More Than His Best Friend (More Than Best Friends Book 1)

by Sally Henson

  He takes his napkin and wipes across his mouth. “You know a business degree is very versatile. As bad as the economy is here, you could find work with a business degree.”

  There's been something gnawing at me, a hint, a gut feeling, possibly prophecy of sorts that this would be coming. If I wasn't already angry from talking about Lane's situation I might curl up in a ball right now in this chair and weep. Instead, my invisible curtain is shielding me. “You think I should dump my dream of becoming a marine scientist, one I've had for four years, which, I might add, you both have supported?” I slink down in my chair looking at, but not seeing, my dad.

  “How many marine scientists are employed in Illinois? It's just not a good location for marine science.”

  “I don't plan on staying in Illinois, you know this. I want to be near the coast, the Gulf coast.” I grip the table. My heart thumps painfully in my chest. I'm still trying to claw my way back to support.

  “Illinois may be a little more depressed economically than the Gulf coast, but that line of work is very narrow.”

  “I still have four or five more years of school before I graduate college.” Why am I bothering? I know that tone. He's already made up his mind. “What will the economy look like in four years, Dad?”

  He shakes his head. “It could be better or it could be worse.”

  “So—you don't know. Brilliant.” Yikes, that was a little too sassy.

  His lips spread into a thin line. “That’s enough. Think about other options, Regan.”

  I manage to find the strength to sit up straight again. “Come on Dad, you—”

  He slaps the table. “I said that was enough.” He doesn't want to hear anything else from me.

  Air rushes out of my lungs and across my lips leaving me hunched over. How can he do this to me? And Mom sits there and says nothing! I'll think about my options, all right. I’ll think about how far away I can get from this place.

  After staring out the window and across the lawn for a while, sulking, I take the dishes into the kitchen to wash up and do some laundry I started earlier. It's dusk by the time I finish and the blue moon will be out soon.

  I pad into the living room to address my parents where they sit and read. Mom usually has Dinah Washington or Diana Krall playing in the background. “There's a blue moon tonight. I probably won't be able to see it from the patio or gazebo. Would it be alright to go to the creek?” I don't expect any pushback for wanting to be outside tonight, but want to get permission after the conversation we had earlier. One thing's for certain, I don't want to hang around here and encourage the dream-killing spree.

  “Sure, sweetie,” Mom replies. “Make sure you spray for mosquitoes.”

  Dad looks up over his cheap reading glasses. “Be careful.”

  “I will.”

  “Are you working tomorrow?” Dad reminds me. It's really a warning so I won't stay out too long.

  “Yes.” I give short answers to keep my facade and get out of here faster.

  37

  Regan

  The mask I’ve been wearing since Lane brought me home cracks with every step away from my house. Dad’s comments about boys and changing my plans for my future has my head swirling.

  Tears stream down my face as soon as I make it to the path. It seems like I've cried more in the last week than I have the last ten years. I wipe my wet face on the blanket and begin to run, sprinting to the end, hoping to leave behind my dad's words and the darkness they bring to me, to my future. My focus turns to the sound of my step, the whooshing in and out of my breath, and the faint sonata being played by nature's orchestra—anything to rid me of these thoughts, this shadow that’s trying to swallow me.

  I burst through the finish line of trees and find myself in the middle of the waterfront plain. Glistening with sweat and relief, I carefully take in my surroundings with a three-sixty view. I’m a little girl showing off her new dress twirling in circles. It’s breathtaking.

  Everything from the small clover blossoms to the leaves of the trees is glowing with silvery light. Light brilliant as day and soft as night. A current of air swirls and wicks away some of the salty moisture from my skin. Goose bumps rise instead. A faint wow escapes my lips at the sight of the creek water. Gingerly moving closer to the water's edge and leaning over, I see a perfect reflection outstretched before me. The blue moon's silvery light has created a mirrored effect on top the water.

  For minutes on end, I stare at the mirrored surface, admiring the reflections, and mesmerized by the moon itself. The satellite's dimples and splatters, shades of darkness and light, show details of the abundant collisions it's endured from cosmic debris. I've been standing here motionless for so long a bullfrog comes out of hiding and jumps into the water, sending ripples throughout my mirror. I'd set the lantern and blanket on the bench on my way to the edge of the bank. It's time to spread it out and gaze at the beauty surrounding me.

  I lie back with ankles crossed and hands clasped behind my head—eyes to the heavens. The mix of grass and weeds press unevenly against my back underneath the blanket. Breathe.

  Ugh, the dark cloud of my dad's words I sprinted away from in the woods has tracked me here, slicing through the beauty around me and wraps itself around my torso like a boa constrictor. Why is Dad jumping on this “realistic” career bandwagon?

  He doesn't normally follow the crowd. His love of nature is what spurred my exploration of marine science. On our walks in the woods as a child, with my brother and Mom, he was always teaching about our surroundings.

  I turn on my side and curl into a ball trying to hold myself together. He’s the one who taught me what plants were poisonous, which were edible, which one’s animals ate, all that stuff. He explained how the circle of life works, and that nature is God's amazingly complex, yet simple, creation. He even took notes in a journal about the changes he saw. Still, to this day, he takes water samples from the creek and sends them off for testing to check the chemicals and their concentrations.

  He should’ve been a biology teacher or something. Marine science isn't that different from walking through the woods, taking notes and samples in rural Stelmo, Illinois. Swap the country roads and woods for beaches and oceans, and I'm on the Gulf coast. My body is heavy with the thought of defeat.

  This isn't some new career of the month. I've been talking about this since I saw an old Jacques Cousteau documentary on television when I was in seventh grade. I wrap my thumb in my shirt and wipe the tears away. Dad's always encouraged my thirst for knowledge about all science. I don't understand why he thinks it’s unrealistic now. I'm just—so surprised, and hurt. It's like a slap across the face. I snuff. An actual strike across my cheek would hurt less than him turning his back on me like this. My chest feels like he's standing on it right now.

  Tears begin to well up again. I slam my palms against my lids and wipe the dampness from my lashes. I need to be strong. My eyes pop open and I force oxygen and positive thoughts into my body. With my teeth clenched, I blow out the toxic air and negativity until my lungs squeeze every possible ounce of air out.

  The combination of rancid gossip mixed with the fear of not getting out of here and the wavering support from my Dad has this knot in my chest feeling extra painful. Yes, I need something beautiful in my life right now, something positive. There's beauty hanging in the sky above me. My blue moon. It’s not enough, but it’s all I have at the moment.

  There's something about a full moon that seems so pure and romantic. Add a little science and it can be irresistible. In the middle of this beauty, I know the ugly shadow of pain is written all over my face. If I keep going through the science of the moon, maybe I’ll forget about it all and stop hurting.

  Scientists and astrologers often refer to the moon as feminine. The moon is well represented in mythology, too. Selene or Artemis is the goddess of the moon for the Greeks. Roman mythology's goddess of the moon is Luna or Diana. Which is why scientists also call the moon Luna. That’s wher
e the term lunar eclipse came.

  What I like most about the moon is it can always be counted on showing up at its scheduled time. It’s dependable. Twenty-nine and a half days from today, there will be another full moon. And on occasion, there will be two full moons in one month. That's where the term blue moon stems. The moon isn't actually blue. Tonight's silvery light, however, is exceptional.

  The sun rays bouncing off this giant rocky sphere are a filtered, dispersed, softened spotlight shining on me. It's bright enough I need to give my eyes a break, even without using binoculars or a telescope. I lower my lids and explore what my other senses are telling me.

  The rich, damp earth hangs in the air tonight. I can taste it as I breathe it in, like smoke rising from the floor of the land and the creek. Fresh cut hay and the balm of tall field corn are thick in the moist air. A bit of honeysuckle lingers, too.

  A current of air cools my skin, stirring the scent of my favorite flowery vine. The tightly bound honeysuckle vine across the creek stretches along the fence row to the bridge. It smells so sweet and summery.

  The trickle of the lazy flowing creek washes the stain of dinner conversation. I fall into a trance as my lids open and close like a camera shutter taking photographs of the moon. What settles me most are the sounds of crickets and frogs of all kinds making sweet music.

  My mind finally moves on to dream of my future. I wonder what effect a full moon has on the beaches of the Gulf of Mexico. Will the waves, rushing up on my toes embedded in the finely ground shells, hold warmth from the sunshine? Is the air ripe with salt from the ocean? Is the breeze cool or warm? Will I be able to see for miles across the water lit by the full moon? See its reflection elongated across the waves?

  I can’t wait to get out of here and answer those questions myself. For the first time, I’m doubting myself—my future. Is this just a romantic dream? It seems my parents may not support my career choice after all. Can I go to college hundreds of miles away from here while Lane and Tobi stay here?

  38

  Regan

  My mind swings back to the sandy beach at sunset. The warm, soft, white sand is still under my feet and between my toes. I sit on a beach towel, wearing my swimsuit. My hair is over one shoulder the way Lane moves it when he combs through the ends sometimes.

  Skin the color of honey glistens out in the water kissed by the melting sun. A long, lean swimmer's physique in turquoise swim shorts walks toward me. His hair, longer than a swimmer usually keeps, is dark with sun-bleached streaks through it. The orange ball of fire is in just the right position where I can't make out his face. Lane has swim shorts like that, but that isn't his body and his hair is lighter than this.

  He's getting closer. I hear his footsteps and voice. “Regan.” He knows my name. “Regan.” His voice is familiar. “Miss Stone.”

  I open my eyes, and my heart sinks. It wasn't real. I'm in Illinois, exactly where I dozed off. A moonbeam spotlight shines brightly in my eyes. Footsteps continue to swish the grass. I quickly sit up.

  Radiant silvery-white light emanates from a beautiful angel gliding toward me. I'm still dreaming. My mouth opens in awe, following his stature and gait. This angelic creature produces an airy gust. Blinking, I search for his face raising my hand to block the light from my eyes. A flush of embarrassing heat runs through me, probably turning my color beet red, even in this hallowed light.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” he says softly. He’s so angelic with moonlight highlighting his features.

  “Lane.” I'm a little shaken. I know it's silly, but I'm having some sort of dream or out-of-body experience when he brings me out of unconsciousness.

  He reaches me and finds a spot on the blanket close to me. A smile slowly spreads across his parted lips. I can't help myself as my eyes take him in head to toe and back again. His eyes glance down at the space between us. Everything is moving in slow motion.

  He is so, “Handsome.”

  Lane flashes a full-fledged heart-palpitating, dimple-ridden, open-mouth smile. His chest rises as he opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He licks his lips and rubs them together.

  My throat thickens as I try to swallow.

  Lane lowers his head closer to mine. “Thank you.” His voice is a deep hum that triggers butterflies in my stomach.

  And then it hits me. My eyes open wide. Did I say that out loud? Oh, I didn't mean to call him handsome out loud, even though it’s more than true. This blue moon is affecting my thought processes. Heat spreads from my neck to my ears. I try to look away, but I can't tear my eyes away from him.

  The light-colored chinos he's wearing are radiant white in the silvery moonlight. The sleeves are rolled up on his off-white long-sleeved shirt. It has an embroidered, masculine design. It looks like he's shining rather than reflecting the silvery moonlight. His sandy hair is glowing. I wish I'd never allowed myself to admit I’m attracted to him. But I think it's too late. I can't help staring at him right now. He'd likely call it gazing since he's doing the same thing to me.

  Lane’s giant smile turns to something more ardent. “You're so beautiful,” he says in a tone that multiplies my butterflies. His hand reaches out to touch my cheek but stops. My gaze locks with his, then moves down to his hand on the blanket between us. He's never said that to me before. Does he really think that?

  He looks at the moon and turns enthralled and purrs, “Puteulanu Luna,” roaming my skin with his crystalline blues.

  “Something moon?” I hear the words come out of my mouth, but I'm transfixed by this incandescent moonbeam aura surrounding him.

  Catching my eyes with his, he breathes the words again. “Puteulanu luna. It’s Latin for blue moon.” Such beautiful words roll off his tongue. “Its light is doing amazing things. Your eyes—.”

  My lips relax with an easy smile.

  “You look so … angelic.”

  My eyes move back and forth between his. “It's like I'm seeing you for the first time.” My voice is a breathy whisper.

  This honesty is unnerving. I'm not even sure if I'm saying this out loud. How’d I get out of breath?

  My body moves, inching closer to him. Not that there was much space between us, to begin with. The atmosphere surrounding us is—wow.

  Leaning even closer, I want to touch his lips. I stop, pull back, blinking my way back to alertness. I try taking a few deep breaths to get some oxygen to my brain without him noticing. Instead, I smell his cologne drifting my way. He smells so good. Is it getting warmer out? When my back hits the ground, a puff of air pushes out of my lungs.

  Next thing I know, he's unbuttoning his shirt.

  “What are you doing?” I don't think I can take his shirtlessness right now.

  Lane turns back with his half grin and those secret-sharing eyes from that day he caught me staring at him at the pond. “It's a little warm don't you think?” He continues to take it off, causing a waft of his musky fragrance to find me.

  Whew, he has an undershirt on. It's not much better, though, thin and skin tight. I need to change the atmosphere somehow and get rid of this fog clouding my brain.

  I try to catch my breath and clear my throat before I speak. “How was dinner?” The words rush out in a nervous flood.

  He, however, takes his time, props himself on his side next to me. Saying nothing, his eyes are intent as an artist sketching his subject. And he still looks amazing. “Delicious.”

  Get a grip, Regan. I clasp my hands together in a death grip. “You look so fancy." I check out how nice he looks once more.” Where’d you eat?”

  He reaches for a piece of my hair that fell out of my braid, causing his scent to swirl into my nostrils. The subtle muskiness triggers a desire to plant my face in his neck and drink him in. My breathing grows ragged. What is wrong with me?

  “Firefly.” He, at last, imparts another one-word answer as he pulls the rubber band out of my hair, gently unweaving my braid with his fingers, playing with it as he does sometimes. />
  Luna's light is doing amazing things. My lids close and I try to breathe. Tonight, his fragrance lingers in the air, just a hint—a dare, a trail to be followed. It's driving me insane!

  I roll on my side and reach my hand, a little unsure, to trace from his brow that highlights his captivating blue eyes to his sandy hair and down the outline of his handsome face. He's real. This is real.

  I'm too bold, too reckless for my liking, so, I lower my hand, but Lane draws it back up, placing my palm against his mouth for a soft kiss. My heart melts and goes haywire at the same time.

  Drawing in a breath, he slides my hand back to caress his cheek as he presses into it. My palm must be the only part of my uncovered skin that doesn't smell like bug spray. But Lane … Lane smells only of enticement.

  “Lane,” I whisper breathlessly.

  My touch.

  His touch.

  “Hmm,” he sings back to me, looking so vulnerable and tender, opening his heart up to me without even speaking. His eyes, now open, usually crystalline and light, are dark and deep, highlighted in silver light and shadows. I want to kiss him, feel his lips on mine. I ache for it in my core.

  Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

  I can't let myself.

  Leaving my palm against him, he traces my arm with his hand, sliding it over my shoulder, finding my hair.

  I glide my hand past his cheek and through his hair, pulling us closer, and I bury my nose in his flesh just below his ear. Still fighting to breathe—fighting for control, I take in the musky virile scent swimming on his skin.

  We both shiver.

  “You smell nice.” I breathe. “I want to ….” My lips move close to his skin, unable to say more.

  He keeps his cheek against my hair. “It's okay.”

  It's okay echoes in the silence.

  I’m grateful and proud that he didn't try to push me to kiss him. We’re still—together—unmoving. When I begin to stir in his arm, he pulls away, stroking the strands of hair away from my face.