by Lexi Scott
And it makes me wonder, all over again, what’s going on between Cohen and me. I tried to tell myself that one amazing night was enough, that I could keep my distance. But now that I’ve spent the day with him, I know I won’t be happy avoiding him, though I have no choice.
“What’s the plan for the rest of the night?” I ask to keep my thoughts away from Cohen and me and hot, never-ending sex.
“Deo will pull out his guitar— He’s pretty damn awful, but he’s convinced he’s California’s answer to Jack Johnson. Whit made sure we brought stuff to make s’mores. The kids will talk a big game about staying up all night, but they’ll be wrecked from spending all day on the waves.” He cocks one eyebrow. “I hear it’s gonna be an awesome night for stargazing.”
Before I can answer, Deo comes by with a pile of firewood. “Cohen, you were a Boy Scout, right? Come on over and help me get this fire started.”
I watch as they attempt to start the fire, which draws the teenagers back. The night unfolds pretty much the way Cohen laid it out— Deo’s not half bad with the guitar, and he has a great, rich voice. Marshmallows get passed around, and we all argue over the best way to toast them.
“Even, all the way around. A toasted crust, a gooey middle,” Cohen advises, rolling his eyes as Deo’s third marshmallow explodes in a ball of fire.
“I like ’em charred,” Deo declares.
I notice Darren offering Kona one he cooked. Instead of taking it out of his hand, she grins and eats it from his fingers. The shocked look on his face makes the other campers burst out laughing.
“We should sing a Zero Mile song,” Kona announces, and I know it’s mostly to dispel the awkwardness that’s descended between her and Darren. He’s still staring at his hand in disbelief. “Maren’s dad was in that band. How freaking cool is that?”
“No kidding?” Deo asks, eyes wide. “‘Down to Friday’ was one of the first songs I ever learned to play.”
“Love that song!” Kona shrieks, bouncing on the driftwood. “You gotta play it, Deo.”
“Yeah?” Deo looks over to me, and I feel like they’re all waiting for me to give my blessing.
That song… The one my father wrote for my mother. The one he played on an endless loop after the divorce. The one I curled into a ball and cried to while my world fell apart.
How am I going to listen to that song here, now?
“Maybe we should play something else,” Cohen says, his voice soft but firm. “Are you okay, Maren?” he asks lower, for my ears only.
I’m staring at Deo, feeling like a stupid deer in a tractor-trailer’s headlights, my voice lodged in my throat. But then Cohen reaches for my hand in the dark and curls his fingers through mine.
“I’m fine,” I say, and I’m shocked to realize I mean it.
Deo strums, and I close my eyes, my mind flipping through mental snapshots of my parents together during happier times—dancing barefoot in the kitchen, piling us into the car, Mom in her bikini, for a day on the waves, sitting around the campfire—just like I am right now—my dad the one cradling a guitar, my mom the one singing the song he wrote for her.
I clear my throat and come in, a little late, a little scratchy. The only sounds besides the guitar and my wobbling voice are the crackle of the flames and the hiss and pull of the waves.
“Down to Friday, the week’s run long, home to her arms, the fear all gone,” I sing slowly, savoring each word. Kona pipes in, then Javi, Darren, Deo, the other kids, and, finally, his voice gorgeous and smooth with mine, Cohen sings the last verse, and my heart is like a bird that was trapped in the tiniest cage for way too long. The way our voices rise together, making a jagged melody so raw it gives me shivers, sounds like the click of a lock. The creak of hinges. The rush of my heart’s wings, spread wide and exploding in flight.
Finally.
My fingers tighten around Cohen’s, and he pulls me to his side. I wish I could lean my ear against his body and hear his voice along with the beat of his heart. When the song fades out, Kona smiles at me.
“Wow. Just when I thought this day couldn’t get any more epic.” She stretches her long arms over her head and runs her hands through her short, wind-tousled hair. “I don’t know about you guys, but I know when to tap out. This night couldn’t get any freaking better, and I want to be up with the sun to catch the first waves.”
Deo salutes her. The guys all follow her lead, stretching and yawning, plodding off to tents one by one. They’ll almost certainly nosedive onto their sleeping bags, bodies crusted with salt, teeth un-brushed, and sleep like the dead, the way only teenagers seem able to.
“You must be wrecked,” Cohen says, his voice curling against my ear. “It’s been a hell of a long day.”
I should be ready for bed, but I’m in that strange place where tired gives way to exhausted and then goes to some strangely wired beyond. My body and brain buzz with an alertness I know I can’t stamp down.
“Actually, I think I’m going to check out those stars, ” I say, nodding to the fire. “You and Deo can hit the hay if you want. I promise I’ll be super careful about putting out the fire.”
“Trying to get rid of me so quick?” Cohen teases, but it doesn’t sound like it’s a joke. His dark eyes study my face, but I can’t read what he’s thinking.
All I see is the reflection of the dancing flames, and that makes me think of sexy things. Dangerous things. Things I need to stop thinking about for my own damn good and his.
“Not at all,” I say, snuggling just an inch closer to him. “You were up early getting ready, and then you drove all day. You must be wrecked.”
“Not really.”
“Honestly? You’re not exhausted?”
“I guess there are things I’d rather do than sleep.”
Just when I’m sure something’s going to happen—something that may be a really bad idea—Deo’s voice cuts through the moment.
“Cohen, you mind helping me—” He walks over, sees us, and says, “Oh, sorry. Seriously, never mind. I’ve got it.” He tosses some gear on top of the cooler and struggles to move it without dropping crap all over the sand.
I hear the breath hiss out between Cohen’s teeth. “I better—”
“Of course,” I jump in, trying to make this whole awkward thing less awkward.
Good luck with that, I think to myself. You can’t ignore sexual tension that’s hotter than a damn bonfire.
He looks reluctant, but Cohen gets up to help Deo, and they both order me to sit down when I attempt to lend a hand. I can’t make out what they say, but a few minutes later, Deo walks back to his tent and Cohen strides back to my side, a few small logs cradled in his arms.
“Tell me the truth. Are you really planning to stay up for a bit? You’re not too tired?”
I nod. He raises an eyebrow.
“I swear,” I say, and he kneels down, setting more wood on the fire. I slip down onto the sand and lean my back on the driftwood we were perched on all night, my feet so close to the fire my soles feel like they might wind up engulfed in flames at any second.
I don’t pull back. Something about today, tonight, makes me want to take all kinds of risks.
Cohen sits so close to me I can feel his body heat. He throws an arm casually over the back of the driftwood, almost around my shoulders.
What are we doing? Be careful, Maren. Your resistance is pretty damn weak when it comes to Cohen Rodriguez…
“This brings back so many memories,” he says, his voice low and soothing.
I tip my head to the side, almost letting it lean on his shoulder. “Yeah?”
“My dad was always super big into the camping thing, you know? Dragging his brood out to brave the wild in shabby tents, ready to surf at dawn. We complained like crazy as kids, but those are some of my best memories today.”
We shift our bodies in the sand, and though it’s not entirely clear how, we wind up kind of in each other’s arms. I’m somehow half sitting on his lap, his lips gra
zing my temple, our fingers locked together on top of the cooling sand.
“Funny how you take things for granted as a kid,” I say, half hypnotized by the flames, his touch, the possibilities I’m not supposed to be contemplating—but am. “It never crossed my mind my family could fall apart the way it did.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, the fingers of his free hand stroking my hair. I nuzzle into his touch.
“There’s no reason for you to be sorry. You had nothing to do with how fucked up my life is,” I say with an unconvincing smile, my lame attempt to hide the hurt that just keeps welling up, a scab I can’t stop picking until it bleeds over and over.
“I’m sorry that you have to deal with that kind of pain every day,” he says, like he can see the scars I’m trying so hard to keep hidden. “I’m sorry you had to deal with things too big for your shoulders, probably when you were way too young.”
I close my eyes and squeeze his hand tight. “Sometimes it just feels like I’ve been dropped in a huge, confusing labyrinth, and I have no clue how to get out. Or if there’s even an exit.”
I’ve never admitted this to anyone, and it feels equally wonderful and vulnerable to let it all out in front of Cohen. I keep telling myself I like things flirty, sexy, fun when it comes to him. If that’s true, why do I keep getting closer than I should? Why do I keep tempting fate?
Because what’s happening right now between us is so much more than flirty or sexy or fun.
It’s real.
This is an entirely new level of dangerous.
“I’m really good at mazes,” he tells me, his voice so calm and sure I can just sink into it. The logs collapse in an orange geyser of sparks, and I jump, then wiggle just a little bit closer to him, to his solid, comforting strength.
I shouldn’t let myself get used to how good it feels to be so close to him, but I can’t stop. I can’t resist having someone else even offer to share the burden after so long of going at this all on my own.
“I wouldn’t even let you into the crazy labyrinth of my life,” I attempt to joke. “What if we both get lost?”
“We won’t.” I envy the confidence in his voice. “Anyway, say there’s an off chance we did get lost? I’d always choose being stuck somewhere crappy with you over being somewhere awesome without you.”
I know it’s just the magic of the night—the dance of the fire, the crash of the waves, the gorgeous splash of stars on the inky sky, the echoes of my parents’ love song in the cooling air—that makes it so easy to feel this close to him.
It all conspires to make us start to open up. To talk about past loves. Future hopes. Present worries.
It makes held hands turn to exploring fingers.
And then words fade, the fire dies to glowing coals, the sky goes from the black of deep night to gray dawn, and I’m staring into Cohen’s dark eyes, his fingers planted against the nape of my neck possessively, his mouth so close I taste his words before he says them.
“Maren, I’m going to kiss you. And I’m not stopping. If you don’t want this, you need say ‘no’ now.” It’s a dare.
He’s playing chicken, and I’m waiting, shaking, for the perfect crash of his mouth on mine.
“Yes,” I whisper, and the hiss of my S is tangled in his tongue.
I’m Alice, tumbling down a perfect rabbit hole. I cling to him, my fevered body sinking in the cool sand, and he deepens the kiss, his tongue licking at my lips, begging me to let him in.
My mouth opens for him, and he moves his hands up and down my back, caressing me gently despite the frantic way I press to him, like I can’t kiss and lick and taste quickly enough. The tips of my fingers run along his jaw, over the new stubble, and it feels so intimate.
I want to watch him shave every morning and kiss his soft face, sleep in his arms, and wake up to the burn of his stubble when he nuzzles my bare skin.
I twist my body closer to his, pressing against him so hard it almost hurts. And I embrace that, the subtle pain. It keeps me from getting too caught up in dreams that just can’t be reality. Maybe someday, but not right now.
“Maren,” he breathes, pulling back before he tugs me tighter, his strong arms cradling me. “I want you. Not just a quickie on the beach. I. Want. You.”
I bury my face in his neck and breathe the smell of salt and surf on his skin. When I press my lips right over the artery that pulses hard—for me?—I taste salt. I remember this perfect day, and I dare to wonder…
What if today wasn’t magic? What if it wasn’t something delicate and impossible? What if this could be—my new normal?
My everyday?
I’m not asking fate for a sign. I’m actually holding my breath, hoping things stay exactly where they are, in that delicate balance between possibility and reality for another few seconds when—
“My phone,” I mutter, my brain spinning.
“Who’d be calling you at”—Cohen checks his phone—“four in the morning?”
He looks nervous, like any rational person would be. A call at four a.m. means “emergency.” It is completely out of the ordinary.
For a normal person with a normal life.
In the chaotic labyrinth of my existence, it means—
“Dad? Are you okay?”
Chapter Fourteen
Cohen
It’s not her father.
It’s a woman, a friend of her dad’s. Letting Maren know her father drank a lot, apparently more than he usually does, and I get the impression he isn’t exactly moderate when it comes to alcohol consumption. When she woke up after their Bacchanalia, his breathing was super shallow. She called the ambulance.
I try to hold her, to give her a second of comfort, but she pushes me away, almost robotically.
“I’m okay,” she says through clenched teeth.
“Are you?” I ask, standing with her, pouring the bucket of water over the fire, then kicking sand on it, more to deal with my frustration than because it’s necessary.
“It’s happened before. Too many times to count,” she says, her voice shaky. “Look… When I told you my life is insane, this is what I meant, okay?”
Her words are brittle, defensive. She won’t look at me at first, and when I finally manage to get her to focus on me, I don’t see tears in her eyes like I expected. They’re blank, shuttered.
She’s putting up a wall to keep me out, and I hate that.
“Everyone has unexpected emergencies, Maren,” I say, catching her by the shoulders. “You don’t need to face this alone. I’m right here.”
I watch her chew on her lips, before she shakes her head. “You have no idea how much that means to me. How much I appreciate you saying that. The thing is, everyone has emergencies once in a while. You’re offering to help me because you think this is something I need to work through before I get back to normal life. What you’re not hearing is that this is normal life for me. If my father isn’t in the ER, he’s in jail,” she says, her voice harsh around the word. “Or being a nuisance to neighbors. Cursing out people who try to help him. Walking away from opportunities. Burning bridges. That’s my normal.”
“That’s his normal,” I protest, and she shakes her head again, her blue eyes so cold and hopeless it scares me.
“He’s my father, Cohen. As bad as it is with me at his side, do you have any idea how much worse it would be if I just walked away? He’d wind up in the morgue. I know that in my heart. And as pissed off as I get at him, I could never, ever let that happen.”
“I understand,” I say, even though I really don’t. My parents are rock solid, responsible, and totally self-sufficient. I have no idea what Maren is facing or what I’d do if I were in her shoes. “But there has to be another answer. You can’t just let him pull you under. There has to be a way to help him without giving up your life.”
She shrugs. “We’ve been through AA, detox, rehab… He gets better, he gets worse.” She runs a hand through her dark hair, and a few quick tears streak down her cheeks.
“It’s so much more complicated than anyone thinks. He used to go months without drinking a drop. Then weeks. Now he can’t go a day. But he gets arrested less. Doesn’t fight as much.” Her laugh is hard. “So, is it getting better or worse?” She hangs her head. “I don’t know.”
“Let me help,” I offer, reaching a hand out to rub her arm. She turns to the side, out of my reach. “I want to help.”
“I know you do,” she says, looking me right in the eye. “Because you’re an incredibly good person. But my dad, his problems— It’s like fighting the undertow, Cohen. You’d get swallowed up by all this…” She holds her hands out and closes her eyes, swiping tears away with her wrist. “I can’t let that happen to you.”
“Then how do you expect me to let it happen to you?” I demand, fury at her father’s manipulation racing hot through me.
“I’m not fighting it,” she says, her voice haggard. “I’m just waiting it out.”
“That doesn’t sound like much of a life,” I say, the stark truth of my words hanging in the air between us.
She gives me a sad smile. “It’s not. That’s why I can’t ask you to be a part of it.”
“Maren—”
“If you really want to help me, could you get me a ride home as soon possible? He’s being cared for, he’s just resting now, but the sooner I get in touch with Medicaid the better. It always takes days to straighten this out.”
I hate the way her shoulders buckle. I hate how defeated she looks.
How can this be the same Maren who’s saved my family’s business from a thousand near disasters? The Maren who’s calmed me down and walked me through exactly what I have to do to make things right?
I guess it’s a world of difference when the “problem” you’re trying to solve is a complicated, damaged person you love.
“Of course I’ll get you back,” I say. “And if you need anything else—?”
She nods. “I do.” She looks me dead in the eye. “I’m fine with us meeting up to hang out and have fun. But… I’m drawing the line at anything serious. I need you to promise me you’ll back off when it comes to my personal life, Cohen. These are my problems. Not yours. Promise me.”
