryan showing up on the beach until now. Instead of making conversation, I let the silence remain between us until my eyes slide slowly from the lethargic clock and in his direction. His eyes connect with mine as he smiles warmly, and he mumbles a soft “hey.”
I examine him under the lights, and notice his light brown hair, sandy and tousled. “I’m so sorry, Ryan.”
“Why?” He mumbles. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I was talking about last night.”
“Yeah, so was I.” His other hand slides across the counter and lands on top of mine. “I overreacted, Callie.” Ryan places the ice on the counter. “So, uh, how bad does it look?”
I scrutinize his swollen lip. “Well, I think you got the better end of the deal.”
“Yeah, I sure did.” He smiles, but only one corner of his mouth slides into his cheek. “So…you busy tomorrow?”
I narrow my eyes. “Maybe?”
“C’mon, Cal. I just said I was sorry.”
“Did you?”
“Maybe not in so many words.”
“Maybe not in any words.” I quip back. “I’m the one who apologized, Ryan—not you.”
“You want me to apologize?”
“Yes,” I return softly with a smile.
He pushes out a breath. “I’m sorry for walking off last night.” He hesitates before he speaks again. “And if I didn’t care about you, then I wouldn’t have gotten so mad.”
“You were really mad, Ryan.”
“Well…” He smiles gratuitously. “What the hell does that tell you?”
My cheeks redden, and I beam back with a grin. I never considered his reaction to be a litmus test for his feelings, and unfortunately, I read the results incorrectly last night. My anger evaporates completely as we chat under the soft light of the hanging pendants.
“When’s your last day in Florida?”
“We leave a week from this Friday. Schools start after Labor Day up there.”
He heaves a sigh. “I wish you didn’t have to move.” He puts the ice back on his lip.
“Me too.” I skirt around the kitchen bar, slowly, and slide onto the stool next to him. I find his other hand and hold it, then lift it to my lips. I kiss his knuckles, the ones that defended me against Doug. His fingers find my face, his warm hand cupping my check, and then his thumb traces my lips. I open my mouth slightly and press my lips against his thumb. His fingers glides down my neck, across my bare shoulder, and then land in the small of my back. I slide off the stool and advance toward him. I nestle against his open thighs as my arms encircle him. My head rests on his shoulder, and I absorb the moment, taking in the spicy aroma of his cologne while his hand rubs wide circles on my back. I plant a kiss on the crook of his neck and tighten my arms around him. The ice hits the counter, and then both of his arms wrap around me tightly. Then he slowly slides off the stool, and we readjust into a standing embrace. I like how we line up together—with him just a few inches taller than me. We sway slightly to the melody of our beating hearts.
“Are you still mad at me?”
“No.” I kiss his neck again.
“So I can say that I won the fight and the girl?”
“Yes,” I reply inside a laugh.
He leaves a soft kiss on my temple and then finds my ear. “I don’t want to leave you, but it’s getting late.”
I look into his green eyes. “Do you have a curfew?”
He steps back and eyes the clock on the stove. “Yep, midnight.” Our hands join, holding onto the warmth of the moment. “Can I see you tomorrow?” Ryan asks, with tenderness in his light emerald eyes, and I smile back and nod. “How about I pick you up at six?”
With our hands still joined and our eyes still connected, I ask. “Where do you want to go?
“How about dinner at the co
untry club? It’s pretty dressy.” He pauses. “So I hope that’s okay.”
“I did not pack anything nice, so I’ll just have to go shopping tomorrow. But I’m not opposed to that!” I smile back at him, suppressing my surfacing anxiety over spending money.
He starts toward the sliding glass door, and it dawns on me: Ryan probably walked to the party.
“Hey,” I stop him. “I can drive you home.”
“If it’s not too much to ask…”
I grab my keys off the entryway table, and Ryan follows me out to my red Toyota Corolla. I start the engine, and George Strait croons from the speakers.
“Country music. My secret pleasure,” I admit as I take a quick left onto A1A.
“That’s okay. I secretly like opera.”
“Really?”
“Not really, but my mom drags us to one every year to, um, as she says, ‘broaden our horizons and give us an appreciation of the arts.’”
I smile, remembering the same speech about seeing the Nutrcracker ballet at Christmas every year. Only a minute passes before I’m pulling up his cobblestone driveway and getting a full view of his spectacular home. I cut the engine and turn toward him. “Wow, your house is amazing.”
“It’s not mine, and chances are, I will never own a house this nice. After all, we are part of a generation that will not surpass our parents in economic wealth.”
“Perhaps we’ll be better off if we don’t let money run our lives.”
He suppresses a smile. “Before we go into a discussion of the downfalls of materialism, I should probably warn you that I have a pretty sweet ride.”
“Nicer than the Corolla?” I pat the dash affectionately.
He winks. “I’ll let you decide tomorrow night, girl.” He puts his hand on the door handle. “I’ll see you soon.” He opens the door, letting the sounds of the night slip in.
“Wait.”
He turns. “What?”
“I was hoping for a…”
“A what?”
“A little goodnight kiss?” I point to my cheek, hoping he finds my lips instead.
He leans across the car, his face very close, and his eyes narrow. “Why? You like to see how many guys you can kiss in one day?”
My jaw drops. “Ian told you!”
“Guess what? Guys talk.”
“I was mad at you,” I defend.
“I know that, but why weren’t you mad at him?”
“I was—”
“Then why’d you kiss him?”
I feel like a scolded child. “I don’t know.”
“Well, you should know.”
I close my eyes for a moment and exhale. “But I don’t know. He kissed me, and I kissed him back.” I lift my eyes up and shake my head. “I never thought…it wasn’t like we were…”
He holds up a hand. “You don’t owe me an explanation.”
“I don’t?” I am stunned at his response.
“No, you don’t, but after tonight you will. I don’t know what this is,” he pauses, gesturing between us, “or what it will ever become, but I don’t want you kissing other guys while we figure it out.”
“But after we figure it out?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
I bite down on my lip. “Sorry. I was trying to make you laugh.”
“Yeah, I’m not finding much humor in this conversation.” He opens the door and steps out. Before he closes the door, he offers one last smile. “Goodnight, girl.”
*****
The Secrets We Keep Page 37
