Wilder Love

by Rose, Emery

  “It’s not. Smile for me.”

  I stuck out my tongue. He snapped the photo. I rolled my eyes. He snapped another one. I blew a big bubble that popped in my face. The camera kept clicking, the flash going off until I covered my face with my hands. “Stop. You’ll waste all the film.”

  “Photos of you would never be a waste of film,” he said, his voice low and hoarse.

  I lowered my hands and stared at him. He licked his bottom lip. I wanted to kiss him. Taste him. Breathe him in. Run my fingers through the waves of his sun-bleached hair. Lick his tanned skin. It was starting to feel like a sickness. A dull ache that never seemed to go away. Wanting him so badly and knowing I couldn’t have him was the sweetest torture.

  He was still looking at me, our eyes locked and I was holding my breath as I leaned in, my upper body tilting toward him as if I was being pulled by an invisible magnetic force.

  The door burst open and Dylan strode across the roof, his eyes darting from me to Shane, narrowing with distrust. Dylan’s eyes were a little glassy and a lot bloodshot, the scent of weed clinging to his clothes.

  “Are you okay?”

  “It’s all good,” he said, his eyes still on Shane who he hadn’t been formally introduced to yet. I got to my feet and stood next to Shane who handed me my camera.

  “This is Shane. Shane, Dylan.”

  Dylan ignored the introduction, rudely dismissing Shane who said it was good to meet him. He jerked his chin at me. “You got your keys?”

  I fished them out of my pocket and tossed them to him. Keys in hand, he stalked away like the world had done him wrong. I watched him go before I turned to Shane, tempted to apologize for my brother but deciding against it. If he wanted to act like an asshole, that was his problem.

  “I need to pack for Rincon,” Shane said, heading for the door. I used to be so good at leaving. Now I always stayed too long. I trailed after him, my flashlight leading the way, and sighed as he held the door open for me. Ducking past him, I jogged down the stairs.

  “Merry Christmas, Shane.” We had stopped on the second-floor landing, and that moment of intimacy we’d shared on the roof only moments ago had been snatched away.

  “You too. Will you be okay?” I hated it that he looked so concerned. This wasn’t how I wanted him to look at me.

  “I’ll be great. It’s Christmas. It’s magical. My mom always makes it really special.” What a load of bullshit. Sometimes she did, sometimes she forgot to buy us presents. I gave him a big smile. He wasn’t buying it, I could tell, but he let it go.

  He glanced in the direction of my apartment door and I thought he might say more, but all he said was “Catch you later” before he jogged down the stairs. I let myself into the apartment and joined Dylan on the sofa. We stared at the tree we’d put up last week. We decorated it with multi-colored lights, cheap red baubles, and glitter-encrusted reindeer. Dylan had thrown tinsel at the tree from across the room like he was pitching for the Dodgers. It looked like a drunk-ass tree, tilted too far to the left, but if you squinted, it looked okay. Festive. At least we had a tree this year.

  “So, what’s the deal with you and that surfer?”

  That surfer. “We’re just friends. He’s a good guy.” I shoulder-bumped him. “You could try being nicer, asshat.”

  “Nicer?” He sounded puzzled by the concept. As if he truly didn’t know that he’d been rude. Sometimes he acted like such an ass.

  “Yeah. Nicer.” We were quiet for a few minutes and I was thinking about my conversation with Shane which prompted me to ask Dylan the same question. “What’s your dream, Dylan?”

  I expected him to ignore the question, so I wasn’t really waiting for an answer, just lost in my own thoughts and too lazy to move my ass off the sofa.

  “My dream is to make shitloads of money.”

  I turned my head to look at him. He was still staring at the tree, his face pensive. He smelled like boy sweat and laundry detergent and beer, but I didn’t think he was drunk. “So, you want to be rich? That’s your dream?”

  “You’re saying it’s not a good one?”

  “No. It is. I guess.” But I couldn’t hide my disappointment that his answer was so unoriginal. “But how do you want to get rich? Like, what’s your passion? What do you love doing?”

  “Getting high. I fucking love getting high.”

  I sighed loudly. “Whatever. Forget I asked.” If he became a drug dealer, I would strangle him with my own two hands. Even though he hid it well and you’d never guess it, Dylan was smart and would have no problem getting into any college he wanted. As long as he didn’t blow it.

  The front door opened, and I held my breath, waiting to see which version of Mom we’d be getting tonight. Last week I was walking on eggshells because every little thing I said or did had her flying off the handle. The week before that she was Suzy Homemaker, whipping up homemade meals that didn’t come from a can or the freezer. She’d scrubbed, mopped and cleaned every inch of the apartment until the surfaces gleamed and the scent of stale cigarettes was almost eradicated.

  Now, she called to us from the kitchen, her voice normal. Not keyed up or flat. Just right. “Who wants hot chocolate?”

  Dylan jumped up from the sofa and headed into the kitchen with me trailing behind. “Hey Mom. I’ll put these away,” Dylan said, nudging her away from the grocery bags she’d set on the counter.

  “Thank you, baby.” She pulled him into a hug and kissed him on the cheek before holding him at arms-length as if just seeing him for the first time. “Look at you. My handsome boy is all grown up. When did you get so tall?” She laughed, and he shook his head, chuckling. Mom on a good day still had a knack of bringing a smile to Dylan’s face. He loved her, protected her, fought for her, and felt like he was supposed to be the man of the family. If Mom noticed that Dylan smelled like beer and weed or that I reeked of Sienna’s Christmas cheer, she didn’t mention it. Our house rules were lax. No curfew, nothing off limits to us, no minimum age restrictions.

  Mom pulled me into a hug and held me too tightly and a little too long like she needed my strength, while Dylan unloaded the grocery bags and put the food away. I didn’t pull away until she released me. I never pulled away from Mom’s hugs. Pathetically, I craved her affection. You never knew when it would be the last one.

  “I love you,” she said and kissed me on the forehead.

  “Love you too, Mom.”

  She clapped her hands together and did a little shimmy. “We need some Christmas music. Liven up the place. Get in the spirit.”

  Fun Mom was home. We drank hot chocolate with marshmallows and ate store-bought sugar cookies shaped like Santa Clauses and microwave popcorn drizzled with butter, singing along to the Christmas carols on the radio. The TV played in the background—a cheesy black and white movie about a guy who tries to commit suicide and gets rescued by an angel.

  The movie must have inspired Mom. She regaled us with tales of Christmases past, painting a Norman Rockwell-worthy picture of our happy holidays.

  Mom was a liar.

  She wanted to see the world through rose-tinted glasses. She actually believed that was the way it had been when I knew for a fact that the Christmas we were twelve was the shittiest Christmas ever. The heat had been turned off because Mom hadn’t paid the utilities. Detroit in the winter was fucking cold.

  Mom had conveniently forgotten why we’d left Detroit. Dylan hadn’t. His hands were balled into fists, his eyes stormy, jaw clenched but he kept his mouth shut and didn’t say a word.

  “Hey Rem,” Dylan said after Mom said goodnight and disappeared into her bedroom. I was headed to the bathroom to brush my teeth and turned to look at him. If I had the money, I’d buy him a pull-out sofa. It still bothered me that he had to sleep on a shitty sofa that was too short for him. His clothes were in an old dresser we’d found at Goodwill. I’d tried to make it look better by painting it glossy black, his favorite color. It was a fail. The paint was chipping, the cheap
wood veneer showing through. But he told me he appreciated the effort, so that was something, I guess.

  “Yeah?”

  “I like math.” He was staring at the Christmas tree again, hands locked behind his head, his long legs kicked out in front of him. “I love figuring out equations. That shit comes easily to me. It’s like a language I understand. And when I figure out a difficult problem that others struggle with, it feels good, you know? So, I don’t know…I guess that’s my thing. Math makes a hella lot more sense than people do. Numbers don’t lie. They don’t dick you around or make you feel like shit. And they don’t break your heart.” His voice was so low, the pain seeping out of every word, that it made me wonder if he’d ever had his heart broken. If he knew how that felt.

  Of course, he did. He wasn’t talking about a girl breaking his heart. He was talking about Mom. She’d broken his heart and she kept on doing it. Her actions hurt him. We’d both become skilled liars, so good at hiding our feelings and making excuses for her that it had become second nature to keep it all inside.

  Dylan didn’t share much but when he did, it felt like he’d given you a gift you should cherish. He’d given me a little piece of his soul, knowing he could trust me with it. My heart expanded in my chest until it was almost painful, a lump forming in my throat that made it impossible to speak.

  I loved his guts.

  I wanted to hug him, reassure him that everything would be okay, but we didn’t do that anymore. We’d gotten too jaded and too old to hug and it was just awkward now, so I forced a smile and said goodnight, leaving him in the living room that doubled as his bedroom.

  On Christmas Eve morning, I woke up to gray skies and rain, a text from Shane, and a gift outside the front door. It was wrapped in blue snowflake paper and the card had my name on it. I looked across the street just in time to see Shane leaving, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, the ends of his hair sticking out of a slouchy gray beanie. He was wearing a blue hoodie, and gray sweatpants slung low on his narrow hips. He looked effortlessly cool and gorgeous and it was easy to see why girls would throw themselves at him. I’d heard Travis talking about all the girls on tour. Bikini-clad groupies who followed the surfers around to events. They even had a name – pro ho. I was under no illusion that Shane lived like a monk but whenever he left to go anywhere, I always felt a pang of jealousy.

  What if he met someone his own age, fell madly in love, and forgot all about me? I was pretty sure this infatuation was one-sided. Unrequited love. God, that was sad.

  Before he got into his dad’s surf van, he looked up at my apartment as if he sensed me watching him. I smiled, and he returned it, and for a few seconds, our eyes locked. He was sunshine on a rainy day. Summertime in December. And I was the stupid girl foolish enough to fall in love with him.

  Then, just like that, he was gone.

  Five months ago, I didn’t even know he existed. And now… I couldn’t imagine my life without him in it. I knew it was dangerous to think like that. Nothing in this world was permanent. How long would he stay in my life before he decided it wasn’t worth the hassle?

  10

  Shane

  “You’re playing with fire, dude,” Travis said.

  I ignored him, my eyes on Remy as she paddled out to us, battling the waves in the impact zone, that determined look on her face that I’d come to know so well.

  “Duckdive,” I yelled, motioning with my hand as she faced a set of waves. Shit. I raked my hands through my hair as I watched her get pushed back and then I lost sight of her in the white water. Worry and panic swirled in my gut. Finally, she emerged, shaking her head and retrieving her board, getting it underneath her in time to tackle the next set of waves before she got slammed.

  Jesus Christ.

  There was a solid six-foot swell today with gaping barrels breaking on the shore. After last night’s storm, the waves were big and consistent. The stuff of my wet dreams. But I shouldn’t have let her come out with me. Now I felt responsible for her safety.

  “I don’t get it,” Travis said, watching me watch Remy fight to paddle out to us. “You’ve got chicks throwing themselves at you, and you’re hung up on this one? I get it. She’s hot. But she’s sixteen.”

  “Are you here to give me shit or to surf?” I asked, a bite to my tone that I’d chalk up to jet lag after our flight from Australia if it wasn’t for the fact that he was right.

  Remy joined us in the lineup, looking slightly worse for the wear, but she gave us a little smile.

  “How are you holding up?” I asked. “You sure you’re okay to surf this?”

  “I’m great. It’s all good.”

  “You’re still a beginner.”

  She arched a brow. “Your dad said you were a storm chaser when you were just a grom. I’m sure I can handle it. Besides, the best way to learn anything is baptism by fire.”

  Yep. That all smacked of my dad’s logic. “What other lies has my dad been feeding you?”

  Remy laughed and straddled her board like me and Travis were doing. Earlier, she’d been lying on her board and got a mouthful of seawater, so she’d learned from her mistake.

  “How’s school?” Travis asked Remy. “What are you now? A freshman?”

  Shithead.

  “I’m a junior. What are you now? A second grader?”

  I laughed. He rolled his eyes.

  Our chat over, we concentrated on surfing. A few cowboys were in the lineup now, whooping it up every time they caught a wave. I kept my eye on them, making sure they didn’t pull any stupid stunts.

  I had just ridden a set of waves in and turned around to paddle back out when I saw Remy paddling for a wave. It was hers. She caught it. One of the cowboys dropped right in on her.

  “The fuck, man?” I shouted, motioning with my hands for him to back off. He either didn’t hear me or didn’t give a shit because he was going for it and had too much speed to back off now. Remy tried to correct herself and get out of his way, but it was a train wreck waiting to happen and all I could do was stand by and watch. She tombstoned, her board flying straight up into the air. I undid my leash, pushing my board onto the sand.

  Sprinting through the shallow water, I swam out to where her board was getting thrashed. I dove under the water, untangling the rope wrapped around her leg. When I’d freed her, I pulled her to the surface, holding her body on top of mine like I was a life raft keeping her afloat, one arm wrapped around her and the other one hanging onto her board, so it didn’t smack her in the face.

  She coughed, a stream of saltwater pouring from her nose, and her body went limp in my arms. “We need to get you out of here.”

  I helped her onto her board, instructing her to paddle in while I swam next to her. When we reached knee-deep water, she stood up, her legs wobbly as if they were about to fall out from under her. I undid her leg leash and planted her board in the sand next to mine. “Sit down for a minute.”

  Without putting up a protest, Remy lowered herself onto the sand.

  I knelt in front of her, pushing her matted hair off her face. “You okay?”

  She rubbed the back of her head, her hand coming away covered in blood. She stared at it for a moment, looking confused as if she wasn’t sure where the blood had come from.

  Fuck.

  “Let me check your head, okay?” I looked into her eyes, needing her permission.

  She swallowed hard and nodded.

  I knelt behind her, trying to be as gentle as I could. I parted her hair, matted down with blood and seawater. There was a three-inch gash on her head that looked like it might need stitches. That son of a bitch. My fingers brushed over it lightly, but I heard her sharp intake of breath that told me it hurt like hell.

  “We need to get you to the ER.”

  Travis had joined us to assist and nodded in agreement, his face serious.

  “No. I don’t need a hospital. No doctors. I’m fine. I just need… just give me a few minutes. I’ll be okay.”

 
“You might need stitches.”

  She shook her head, trying to hide the way that action made her wince.

  “You need a doctor,” Travis said, his concern for her well-being genuine. “You don’t want to mess around with head injuries.”

  Remy shook her head again, adamant that she wasn’t going.

  “If you’re scared, I’ll be with you. You can hold my hand. Whatever you need. But we need to get you—”

  “No. I can’t go to the hospital,” she said, her voice quiet but resolute. “Even a quick trip to the ER is expensive.”

  She wasn’t scared. She was worried about the money. If she even had health insurance, it was probably a shitty plan. I exhaled. “Don’t worry about the money, Remy. I’ll—”

  “No,” she said forcefully. “I’m not going to the hospital.”

  I exhaled loudly, knowing I couldn’t force her to go if she didn’t want to.

  “Is there someone you can call? Your mom or something?” Travis asked.

  He didn’t know about her home situation because I’d never told him. It was none of his business and I knew that Remy wouldn’t appreciate it if I betrayed her confidence.

  “No. It’s okay. I’ll just… I’m fine.” She stood and took a few steps up the beach.

  She swayed on her feet and I steadied her with my hands on her upper arms.

  “Whoa. Head rush.” No sooner were the words out, she pulled away from me and bent at the waist, vomiting on the sand while I held her hair back, Travis shaking his head, his expression grim like this was bad. All kinds of bad.

  She straightened and tried to muster a smile. “Well, that was gross.”

  “Just sit down for a minute.” I applied gentle pressure to her shoulders until she did as I asked. “I’m going to take care of you, okay? It’s all good.” I turned to Travis. “Look after her for a minute.”

  “Where are you going?” He looked panicked at being left alone with Remy. I nearly laughed.

  “I have something I need to take care of,” I said, already walking away.