Beneath the Lights

by Taralynn Moore

  I glanced his way again. Still he didn’t move. I waded out further, more comfortable now with his presence as mine seemed to hold no interest to him. I’d just reached the drop-off when a sharp edge tore at my foot.

  “Really?” I cried out, gripping at my ankle, half-laughing as I stumbled about searching for balance. Nice, Bria.

  My senses spun further as the stranger popped up and splashed a trail straight into the water. “Are you alright?”

  I said nothing, struck silent by his presence. His eyes, a beautiful warm brown, with flecks of green and gold, peered into mine. I’d lost my sunglasses in my hopping fiasco and had nothing to hide behind.

  “Are you hurt?” he pressed.

  “I’m fine. I just—” I glanced away from his worried frown. “I think I cut my foot on a shell.”

  He nodded and without pause, lifted and carried me to the beach chair I’d occupied, deftly wrapping me in the towel before stepping back. “Your injury, may I attend to it?”

  I buried a smile with the back of my hand, his formality beyond endearing, but no words would form on my lips. I could only stare at the water dripping off the ridges of his torso, tight and defined. He was built so differently from my boyfriend, his chest and shoulders wider, and he moved with a greater fluidity. While Jon spent countless hours at the gym and walked with a stiff, practiced gait, this guy used every muscle he had with every move he made. Even his jaw flexed when he spoke, the dark scruff of his beard punctuating every word.

  My lack of response only encouraged further action on his part. He jogged over to his towel and retrieved his bag, shaking the water from his hair as he ran back, his brown curls falling into place, framing his eyes. He reached toward my foot, looking to me for permission.

  His hands hovered in place, awaiting my command. I bit back another smile and gave a small nod.

  He tilted my leg his direction with the slightest of touches, then pulled some kind of homemade first aid kit from the bag and began cleaning and dressing the cut on the inside of my ankle. I studied his profile as he worked. He was probably my age, maybe a couple years older.

  “Are you a medical student?” I asked. Only someone starting out in the field would show so much enthusiasm about such a minor incident.

  “I’ve had some emergency training.”

  “And this is an emergency?” I teased, finally finding my footing for conversation.

  “No.” He looked up and grinned, catching my eye and my insinuation at his overreaction.

  “I suppose it’s not.”

  My heart did a little flip. I knew that smile. I’d seen it midair not even an hour before. His grin deepened as he took in my recognition of him, the flush rising on my cheeks.

  Clearly, he’d known it was me all along.

  He peeled away his gaze and returned to the task at hand, his touch quick, delicate.

  “There.” He patted the bandage. “You should be all set.”

  I leaned in to examine my foot, my shoulder brushing against his. Our eyes met again, and the most peculiar thing happened. We both sat for a long moment, openly staring at each other. Remembering his smile had been one thing, but why did I feel like I knew the whole of his face, knew him? A warmth spread over me, emanating from my chest, a delicious mix of familiarity and expectation.

  His eyes flashed. Did he feel it too?

  He exhaled, on his breath a whisper, not an answer. “Does it still hurt?”

  “No.” My chest hummed. “I think you got to it before it ever did.”

  “Good.” He looked down, breaking the spell, and reached to the sand. My book had tumbled to the ground during our earlier commotion. He brushed the binding and handed it to me. “Sense and Sensibility. One of my favorites.”

  I hugged it and swallowed back my surprise. For real? He read Jane Austen?

  He eyed the other titles piled on the table. “Proust—in French?”

  “I like to read in other languages.” I shrugged a little. “I guess it sounds weird to say I miss languages.”

  “Not at all.” He pulled Dante out of his bag, Italian script scrolled across its cover.

  I patted my backpack. “I have him with me too.”

  Who was this guy? His slight accent was almost indefinable, a rarity for me.

  “Where are you from?” I hadn’t meant to blurt it out. I hadn’t.

  “I’ve called many places home.” His eyes twinkled.

  I couldn’t help but smile back. How decidedly vague.

  “And you’re from New York,” he stated more than asked.

  “Yes, Brooklyn.”

  I was surprised he could tell. Most couldn’t. At this point, my English was as neutral as any other language I spoke. Due in part to the global travels forced on me by my mother. Also, my auditory and lingual capabilities were uncanny. Music, language, speech, diction—anything I heard, I could often duplicate with little effort.

  He looked back to the books, finger tracing the spines, until he stopped and slipped one from the pile with a curious tilt of his head. “To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before.”

  “What? It’s good.”

  His eyebrow arched slowly, until my grin matched his own.

  “It is!” I giggled. “I—I relate to her.”

  His eyes danced. At me. Through me. “How so?”

  “I don’t know.” I tucked a curl behind my ear. “Maybe it’s that she’s searching, or doesn’t know she’s searching.”

  “For what?”

  I paused. If only I knew. “For something . . . more.” I rubbed a hand against the pressure spot forming again at the center of my chest. “Something . . .”

  The color of his eyes shifted. “Real.”

  I nodded. “Yeah.”

  “It’s not easy to find.” He spoke as if he knew I’d believe him.

  I did. “No. It’s not.”

  We exchanged a round of slow, steady smiles before I glanced away, letting my eyes follow the rustle of the palms until they found their way back to him.

  He was still staring. At me. Through me. Crooked smile in place.

  This time he looked away, his hand gliding along the book cover, tracing the title. “And have you?” He chewed on his lip before looking up and setting his gaze back fully on mine. “Loved a lot of boys before?”

  I swallowed. Tried to breathe. “Just one.”

  His brows twitched, like they had back in the helicopter. “And did he love you back?”

  The spot in my chest released, my heart thundering into a full-on sprint.

  No words. No words. No words would form.

  How could I tell him that I didn’t know?

  That my boyfriend of two years was my best friend, but a complete mystery in love.

  He wouldn’t understand. I barely did myself.

  “I’m sorry.” He shook his head, as if wiping his thoughts clear. “It’s none of my business.” Those eyes, deep, prodding, searched mine again. “Besides? How could he not?” He set the book down. “You don’t need a stranger wrecking your day with questions. I’ll go.”

  I cleared my throat. That’s right. He was a stranger.

  “Thank you.” I motioned toward my foot. Why didn’t I want him to leave?

  “Happy to help.” He gave a small bow of his head.

  I could think of nothing more to say except, “He who sees a need and waits to be asked for help is as unkind as if he had refused it.” I quoted Dante, in Italian, hoping he felt the genuine warmth of my thanks behind it.

  He responded with his own Dante quote. “Beauty awakens the soul to act.” He seemed as lost in my eyes as I was in his, watching the flecks of color ignite and dance. Then they darkened. “I trust you’ll be fine. Enjoy your books.”

  He returned to his towel, leaving me to wonder about the reason for his quick shift back to formality.

  I tried to read but kept looking over, only to be met with the rise and fall of his back in the same slow rhythm as before. His stillness left me
at peace, and I started to drift off, the sun warm against my skin.

  I awoke with a start, not sure how long I’d been asleep, and looked around the empty cove. Smooth tracks lined the sand, leading to my chair. I’d been moved under cover of one of the large palms. No doubt my guardian angel wanted to protect me from the brutal sunburn that threatened from my former spot. I laughed, imagining him trying to apply aloe to my burn with the same reserve he’d used to address my foot. My body flushed with heat as my mind went elsewhere—his hands on my skin, his eyes dancing, intense.

  Stop it. What about Jon?

  I sat back in my chair. Yes, what about Jon. We’d shared nearly two years together, and I knew we were attracted to one another, but he barely touched me. Not that I was in any kind of a rush. Being a product of my perpetually single mother’s one college mistake, I’d spent countless hours as she’d drilled every cautionary tale into my head that decency allowed. Besides, Jon and I had a connection that went beyond physical.

  We’d met at an incredibly difficult time in my life. It was a couple months after my grandfather’s fatal heart attack. My mother had shown up at my grandparents’, bursting through the apartment door, gown and heels in hand, and told me we were to attend a concert together. Relieved to be done with my sophomore year of high school—my finals cleared through sheer will and some sort of intellectual dumb luck—and still in a daze from my grandfather’s passing, I’d barely put up an argument and let her polish and prep me for the event in silence.

  Julliard was showcasing some local prodigy, and a fundraiser was involved. Removed from myself, as I often was still, I’d observed the function from a distance rather than participate fully. That was my nature before my grandfather’s passing, but losing him had only intensified it.

  Meeting Jon had been different though. He’d stood out from the crowd with his low-key, unaffected presence, refreshing as it was a rarity in my mother’s chosen social circle. He was incredibly tall, his hair cropped short, his clothing impeccable. But what caught my attention the most was the arresting blue color of his eyes, popping out at me from behind his dark lids and long lashes. They were like his father’s, who stood as a stark contrast to his son in both look and demeanor in every other way. Jon-Paul introduced himself, reminding me he’d met me as a child, before tightening his possessive grip on his son’s arm and ceremoniously presenting him to me as Jonathan.

  Jon smiled, stayed quiet but close, as awkward about our parental set-up as I was. His posture and movements grew more rigid, and his eyes routinely left mine to survey the stage, as if looking for something, or someone, to swoop in and save him.

  Shortly after our introductions, the performance began. We were seated to the back of the pianist, but I was still enthralled in every note. For the first time in so many months, I felt moved and present, especially when he played his final piece. The rhythmic and interwoven melody permeated my very being. So much so, I’d spent hours when I got home, sitting at the small piano in my grandmother’s living room, desperately trying to recreate what I’d heard. Willing my heightened sense of hearing to hold on to what was played; willing my heightened senses to remain awake and alive and not bury themselves again in my grief.

  Jon stayed silent through the entire performance, glancing at me off and on. I’d always worn my response to music readily on my face, and I was sure he could see how moved I was, leaning forward in my chair, my breath rising and falling with the tempo of the songs. At the end, he didn’t bother to look away as the tears welled up in my eyes and spilled over despite my efforts to stop them. His stare held no judgment, just a cautious observant curiosity. At one point he reached down and placed his hand over mine. It wasn’t a romantic gesture, that would’ve been too brazen for his nature, but he’d felt the need to connect, to somehow be there for me.

  Immediately after the performance, he’d whispered to his father that we were going for a walk and guided me from the building through a side exit before anyone could see the state I was in. We made our way into the warm New York evening, Lincoln Center gleaming like a beacon as we walked away from it in a comfortable silence.

  We’d found a bench and sat for a while. Eventually he spoke, skipping the normal high school pleasantries, and asked how I was doing with my grandfather’s passing, no doubt informed of my loss by his father. His eyes had studied my face with the same care as during the performance. Knowing he’d already seen a side of me I often kept hidden, I answered more honestly than I had to anyone so far.

  I’d told him I was shattered. That, lost in my brokenness, I had no idea how to put myself back together. One stubborn tear escaped my eye, but I’d been too aware of my surroundings to completely surrender to my grief again. He’d reached out and, wiping it from my cheek, told me to give myself time. I never would be the same, but I would find a place of peace and, eventually, happiness again. I wanted to believe him, and sitting there on that bench, looking into his sky-blue eyes, I almost did.

  When my mother moved me midsummer and we’d ended up in the same school, it had felt natural for us to gravitate toward one another, expected. From then on, we were together. We never declared our feelings, we simply lived our lives in unison. Every party, every dance—we went, without much fanfare. I knew how everyone saw us, the two rich, mixed-race kids who’d fallen for each other over the summer. We just made sense.

  With our parents’ constant travel, we kept each other company, a family of two. We literally slept together most nights. Still, his physical wall between us remained impenetrable, except on occasion when he reached for my hand and sometimes, when not thinking, stroked my thumb with his.

  He’d held me when I cried so many times, knew me better than anyone. And just as I’d shared my losses with him, he shared his loss with me. The agony he felt about never having known his mother. Her death lingered daily, a permanent fixture in his life, the markings from the fire he’d survived as an infant forever tattooed on his upper torso and down his arms. She’d protected him as much as possible and had lost her own life because of it. He never showed his scars, carefully hidden beneath his ever-present button-downs. Occasionally I caught a glimpse when he rolled the sleeves, but mostly they were foreign to me. His private pain hidden by starched cotton and staunch secrecy.

  I’d respected it as the cause of his physical hesitancy. Once and only once I’d tried to kiss him more than the occasional brush of lips he offered. He’d gone cold, wholly unresponsive to my advances. As I’d no more experience than he did, I stopped, kissed his cheek and turned away. It hurt, but I tried to be understanding. After all, I’d been the one to break his unspoken rule. Someday, he’d be ready. And I’d be too.

  I gathered my thoughts and sat up. My sunglasses lay on my bag, clean and shining. Next to them sat a large shell, a smooth spiral with one jagged edge, the likely culprit of the vicious attack during my short-lived swim. There was also a note, written on thick and grainy paper, distinctive cursive repeating the same quote spoken to me earlier.

  La bellezza risveglia I’anima di agire. Enjoy your rest.

  - David

  My chest fluttered. Who was this beautiful, strange guy who’d appeared on my beach out of nowhere? Shaking my head while I shook out my towel, I packed up my things, tucking the note into my edition of Dante, and made my way up to the resort, the events of the day on auto-play in my head.

  Once to my room, I showered and slipped on my favorite white lace sundress before heading back downstairs. It was a balmy night and the café and bar area were crowded, heads craned upward. Bright pops of yellow and orange streaked across the lavender sky. I was trying to find a place to settle in, when someone approached me from behind, his final stance alarmingly close.

  “Señorita,” a voice slurred. “You are a vision in white.”

  I turned, cautious, to find a swaying man, the smell of alcohol heavy on his breath.

  “Thank you.” I said, my tone polite but curt. Taking a step back from him, I search
ed the crowd for one of the personnel I could call on if this turned complicated.

  He lurched toward me, making up for the space I’d put between us, blatant as he looked me up and down, licking his lips.

  I narrowed my eyes, moving to leave. “We’re done here.”

  “Wait, Mamacita.” He grabbed my wrist, pulling at me. “Don’t you want to dance?”

  Shocked by his drunken audacity, I couldn’t respond. A hand from behind fell across the small of my back, a voice hovered at my ear.

  “Don’t worry.”

  I caught my breath. David.

  His chest pressed against me as he reached around and removed the man’s hand from my wrist, twisting it up behind his back. Leaning across the space, he spoke so low I couldn’t make out his words, though I recognized the smooth and steady cadence of Spanish. From the way the man’s eyes widened at the threat, I had a feeling David intended for me not to hear. Scared sober, the reformed offender was quick to bow an apology in my direction and left the area before a single person around us even realized there’d been an altercation.

  “He won’t be bothering you again,” David whispered.

  Or anyone else for that matter. I turned toward him, wondering what he’d said to dissolve the situation so quickly.

  He wore a black button-down, although unlike Jon’s typical wear, it was soft and unstarched. The sleeves were rolled, and it hung untucked over his khaki pants. The clean scent of his soap lingered in the air. Our eyes locked, and the same electricity as before surged between us. I silently repeated Jon’s name over and over in an effort to keep myself under control. It did little good. And I hated myself for it.

  “Where did you come from?” I murmured.

  His eyes never left mine, roving, as if searching for the right thing to say.

  A new song began to play, answering for him with a slow, sweet pull. Did it matter? My heartbeat quickened as I leaned in, a singular thought pressing on my mind. Don’t leave.