Drift (Lengths)

by Steph Campbell

  “If you don’t hear back from them, we’ll figure something out. Something more aggressive,” he says like he’s already decided.

  Damn, my brother sounds aggravatingly like our father more and more these days. I sigh. “Cohen, this is a process, okay? It’s going to take time. And, while I totally appreciate your concern, you need to back off. I’m serious. You really do.”

  He twists his mouth to the side and gives Maren a secret look that gets my temper flaring. “Back off? We had no clue what was going on, and you were locked up here, nosediving into a depression. We already made the mistake of thinking you were tough enough to deal with everything on your own. You don’t always have to be the strong one, Lyd. We’re here for you.”

  Maren pats my shoulder and smiles very, very gently.

  Deep inside me, I unleash a long, guttural, primal scream.

  On the outside, I manage a tight smile and a, “Let’s just go,” through gritted teeth.

  Deo and Whit live in a cute little house by the beach. I think he and Cohen were able to afford their homes and businesses based on some crazy treasure hunt that I was very, very skeptical about. But here they are, making their bills on time and living the lives they dreamed of. My fancy law degree might very well have me living in my gorgeous car until it gets repossessed or moving back into my parents’ house.

  A chill races through me at the thought.

  “Are you cold, Lydia?” Maren asks, her eyes sharp as a doting mother hen’s from the rearview mirror.

  I would have driven myself, but gas is expensive and they practically held me hostage to get me in their sensible hybrid. I should have splurged on the gas and stood my ground about the ride.

  “I’m fine, Maren. Just someone walking over my grave, I guess.”

  Maren’s eyes flip back to me, wide with horror over my creepy pronouncement. Cohen notices her look and reaches a hand out, pressing his fingers over hers as he chuckles. “Sorry, babe. It’s just a creepy saying of our abuela’s. She’s crazy morbid, and Lydia always took after her.”

  I have a thousand things I could say to my baby brother, very few of them nice, but I choose to keep my mouth shut. There’s a reason I always spent so much time alone. Family is irritating, even when they’re trying their best to help and be kind. I know he’s doing just that, Maren too. But I’ve lived in solitude, immersed in work for so long, it’s difficult to readjust.

  I can’t help checking the clock a few times on the way to Deo and Whit’s. I keep doing all these calculations in my head, trying to figure out how long I’ll have to sit and eat and make conversation before I can crawl back in my hole and pretend no one else exists for a little while.

  Cohen pulls up outside their house, we walk up the pebbled path dotted with creamy white and pink shells, and the door flies open. Whit holds her arms out, totally forgetting she’s still wearing oven mitts decorated with chickens and recipes written in curly French. “Lydia! It’s awesome to see you!”

  She squeezes me in a tight hug. She has a glassy-eyed look that comes from a couple glasses of wine, but this is affectionate even for sauced Whit. I mean, she’s a totally nice person, but we’re not exactly at the bear hug stage of our relationship.

  “It’s awesome to see you, too,” I say, my voice crushed out as she slaps an oven mitt between my shoulder blades. “I’m ready for some chili.”

  She pulls back, and her eyes throw me. Whit’s dark eyes are usually sharp and shining, a nice match for her constant razor wit. Tonight they’re as sympathetic as Maren’s, and I feel a choked humiliation.

  Whit knows I’m on suspension.

  Damnit! My big-mouthed siblings cannot be trusted with a secret.

  Before I can pretend I don’t know, she pulls me to the side and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear.

  “Listen, Lydia. This may not be any of my business, but I want you to know, I think what your firm did to you is disgusting. I know you’ve been a total professional, and I respect that. I would have gone apeshit on them.” She holds up her hands and suddenly realizes they’re encased in giant mitts. She slides them off and smiles. “I’m just so glad you came tonight.”

  Oh shit.

  Whit is nice. Really sweet. But I don’t know if I can stand a whole night of all these people—all these good, sweet people who love me—giving me pitying looks like the one she just gave me.

  Not one of them understands what it’s like to have a high-powered career like I do. They’re just beginning their professional paths. They don’t know that one very clear risk of climbing high is, sometimes, falling far down—very far and very hard.

  I know if I try to explain that, I’ll come off as a jerk. As an egomaniac. As a condescending older sister type.

  Ugh. What I need is a nice glass of—

  “Cabernet Sauvignon? It’s from Chile. It’s very good.”

  Isaac holds a wine glass over-filled with burgundy liquid.

  Wine he’s not legally old enough to drink in this country.

  Also, what the hell is Isaac doing at Deo and Whit’s dinner party? Is this some kind of horrible set-up? It can’t be. Cece didn’t even know I was heading here. I don’t think.

  Ugh! My family is giving my chronic migraines.

  “Isaac? What are you doing here?” I ask, glancing back at the door. I could ask Cohen to take me home, but he’d want to know why, and I am not explaining sexy-as-hell nineteen-year-old Isaac to Cohen.

  I could fake a stomach cramp, but I’d have to accept being clucked over by the two of them all night.

  That’s not even a possibility.

  “It’s a long story. It has to do with trying to catch a perfect wave, having a surf expert find my missing family heirloom, and winding up trying some very, very spicy chili.” He takes a long pull of his bottle of Dos Equis.

  “Ah. What you’re trying to say is that you met Deo. Yeah, he’s kind of like the Mad Hatter. People fall down rabbit holes and come through looking glasses when they run into him, so I’ll just take your weird story with a grain of salt.” I eye the wine in his hand and then glance at the beer. “How do you know the wine is good? You’re drinking beer.”

  “The beer is good too. I’m not picky, and I love sampling.” His smile is so wide and white. He really doesn’t look nineteen. Or maybe lust is just blinding me. “I guess I could drink both of these. But I think you’d regret not at least trying it.”

  I want it. I’m glad to see him. And I’m tired—so damn exhausted—trying to play a role. Be who I’m not. Control every damn thing I do to make sure it’s all perfect. Pretend that this gorgeous, brilliant man in front of me is not still technically a teenager.

  I take the glass and smile back at him. “Thank you, Isaac.” I swirl the wine in the globe and take a sip. It’s warm, rich, and velvety. “Mmm. I’d put down that beer and switch if I were you.”

  He nods to the other guests. Maren and Whit sip wine, Deo and Cohen drink beer.

  “Ah. Like girls playing hopscotch and boys playing soccer in school?” I run my fingers along the rim and find a place with a lip-printed dried wine spot. Is this where he snuck a sip?

  I’m not sure if it is, and I’m less sure why I do what I do next, but I find myself flipping my brain off and turning the glass so my lips rest in that exact spot.

  I feel full of possibility that might amount to nothing at all.

  “What’s hopscotch?” he asks, angling his body closer with an easiness that makes it seem unintentional.

  I’m not sure if I want it to be or not. I am sure that I love him being this close.

  “A nice, sweet game that involves a lot of skipping on a board you draw on the ground with chalk.”

  I take another sip and swallow, loving the warm and fuzzy rush that tentacle past all the worries and hang-ups in my brain, blotting them out and pressing them far, far back into dark, quiet corners.

  “Did you enjoy this game? Hopscotch,” he says, trying the word out on his tongue like it’s
an inside joke between the two of us.

  I shake my head. “I loved soccer. I played with the boys and a few other girls.” I raise my eyebrows and link a finger around the cool neck of his beer bottle. I let my finger slide down the condensation on the glass and don’t stop until my skin bumps against his. “The point is, no one else cares if you play hopscotch or soccer. Do what you want.”

  His eyes are bright and burn against my skin. He turns, puts the bottle off to the side on the counter, flips a wineglass over, and pours some for himself. He comes back, never taking his eyes off of me.

  “I like your advice.” His words are low enough that no one else can hear, though I notice Maren and Whit trying hard to pick up on what we’re saying. They’ll report back to Cece, who’ll no doubt email Gen. Tongues will most definitely wag.

  And I don’t give a damn if they do.

  “I spent a lot of time doing things that no one expected me to do. You have to work up a thick skin, but, in the end, it’s your life to live. No one else’s. If you’re always trying to do what makes your boyfriend or teachers or parents happy, you’re going to wind up profoundly miserable.” I hold up my glass. “And maybe thirsty.”

  He laughs softly. “That’s how you became so successful? Your friends told me you’re a lawyer.”

  I want to go ahead with this mostly truth. I love the sound of it. But I’m not big on hypocrisy. I’d rather admit something that makes me squirm than lie with a fake smile on my face.

  “I’m actually a lawyer on suspension.” Maybe I hate the fake smile, but I put it on full display, then take a long drink of wine so I can blunt the disappointment I know will come when Isaac’s bright, sexy eyes go soft and sad.

  But they never do.

  They harden, widen, fill with interest. “I want to hear that story.” He moves his hand to my arm and his fingers caress my skin. “I assume you were a very, very bad girl to get suspended.”

  If he delivered it as a line, it would have been cheesy—gross even. But comes out as an ice-breaking joke, and we both laugh. I laugh harder than I have in a long time, and it’s about the one thing I never thought could be funny at all.

  That’s the kind of rebound I love, though I never expected to get it this way.

  “Bad enough. Not like I lied under oath or manufactured evidence. I would never do anything like that. This was more a mix of professional and personal at an inappropriate time and place.” I do wince. In hindsight the chance I was willing to take for a slug like Richard seems just plain stupid and insanely risky. And it wound up being a risk with stakes way higher than I ever imagined.

  Isaac puts a hand over his heart, closes his eyes, and shakes his head. He peeks at me through his thick lashes and grins.

  “I’m picturing all kinds of scenarios I shouldn’t be.” He wags a finger my way. “I never would have thought the model student in the front row could be secretly harboring this terrible secret.”

  “Trust me, I was more stupid than bad,” I admit, laughing about my own failure for the first time since this whole mess started. “The real problem is, not only did I behave badly, I sucked at keeping it a secret.”

  He runs his hand along my arm and I almost blank on his words, I’m so focused on being touched by him. “You’re not a spy, after all. Lawyers are meant to be brusque and unafraid.”

  “That’s the understatement of the century,” I say around a laugh.

  Isaac and I would have kept going back and forth all night if I didn’t hear someone’s noisily cleared throat.

  Cohen.

  I bite back a sigh and wonder if it would be appropriate to drag him aside and remind him that I have no problem blabbing about the time his Playboy and Jergens stash was discovered by our shocked mother…hidden under the chess box he made with such care in middle school shop class. Papi said it was no wonder it was sanded so smooth. “The boy has the forearms of a professional body builder! Too bad those are the only muscles he has!”

  That story is always good for a huge laugh. And it seems an appropriate way to wipe that condescending look off his face.

  Before he pushes me to take the gloves off and bring out some high-school level tattling, Deo lugs an enormous, steaming pot out of the kitchen and onto the table. We all take our seats, and I let Isaac herd me neatly into a chair next to him and pour me some more wine. Whit dishes out bowls of chili that would set fire to a novice’s tongue; luckily, we’ve been eating hot stuff since we were in diapers, Maren has had time to build up a tolerance, and Whit actually got this recipe from my mother, since she and Deo are honorary family.

  “Do you like spice?” I ask, scooping some chili onto my spoon and letting the slow burn simmer on my tongue when I bite it.

  “My father once allowed me a week free of tutors if I could eat a plate of habanero peppers from my grandmother’s garden.” His smile like a chili: so hot any warmth is followed with a nip of pleasure/pain.

  “How old were you?” I ask as our elbows brush. I love the rub of his skin on mine.

  “Eight? Nine?” He shrugs, but I cringe.

  “That’s too young! You’re lucky it didn’t put a hole in your stomach lining.” I shake my head. “That was evil of your father.”

  “My father took twisted pleasure in watching me suffer,” Isaac says. My eyes fly to his face, and his smile softens when he reads the upset I’m not even trying to hide. “I’m sorry. I just made my childhood sound much more tragic than it was. My father is a hard man, sure, but I was no poor, abused waif. All his crazy dares only made me stronger.”

  “I can’t believe you can even stomach anything hot after something like that.”

  I try to picture Isaac a decade younger, those green eyes glinting with confidence, his tongue scorched, trying to complete this stupid task his father set out for him without throwing up or crying. I hate the image.

  “That burn in my mouth makes me think of freedom.” He eats a spoonful and breaks a piece of cornbread in his hands, leans close and shares a secret smile with me.

  He’s about to say something else when my damn brother clears his throat again.

  “Cohen, I think you need to drink something,” I snap, looking straight at him.

  “Why?” he demands, his spoon clutched in one fist.

  “Because you clearly have something lodged in your throat. And your constant throat-clearing is obnoxious,” I say. Obnoxiously.

  “I’m surprised you heard anything…” He’s going to say something else, something immature and mean because something strange happens pretty much every time Cohen and I get together. We both become sniveling, arguing kids, and our families just kind of ignore as best they can.

  But it’s like we both realize at the same instant that Isaac is not family. Or honorary family. Or married in. So he’s exempt from our infantile behavior, and we need to be civilized.

  Grinning like he knows he’s pushing his luck, Cohen turns his attention to Isaac. “Isaac is it? I didn’t quite catch how you know Deo and Whit.”

  “Dude, it was insane,” Deo cuts in, practically jumping up on the table. “The swells were intense. I’m not gonna lie—I was a little scared of them myself. But this guy was shredding like a pro. Or an idiot. You know that’s a blurry line. But he was keeping his feet. Anyway, he came off a pretty crushing wave, and I see this gold in the sand.”

  “Of course. You’re trained from our treasure hunting days to spot gold anywhere,” Cohen agrees while Maren, Whit, and I simultaneously roll our eyes.

  My brother and Deo have a bromance that goes back to their toddlerhood, and they’re kind of ridiculously loyal and supportive. I mean, it’s great, it’s awesome they’re such good friends. But their constant verbal high-fiving definitely gets old fast.

  “Right! You know how it is,” Deo says, like being able to spot gold in the sand is some immensely weighty superpower they both grapple with. “Anyway, winds up it’s Isaac’s grandpa’s necklace. Once I gave it back to him, it was dinnertime, s
o, you know me. I can’t turn a hungry stranger away.”

  “Of course, man. Good save, by the way,” Cohen says. He turns to look Isaac up and down, sizing him up before the inevitable question he and Deo always ask. “So you’re a surfer?”

  Because, obviously, ones worth in life is solely based on whether or not one can surf.

  “I work at the university,” Isaac says.

  I hide my smile behind my wineglass. Despite his perfectly polite words, it’s clear Isaac is trying to hide his amusement over Deo and Cohen.

  “My brother-in-law works at the university and surfs, too,” Cohen says, and, just like that, it’s like Isaac has passed some ridiculous fraternity test and is in. “So, you up for catching some more waves this weekend?”

  Instead of answering him, Isaac looks at me. “Do you surf as well, Lydia?”

  Deo and Cohen snort, and I glare at them. “What the hell is so funny, you idiots? Did you seriously forget the fact that I helped teach you both to surf back when you were still dragging your boogie boards in the kiddie waves?”

  Deo stops mid-laugh and screws his mouth over to the side. “Right. But that was forever ago, Lyd. I mean, do you think you could still do it?”

  “You think I forgot how to surf?” I ask. He tugs on his collar and looks to Cohen for help. “How do you know I haven’t kept up with it?”

  “When?” Cohen scoffs. “With that douchehole Richard?”

  I notice Isaac’s hand tenses around his spoon at the mention of Richard’s name.

  “So you think the only way I could have been surfing all this time is if I had a man to take me?” I demand.

  “Seriously, you two are tools,” Whit says, directing her sloshing wineglass at Deo and Cohen. “I bet Lydia could beat you into the sand any day of the week.”

  “I absolutely could,” I say, my voice steady and confident.

  Cohen throws his hands up. “Perfect. Surf contest. Saturday, dawn, the sweet spot. What are the stakes?”

  For a quick second, I back up.

  First of all, I’m an adult. I don’t have Saturday morning surf contests with my brother and his lame friend.