Nothing Like Him

by Jessica Roe

  The top of the rocks were higher up than I'd expected them to be, much higher than they'd seemed from below. I glanced over the jagged edge, a flutter of nerves flickering in my belly – though not enough to overpower the thrill of excitement. The water looked dark below me; dark and deep and a long, long way away.

  I could practically hear a collective sigh of relief from beneath me as I took a step back from the edge, but they were all soon to be disappointed when they realized that it was only so I could take a running, adrenaline fueled leap off the edge.

  But. . .something happened at the very last second, right as I was pushing off the rock. My foot landed on a sharp stone, biting into my skin and shocking me so abruptly my body convulsed and twisted midair. Despite how high up I'd been, the drop was quick, and I hit the water wrong. My body battered the surface of the lake with an impossibly loud slapping splash, knocking the air right out of my chest as I sank. I opened my mouth involuntarily to gasp and swallowed mouthfuls of water, choking, unable to move, unable to swim. My vision grew dark as I continued to sink.

  In my shock, my mind could only register one thought – I was drowning. I was dying. I was cold. I was going to die at the bottom of the lake I'd always loved as much as my own home.

  .

  . .

  . . .

  . .

  .

  Then suddenly there was warmth. A pair of strong arms wrapped around my waist, a body pressed up against my back, and then we were shooting up through the water and hitting the surface.

  Things were blurry in the minutes that followed. Hazy memories of being dragged from the lake, of seeing faceless bodies crowding around me, of someone thumping my chest until I threw up a lungful of water right there in front of my audience.

  And then his face was leaning over mine. His head blocked out the sunlight, but it seemed to glow all around him like a halo. He blocked out the curious faces, the watchers on who were getting ready to inform me they'd told me so. This was the boy who had jumped into the lake after me and saved my life, this boy I'd never seen before.

  He wasn't the most handsome boy I'd ever met, but there was definitely something about all that crazy golden hair and those sparkling blue eyes and even that nose that was just ever so slightly too big for the rest of his face. He was gorgeous in a whole other level from the boys I knew, in the way his confidence seemed to just roll off of him in easy waves.

  This boy, he had saved my life.

  I was immediately smitten.

  For the first time I could ever remember, shyness overtook me and left me speechless. I gazed up at my savior in adoration. I had never, ever been shy in my whole life. Not ever. Not with anyone. I wasn't even sure what to do with it, but apparently my body had already made the decision to just keep laying there on the ground beneath him as I gaped up like a fool.

  Yes. I had turned into a sloth. Except at least sloths were cute. I was just pathetic.

  It suddenly occurred to me with a humiliating blow how awful I must have looked right then in my almost drowned state, and I sat up with a jolt. It surprised him enough that he fell back on his butt with a shocked chuckle.

  “I look like a drowned rat,” I grumbled, because THAT was obviously the first thing that should have come out of my mouth and not, you know, 'thank you for not letting me die' or anything.

  Hopelessly, I tried to run my fingers through my wet hair but immediately they caught in the tangled mess.

  Oh God, the shame. . .

  But he just grinned at me, then reached over quickly and picked off a pink flower from a nearby azalea plant. I flushed deeply when he knelt over me, leaning in close so he could push my damp hair to one side and slide the flower behind my ear. “There,” he murmured triumphantly, still grinning. I suspected it was rare the grin ever left his face. “Now you look like a mermaid. A beautiful mermaid.”

  And just like that, I felt prettier than I ever had in my entire life.

  I didn't know if I was imagining it due to the whole almost dying thing, but to me it felt like there was some epic vibage going on between the two of us. It almost seemed. . .it almost seemed like he was looking at me in the exact same way I was looking at him. Could it be?

  “I'm Nathan,” he said, holding out a hand.

  I took it, relishing in the heat of his skin, even as a blush spread out over my cheeks. Blushing. This was a new sensation for me. I couldn't decide whether I hated it or whether it was the best thing I'd ever felt. “Ophelia,” I told him. “Or Phee. Everyone calls me Phee.”

  “My little mermaid, Phee.” He refused to let go of my hand when I tried to pull it back. My insides warmed. “So. . .” For the first time, something else shone in those blue eyes of his; something that mirrored exactly what I was feeling. Could he really be. . .shy? “. . .this is definitely the weirdest time I've ever asked this and I know I should wait, give you time to recover and all but-”

  “Yes!” I blurted eagerly before he could even finish. Pride be damned. “I'll go out with you.”

  His shyness faded and he laughed happily at my presumptuous answer. I smiled bashfully in return.

  We were surrounded by curious teenagers, but I doubt I'd have noticed if an alien spaceship stopped above us and zapped the whole lot of them away, not in that moment. The only person who existed to me right then was him. Nathan. My hero.

  And sure, I knew the kids from Norson Lake were already preparing to give me grief for agreeing to go out with a kid from another town. I mean partying with the tourists was one thing, but dating one of them. . . Oh yeah, I was gonna get crap. But I couldn't have given any less of a monkey’s ass if I'd tried. Hell, I'd always done whatever the heck I'd wanted to anyway, no matter what anyone thought of me for doing it. If they didn't like me for it. . . Well then I really couldn't care. It was my life, and one of the biggest lessons I'd already learned was that life was too short to live by other peoples' expectations.

  Nathan stood, pulling me up with him with another laugh. “Come on, Phee. Let's get you somewhere you can dry off.”

  Chapter 9

  Nathan

  HUNGOVER ISN’T EVEN the actual fucking word. Because this hangover I'm experiencing right now. . .I'm pretty sure the devil himself climbed his way up outta Hell and slapped it on my ass. Or I could be in Hell and this is my eternal torture. Honestly, either theory works. That's the level of crap I'm feeling this fine morning.

  I'm exhausted, I feel like pure shit, and I'm pissed off that I've had to come into work on a Sunday morning to deal with this art shipment. I mean yeah, I normally love this part of the job, but today all I want to do is down a handful of pills strong enough to knock me out for at least a week and go into hibernation.

  It's probably about time I hire an assistant of some kind to help me out here at the gallery – the place is doing well now and getting busy enough to warrant one. I've thought about it plenty. I guess the only reason I haven't gotten around to it so far is because just the thought of handing over the reins of this place, even just a little, makes me break out into hives. This place is my goddamned baby.

  And on top of all that, if that shit wasn't enough, embarrassment about the complete ass I made of myself last night has me wanting to curl up and die right here in this very spot. Talk about losing my fucking cool. That was not how I imagined coming face to face with Phee again would go.

  Jesus effing Christ.

  The scene from last night replays in my head again and I let out a deep groan, leaning my forehead down against a crate I'd just been about to open.

  I hear the tinkle of a bell go off, signaling someone entering the gallery into the main room, and I sigh. No way am I ready to deal with customers today, no way am I ready to try and sell them anything. I should've hung that damned closed sign on the front door. I make a mental note to do just that the second I can get this customer out of here.

  Wiping my hands on my jeans, I run a hand over my hair. One side is flat because of the way I slept las
t night and the other is sticking up all over the place. Matched with my pasty skin and my bloodshot eyes, I'm hardly the ultimate professional right now. If I have any luck at all, the customer will take one look at me and run.

  I leave the back room, heading through the dividers in the main showing area and then I just. . .stop.

  Phee.

  Phee is stood right there, in my gallery.

  I mean, of course she is. Because why wouldn't she be? Why wouldn't the devil decide to throw this shit at me today too, the smug little bastard? Yeah, you laugh away down there. I'm gowna kick your red ass as soon as I join you.

  Phee turns, taking in every inch of the gallery. There's a look of wonder on her face. She's. . .impressed. I get a proud flip in my stomach as I watch her take it all in, like I'm a teenage fucking girl.

  Seconds later she spins to face me, sensing me stood there watching her. There's this nice little moment where we just look at each other, taking one another in, but then she goes and spoils everything by opening up her mouth and talking.

  My head thumps like all the head bangers at a rave decided to have an orgy in there and all I can really focus on in the shape of Phee's lips as they move, so admittedly I miss a lot of what she says. But I get the gist. Something about us not seeing one another again, about how things like last night can't happen and a other shit that just makes my foul ass mood dip another ten levels. I feel my face form a dark scowl as she talks, and she notices too. Nervously, she reaches up and brushes some of that light brown hair away from her face.

  A flash of silver.

  The engagement ring sitting on her finger catches my eye, and though I didn't think it was possible, I get even angrier. I guess it's fine as far as engagement rings go – got a big flashy diamond and all the works. But it's boring as shit. My Phee would never have been happy with something as ordinary as that. My Phee would have wanted something old, something with character, with a story behind it. That ring right there is cold, devoid of life.

  So yeah, I'm grouchy. Fucking grouchy as actual fuck. Sue me.

  I do not react well.

  “You've changed,” I snap harshly, folding my arms across my chest. I make a point of looking her up and down, taking in the smart outfit and the perfectly straight hair and everything about her that screams 'Look at me, I've got my shit together'. “You're all. . .perfectly put together. Rigid and controlled. Like a glass doll or something. What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Phee freezes, seeming to lose her voice, for almost half a minute. Then she blinks slowly – the only indication that my words have affected her at all. My Phee would have smacked me across the face and yelled obscenities at me for an hour for something like that. “Of course I've changed,” she replies evenly, carefully. It's like she doesn't say anything until she's thought her words through first, like she's scared of blurting out anything that might mean something. “I couldn't carry on being that impulsive girl forever, Nathan. I had to grow up and face reality at some point.”

  I drop my arms and take a step towards her. She doesn't back away. “I loved that impulsive girl. She was wild.”

  Her face hardens and her nostrils flare. “Yeah, and didn't that just turn out fine and dandy.”

  Ah, there's a little bit of that fire I remember so well. It spurs me on, and I take another step towards her. I'm dancing with flames, I know, but damn if I don't care at this point. Shaking my head, I say, “No. I can read you better than anyone else can, even now. I know you, I know you better than this. That girl is still in there, trapped just beneath that glass surface of yours but dying to be set free.”

  And just like I was hoping, she loses a little bit more of that cool. Her eyes flash as she glares up at me angrily. “You don't know me anymore,” she spits out, but her voice is shaking, giving away her emotions.

  I gain confidence and take yet another step in her direction. We're close now; close enough that I can see strands of golden hair mixed in with the brown, and the matching flecks in her chocolate eyes. “You're wrong. I know you better than anyone ever will.” My voice is low, smooth, so dark my words almost sound like a warning. “Remember the adventures we used to have together? Skinny dipping in the lake at midnight? Sneaking out to watch the stars? Making love in the woods for hours and hours until we could barely move after? Those things we did,” I remind her. “Those wild, impulsive, magical things we did, they were always your idea. Always. Do you remember that, Phee? Because that is who you are.”

  Her mouth opens and closes for a moment, and then, “We were dumb kids, Nathan. That's all that was. That's not who I am anymore.” She's being stubborn as fuck and refusing to back down, just like the frustrating as hell Phee I remember. It almost makes me smile.

  Then I see something in her eyes, something I almost miss. Probably would have missed if I couldn't read that face like a book. I almost back down. Almost. But I don't. I can't. Not now. “You're afraid,” I say softly, confirming I'm right when she flinches at my words. “You're afraid because you know I'm right. That girl back then was the real you, the you still are deep down, but you're. . .you're hiding your real self away from the world because. . .because you're scared of being hurt again.” I'm figuring this all out on the spot as I go along, but I know I'm right about every word of it. “God, Phee. That's no way to live.”

  Her face pales and she blanches. “Screw you.”

  I got it in one, and even though I know it'll just wind her up, a satisfied grin spreads out across my face. “I hit the nail right on the head, didn't I? I can still read every inch of you, just like I always could.”

  “You're still acting like a giant frigging ass hat, just like you always could,” she replies hotly. Sheer delight courses through me as I catch a glimpse of the old Phee, of the Phee made out of fire. My Phee.

  “Admit it,” I goad. “Admit I'm right.”

  “How 'bout you go to Hell, dickwad.”

  I snort at that. “Already there, sweetheart. Been living there a real long time.”

  Without meaning to and without realizing it's even happening, because this is just what's natural when it comes to the two of us, we've somehow drawn together. We're toe to toe, completely up in each other’s space.

  She seems to notice this right about the moment I do, because her reply dries up in her throat and she pauses, her breath coming out heavier than before. I breathe her in. She smells like fucking sunshine.

  Unable to help myself, I glance down at those lips. I know everything about those lips. About how they feel beneath mine, beneath my tongue, beneath my fingers. I know how they feel trapped between my teeth. I know their taste, the way they move, how they feel against the planes of my skin. I know exactly how they fit against mine.

  When I look up at her eyes again, I catch her studying my mouth with the same intensity roaring away inside my own gut.

  She swallows, hard, and then she. . .

  And then she lets out a horrified gasp and moves back, practically stumbling in her haste to get away from me. She keeps on going until she hits one of the wall dividers.

  “Phee. . .” I try, but she's already spinning on her heel and disappearing out of the gallery door.

  I lost her.

  “Fuck,” I mutter.

  I lost her.

  “FUCK!” I holler, turning quickly and punching a wall. Luckily I miss the art, but my fist hurts like a bitch and it doesn't make me feel better at all.

  I fucking lost her.

  Phee ran away. She ran because she felt something then, just like I did. She ran.

  And I. . . Jesus Christ. In those few moments arguing with Phee I felt more inside me than I have in an entire decade with any woman I've ever been with. God, with all the woman combined.

  I hate that I still feel this much for her after all these years. I fucking hate it. It makes me feel weak, foolish. But more than that I just. . .

  I hate that I lost her. Now. Then. Always.

  I hate that she's engaged to some
douche bag loser who doesn't deserve her. I hate that I don't deserve her either.

  But the idea of her belonging to someone else, it tears me apart from the inside out. Phee is mine. Fuck it, she's my Phee no matter how many years have gone by, no matter what happened in the past, no matter what I did to fuck us up. Nothing will ever change that.

  Phee is mine and she always will be.

  And I can't have her.

  I hate this – this clawing, aching feeling scraping away the insides of my chest and leaving me raw. I don't know what to do with it. What the mother fucking hell am I supposed to do with it?

  I get it now. I finally understand how Silver felt all those years ago back when he'd first fallen in love with Blair but couldn't be with her because he was still her teacher. I recall a night from back then when we'd gotten ourselves hammered in a bar so Silver could talk through his shit. I'd listened to him for hours, but I hadn't understood any of it, not really. Not until now.

  Because after all this time, it's painfully clear to me that I still love her. My love for Phee, it never went anywhere.

  And there's nothing quite like being in love with a woman you can't have.

  Chapter 10

  Nathan

  I’M SEETHING. AT myself, at Phee, at the world. At the way my own feelings have betrayed me. It makes me irrational, and I become determined to prove something to myself as the day wears on and the evening draws closer. It's late by the time I finally finish dealing with the shipment, so I run home only briefly to shower and change before heading back out. I go straight to Main Street, all the while ignoring that epic fucking hangover that doesn't seem to want to get gone. It's clinging on in there, latching itself to me with its evil little claws.

  I pick one of the nicer bars, because they always seem to have a classier breed of women in there and I'm feeling that vibe tonight. Also, the classier bars are always open on a Sunday when other places aren’t.