by Lexi Scott
But then real life happened. My parents broke up, my dad started his downward spiral, and I took over as head of the household—which meant the instances of me feeling creative, or even thinking about expending the kind of energy creating something takes, just dwindled and faded away. The last time I’d drawn anything at all was way back in the first semester of college, when I still had hope things would change for the better and all my best-laid plans would finally work out. At least while I was still in school, I had an excuse to waste time on things like art. I made sure to work some art class into my schedule each semester.
Until I couldn’t afford those extra classes anymore. Until Dad found the money I squirreled away for books and spent it on a few bottles of whisky. Until we’d left another dingy apartment for an even dingier one. Until I had to up my part-time hours to full-time, then think about going full-time with a part-time job on the side. And then I’d had no choice but to drop out of school altogether.
This is what Cohen can’t understand. This is why I can’t drag him into my life. Pick one problem to fix and three others pop up. It’s an endless cycle.
Thinking that makes me jittery with nerves, so I focus on the good stuff. The fact that I have these spare few hours to draw. I had that gorgeous night with Cohen and that amazing day out on the waves, cuddled by the fire, in his arms…
God, I’d give anything to be back in his arms right now.
I take a deep breath of the thick ocean air and start outlining to redirect my attention to something other than my brain’s relentless wishful thinking cycle. A rough, uneven line to represent the shore, jagged peaks for rocks, and squiggly lines for calm water. The surf isn’t great this morning, and one by one, I’ve watched the surfers give up for the day and make their way up from the shore.
I dig my toes into the sand and try to grasp just how much my life has changed from the time when I was a hopeful student with a shiny new set of classes and a fulfilling future in front of her to a depressingly single, underemployed loser, living with her alcoholic dad. Instead of getting bogged down in the inevitable suckiness of my life in general, I focus on this moment in particular and remember exactly why I used to frequent this spot on the beach when I needed inspiration. It’s perfect because the main crowds stay farther south since the sand is a little rocky over here, but I don’t mind it. I just put down a double layer of towels and I’m good.
Alone, peaceful, perfect.
I did second-guess whether I should go to a different beach or even sit up on the pier this morning because now I know where Cohen’s place is— It’s less than one hundred yards from where I’m sitting now. If it weren’t for the huge rock formation next to me, I’d be able to see a straight shot to his gorgeous home.
It was a risk picking this spot. But a calculated one.
Maybe if I run into him, it’ll quash some of this awkwardness between us. We still haven’t had a normal conversation since just before the bonfire died out, when his tongue was on my neck and his hands were…Christ… Maybe seeing him will only make the awkwardness worse.
Focus, Maren. On something other than the way his arms felt when they pulled you tight…
I press my pencil back to the pad, but the line is all wrong. It’s too thick and dark and heavy-handed. I close my eyes and let the wind swirl through my hair, transforming it to a knotted mess, no doubt, but I’ve got to relax. Since the morning I ran to help my father, and put out one of a thousand never-ending fires, I’ve been wound tighter than ever. I feel like I wasted so much time running to be at his side after another drinking binge. And for what?
Maybe I need to face the fact that my father just might not get better. Maybe I need to accept that his rock bottom may be way lower than I’m willing to stick around for. Maybe Cohen’s right, and I need to ask for help.
But I’m scared.
He’s my father. The way he sang the other day… I swear there’s a piece of him alive and well under the drunk mess, and maybe something will save him. Maybe the music will. Sure, some of his new band mates make my skin crawl, but if they can pull him out of the ugly place he’s in now…?
I may not have been enough to persuade him to walk away from the bottle, but maybe the music will be.
Maybe my father and I just need a clean slate.
And I definitely need a fresh piece of paper. I unclasp the clip and turn to the next page in my sketch pad, smooth it down, and re-clip.
“Maren?” a voice I know so well makes a hot, sweet shiver run up and down my back. I pause for a moment, wondering if I’m imagining it, but the wet droplets collecting on my towel say that, no, this is really happening. Right now.
React Maren. Say hello. I owe him that much at least, after he offered me help and I shoved his friendship back in his face.
I slowly raise my gaze, taking in the tanned and toned legs, the abs that no furniture salesman has the right to have, and that jet black hair dripping water onto his broad shoulders, down his chest, and even lower to…
“What are you doing here?” he asks, his lips curled up in a smile.
He’s happy to see you. Isn’t it nice to have someone genuinely happy to see you, instead of just relieved you’re there to get them out of their latest mess?
I swallow hard.
“Hello, Cohen. Me? I’m just drawing.” I hold the pad up as evidence and start to blab like I’m guilty. It’s like I’m outside my body, watching myself act like a huge fool, and there’s nothing at all I can do to stop it. “I know you live nearby. I swear I wasn’t hoping to run into you or anything. Really, I just—”
“Maren, it’s okay. It’s a public beach. You have just as much of a right to be here as I do. Even if your page is blank.” Cohen winks at me, and I want to crumple myself up like a piece of paper to avoid this particularly hellish embarrassment. “Surf is terrible today.” He graciously changes the subject.
“I keep seeing people drag their boards back to their cars, all dejected. I had fun surfing with you the other day.” I watch the corners of his mouth twitch up into a pleased smile, and I feel a flash of satisfaction. “I hadn’t been in such a long time. My father—” I start to tell him how my dad lost yet another job, and I had no choice but to hock the board my mother had given me for Christmas. But the last thing I need is another story about my pathetic life. Cohen will jump back into superhero mode, and that’s too irresistible right now and the worst idea ever. I want to yell to him, Get out of here! Save yourself! My life is a mess you don’t want any part of! A better person would try harder to warn him away. “Never mind.”
Right. So, apparently I’m not that good a person.
He’s practically naked and dripping wet… You’re a red-blooded woman. Give yourself some slack.
“We’ll have to go again sometime. I’m out here almost every morning, and the waves are usually way better than this,” Cohen says, running his palm across the smooth surface of his board.
I’ve never wanted to be an inanimate object so badly in my entire life.
“Absolutely. I’d really like that,” I say, keeping my voice steady and hopefully concealing the raw lust bubbling up inside me.
I hold my hand up in an attempt to block out the rising sun when Cohen locks his dark eyes on mine. We stare at each other for what should be an uncomfortable amount of time, but it isn’t, because I’d love to stare at him longer. All the time, actually.
Careful…
“Listen, Maren. I need to talk to you about something and—”
My stomach turns in knots. It’s the very cliché beginning of, What we had was really cool, but…
I should be happy. This is what I wanted, right? Cohen to come to his senses and say sayonara to me and all my messiness.
I thought he was getting too attached. That would have been dangerous. This is definitely a much better problem.
Maybe if I keep telling myself that, I’ll make myself believe it.
“Please don’t…” I pause and let my cour
age build for a few seconds.
Which is totally necessary when I’m being faced with Cohen, in all his wet, sexy glory, telling me that the little perfection we had wasn’t good enough after all. It’s the last damn thing I need to hear today. I just want to hold on to the “wrong time” illusion about our doomed romance.
I take a deep breath and dive in. “Don’t say that you regret that night. Don’t say how it was a mistake, because I can’t take hearing that right now,” I confess.
Maybe it’s too much honesty to lay out here, on a sunny public beach so many nights after our amazing, hot, stolen moment, but I can’t keep it inside anymore. He’s got to know.
“I wasn’t—” Cohen pauses to clear his throat. “I promise you I don’t think it was a mistake.” The sincerity in his voice, combined with the way his gaze rakes over me, instantly convinces me that he doesn’t regret the scene in the kitchen.
Or the one in his bedroom after.
Or the one that got stopped short by the embers of a bonfire the other night.
I nervously pull my bottom lip in, waiting for him to finish.
“Can we just go somewhere and talk? I have some dry clothes in my car, and there’s a place right up the beach with amazing Mexican food if you’re game. I’d really like to buy you lunch.”
I let my eyes wander one more time on his exposed stomach, dreading the minute he pulls a shirt on, and nod. “That sounds good.”
The restaurant is uncomfortably packed. They’ve crammed us into a booth that should maybe fit two toddlers, not full grown people like Cohen and me. Still, being close enough to smell the sand and ocean on him isn’t exactly a negative.
I tap the edge of my cardboard coaster on the mosaic table top.
“Well, what’s good here?” I ask.
Cohen presses his back against the booth and stretches his long legs out. One of his knees knocks into mine, but neither one of us flinch away from the touch.
“Their enchiladas are killer. Not as good as my mom’s, but still awesome. The flautas are pretty bomb, too. What do you like?”
What do I like? Easy. You.
I shake my head at myself and smirk.
“What? What’d I say?” Cohen asks, propping his elbows on the table and leaning in close to me.
Bad idea, Cohen. He’s hard to resist from afar— This close makes it almost impossible.
“Nothing.” I shake my head. “I think I’ll just get the quesadillas. That sounds safe, right?”
I love being here with Cohen, I do, but part of me feels like this is a really bad idea. I’ve been trying to convince myself to stay away from him, and then I all but stalked him out. Now we’re at lunch, and it suddenly feels like I’ve maybe made this happen, and I know damn well it shouldn’t be.
Cohen lets out a laugh that smooths the creases in my mood.
“I’m sure they’re great. Do you want a drink?” he asks, as the waiter approaches.
“Bottle of Sapporo?” I ask.
A smile stretches across his face. “Ah, that’s my girl. Good choice.”
I know he doesn’t mean anything deep by it, but it feels good to know that he approves. And it feels amazing to hear him call me “my girl.”
Cohen orders for us, and it doesn’t feel possessive or weird. It feels like it should. Like a gentlemanly gesture. We both nurse our beers a bit before he finally speaks again.
“I meant what I said on the beach.” His voice drips raw sexiness over the words, without a hint of hesitation. “What happened at my house, what almost happened at the bonfire— That wasn’t a mistake either time. At least not for me.”
I glance up from the bottle’s label, which I’ve been picking at to keep myself from grabbing Cohen by the collar and yanking him over to me for a hot kiss.
Get it together, Maren! You have zero self-control lately.
I open my mouth to speak, but he isn’t finished.
“You, Maren… You are so not what I expected to fall into my life right now. You’re beautiful, and smart, and you just get things… And you’re so damn sexy.” His voice goes rough on the last few words, and parts of me start throbbing that shouldn’t while we’re in public. “I just… I don’t want you to think that night at my place was some rebound thing for me, because it wasn’t. You aren’t. But I get that your family life is a little complicated right now, so I am sorry if I stepped out of line and butted in where I shouldn’t have.”
“Maybe…I think that you…” I screw my eyes shut and get up the nerve. He’s clearly admitting things he’s nervous to admit. Why can’t I be brave enough to do the same? “I think you might be right. I think I could use some help,” I spit out.
The second those words are out of my mouth, I want to suck them back in. I want to get up and run far away, because he’s going to say this is good, that I’m brave, but the truth is I’m a total coward. If I were brave, I never would have invited him into my mess. He has no clue what he’s asking for.
Cohen jerks his head back in surprise and then relaxes a bit and takes a long pull from his beer. “What do you need?” He utters those four words with tight control.
“I made a mistake,” I say, trying to stand.
Cohen puts his hand on my wrist, rubs his thumb over my racing pulse point. “Maren, look at me.” I follow his instructions, and the panic fades the second our eyes meet. “I know this is hard for you to say. I can only imagine what it would be like if someone in my family was being so self-destructive. I understand loyalty. I know it’s asking a lot, but I want to ask you to…to trust me. To let me try to help, and to forgive me if I screw up.”
My throat is completely closed. My eyes sting.
“You think you need to ask me for forgiveness?” I croak out.
“Fuck,” he mutters, his lips turning down in a frown. “I’m sorry. That was presumptuous of me. It came out wrong and—”
“No.” I make good on my desire to tug him closer. I kiss him hard on the lips, and for a few seconds longer than would be acceptable by the most lenient PDA standards, our mouths are locked. When I pull away, I smile because I shocked the crap out of him.
“You listen to me now, Cohen,” I tell him. He nods, dumbfounded. “You are the most generous, incredible man I’ve ever met, and I’m humbled by the fact that you want to help. I know you’re used to fixing things. But this situation is really messed up. I don’t know that it’s fixable.”
There.
I said it.
I voiced my worst fear, said the words I don’t dare to even think. It feels like a concrete slab has been lifted off my body. I suck air in like I’m breathing for the first time in months.
“Oh, it’s fixable,” Cohen says with confidence that’s almost infuriating.
“Cohen…” I begin, but his smile shuts me up.
“Look, I’m pretty damn good at fixing things,” he says. “And you’re amazing at fixing things. I know you must feel like you’ve been failing, but you’re single-handedly keeping yourself and your father afloat through all the struggles. That’s incredible, Maren. That’s not something to be ashamed of. Neither is asking for help.”
I’m flooded with this buzzy mixture of relief and hope and happiness that only has the tiniest dash of trepidation mixed in.
“Thank you,” I say. For the first time, I realize just how pathetic those words are when you really, really mean them.
Cohen takes my hand. “You’re welcome.”
We sit in that perfect quiet moment until the food arrives, and we both kind of lunge for it like we’re starved. The truth takes energy, and that makes you hungry as hell.
“Good?” Cohen asks, as I stuff a bite of tortilla and cheese into my mouth.
I nod. “So good. Yours?”
“Excellent. Always is. Genevieve used to date the cook. I’m seriously glad he doesn’t hold a grudge, because I eat here at least once a week.”
I love knowing little things about Cohen like this. Pointless things maybe, but sti
ll, it’s more information about him and what he does outside the confines of Rodriguez Family Furnishings. Getting to know these fun Cohen facts makes me all tingly and fills me with an ache to be a bigger part of that outside-of-work life.
“I get that. I’m still Facebook friends with my sister’s ex from high school. He’s a doctor now, and he definitely gives me the ‘sister of the one who got away’ discount. I can’t turn that kind of free medical help down.”
Cohen nods in agreement, but he looks uncomfortable.
“Speaking of Facebook—” he starts.
I roll my eyes. “Oh no. Did I just open some weird cyber can of worms? Did you search me? I haven’t looked at my account in months, so I’m sorry for whatever my asshole friends might have posted on my wall.”
He swallows hard and puts his food down, like he’s not remotely comfortable saying what he’s about to say. “I have to tell you something that may be none of my business. I actually wanted Cece to talk to you about it, just because I don’t want you to feel like I’m prying or telling you who to be around.”
“What is it?” I lean in, unsure if I want anyone else in this establishment to hear whatever horrifying thing Cohen is about to tell me. My palms are clammy with icy sweat, and I just want him to tell me already.
“So Whit works at a tattoo place. Anyway, she put two and two together after Deo talked about your father’s band and she realized she knows a friend of his who came in to get some ink…”
I feel a clamp of dread. My father’s friends are a pretty dicey crew, and who knows what the hell kind of stories they’d want to tell, thinking they were hilarious, while normal people would be completely shocked and appalled. I hope it wasn’t Teeth. He has this story about his ex-wife and her nipple tassels that I blush just thinking about.
“Gen pulled him up on Facebook just to be sure, and Whit was positive. He was talking about doing more gigs with your father. The thing is, Rocko, the owner of the tattoo place, knows of him, and his reputation is bad. Really bad. And Rocko’s a seriously levelheaded guy, so you can trust his opinion. The guy’s name is Murdock.”
