STRIPPED

by Brooklyn Skye

  Torrin’s boat slides smoothly across the water, each rower—I count eight—moving in synchronization with the next. As I move closer, past the morning tourists, Torrin’s face comes into view. Tension stiffens his shoulders and neck, bulging the muscles on his arms which I can see very clearly because he’s shirtless.

  He doesn’t see me so I find a seat on a nearby bench and close my eyes. I don’t mean to, but I fall asleep and twenty minutes later Torrin is shaking my shoulder looking pretty annoyed.

  “Are you lost?”

  A drop of sweat drips down the side of his neck and onto his chest.

  I brush my hair from my face. “You get to practice with the team now?”

  “Not exactly. Coach needed my help with the freshman.”

  I pull the penny from my pocket and hold it out to him. “I found this at breakfast.”

  He looks at it, but doesn’t take it. Instead he plunges his hands into the pockets of his gym shorts.

  “Lucky you.”

  “Not that long ago, this would’ve been just a penny. Something I would’ve stepped right over.”

  “What is it now?” He might be curious, but, even still, he’s holding back, afraid to give me too much. Understandably. Above, a flock of seagulls passes by, squawking and cackling. I take a humongous breath, lowering my hand.

  “I still don’t know.”

  He snorts, shaking his head.

  “Right. Listen, Quinn, if you want to spend the rest of your life with guys like Derek who’ll treat you like horse shit that’s your decision, but I can’t be a part of that. I can’t be your friend and watch you do that.”

  Don’t say it. Don’t say it.

  “That’s not what I want.” Dammit. “But in my defense, it’s not like I intentionally said to myself Hey, it’d be really great if you could find a guy who tries to hit you.”

  A few minutes pass. Neither of us says anything. The coach, down below stamping across the dock with hands on his hips, still looks like he’s about to have an aneurism. Behind us, bands of senior citizens wander the boardwalk at their snail’s pace, wide-brimmed hats shading their faces from the intense sun.

  Torrin looks down at me. “Why’d you come here?”

  Instead of answering, I point to the long, skinny boat tied along the dock. “Will you take me for a ride?”

  ~*~

  “It’ll be a little wobbly. Step lightly and in the center,” Torrin says to me as he steadies the bow of the boat as it rocks back and forth.

  “Looks more than just a little wobbly. Will it tip?”

  He tosses his shirt onto the seat. The boat knocks against the dock and he grips the edge harder. “Can’t say they haven’t before.”

  “Don’t I need a life jacket then?” I peer over the edge of the dock; deep blue water stares back at me. I can’t see the bottom. It could be miles and miles below. “Or at least one of those floating rings?”

  He quirks an eyebrow. “Not if you can swim.”

  “Well then, shouldn’t you know if I can swim or not?”

  His mouth cracks a barely-there smile. “Can you swim?”

  “Yes. But I’m suddenly thinking my idea wasn’t well thought out. I mean, look how unsteady it is. And going for a swim in fifty degree water in the middle of February isn’t really what I had in mind. Besides, are you sure you won’t get in trouble for taking this?” At the same time, we both glance down the dock to the coach, now lecturing one of the punier members of the team. The kid’s massaging his biceps and fighting back tears. “Your coach seems a little strict.”

  Torrin taps my thigh. “Get in, Quinn.”

  I sigh and cautiously step into the boat.

  “The seats slide, so be careful when you sit down.” Torrin climbs in behind me, pushes the boat away from the dock and suddenly we’re gliding through the water. I grip the edges. Tiny droplets of water splash up from the oars and tickle my fingers.

  We head toward the commercial fishing boats docked across the harbor. The coach’s voice echoes again, repeating the same undecipherable phrase as earlier. Torrin doesn’t say anything, just sinks the oars into the water and propels us forward. Over and over. Up and down.

  Uncomfortable silence—one point for him.

  “What’s he saying?” I ask to break it. The oars plunge into the water and he forces them back out.

  “Head of the Harbor.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “The fastest crewmember, kind of like head of the class. Back east they say Head of the River, only Coach feels stupid saying that here in California so he says ‘harbor’.”

  “Who is it? The Head of the Harbor?”

  He shrugs. “It’s not a big deal, a title based on times. Stupid, really. But Coach has convinced the younger kids it’s what they should live and breathe for.”

  I think about what he says for a moment then cautiously swing my legs over the seat and face him. His muscles bulge with each rotation of the oars.

  “It’s you, huh? You’re the fastest one?”

  He shakes his head. “Wouldn’t matter either way. I told you…it’s a stupid gimmick coaches use to train freshmen.”

  Just then the coach’s voice booms across the water. “If you were Head of the Harbor, you could be done for the day and entertain your lady friends with joy rides!” I smile.

  Moored boats and anchor lines create a maze on the south side of the harbor as we weave in and out of them, our movement sending the dark water lapping against the boat. Sunlight massages warmth across my shoulders and I tip my head back, momentarily steeping in the salty air against my face.

  After a few minutes, the boat slows. Torrin slides his shirt over his head then says, “Eventually, you’ll need to tell me why you wanted to get me alone out here.”

  He’s right, I wanted him alone.

  “Listen.” My fingers lace together in my lap. “I know you probably hate me for wasting your time, and I don’t expect you to talk to me after today, but—”

  “I don’t hate you.” Stiffly, he leans forward. The boat bobs. I grab the sides.

  “You don’t?”

  He jams his fingers through his hair. “God, Quinn, leave it to you to twist someone’s feelings for you into hate.” He starts to reach for the oars. I put my hand out to stop him.

  “Wait.” My brow falls. “Feelings? Feelings?”

  His hands flip up. “Call it what you want. Doesn’t matter ’cause you won’t let anyone in. You’re like this package that refuses to be opened, a lockbox with no key. You’re going to die a lonely, sad, old lady.”

  This wasn’t supposed to go this way. Still, I glare at him until my forehead starts to hurt. “Will you at least come to my funeral?”

  “This isn’t a joke, Quinn. I can’t keep trying.” He shakes his head. “A guy can only be turned down so many times before he gives up, you know?”

  I know. I know. I haven’t been fair with him. Not in the least bit.

  I nod and clear my throat.

  “If you asked me right now…” The words are stuck. I don’t know how to do this. “…there’s a good chance I’d say yes.”

  A boat horn sounds somewhere off in the distance. It must be far away because the harbor is absolutely still.

  “No,” he says after a moment, sitting up and farther away from me. My heart sinks and I look down at my shoes, realizing I already knew he’d say something like this. I half-expected it.

  Good going, Quinn.

  Sitting here with him only a few feet away, watching my face turn red like an idiot—I can’t stand it. In a hurry I put weight on my feet, waddle like a dumbass to the far end of the boat to put as much distance as possible between us when suddenly I lose my balance—

  My forehead hits the water first. Freezing cold, it takes my breath away and locks up my muscles, which turns out isn’t the greatest reaction to have when you’re underwater, weighted by soaked cotton and denim and water-logged shoes.

  I think I’m upsi
de down. My arms are the only body part working so I flail them around in attempt to reach the surface. Another splash. A boom, like a cannon exploding underwater. Hands grab ahold of my shirt and pull me up. I gasp as I emerge, trying desperately to get my bearings. I find Torrin’s neck and wrap my arms around it.

  Torrin’s clutching the boat’s edge with one hand. Holding me with his other. One of his legs comes up underneath me and I settle my now-shivering body down on it like a chair.

  “Thought you said you could swim.”

  Trying to catch my breath, I wipe the water from my face.

  His hand holds my shoulder. “I’ve never had someone abandon ship just to get away from me before.” His voice is close to my ear, low and stiff.

  I glance to my hand around his neck, to the way our wet shirts stick together. This is my chance to make it up to him. I tip my head toward his, ready to press my lips to his mouth. He’s so near. Warm skin. Warm breath. I inch closer, holding his eyes with mine. But then he abruptly turns away.

  “Your necklace,” he says. “It’s gone.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Shivering from the cold, wet cotton clinging to my body I’m pulled onto the dock. Zoe’s necklace is gone—sunk like a rock clear down to the bottom of the bay. I will never forgive myself for this.

  Torrin ties up the boat and looks me over. “Coach has some towels. I’ll get one—”

  “There you are,” someone calls out from the boardwalk. “I’ve been looking all over for you.” I recognize the voice immediately. Lindsey comes bounding down the walkway, boots clomping along the cement like a gawky baby elephant. Her expression is bright, focused on Torrin. Until she sees me, that is, and slows, mouth falling open. A half-second passes then a smile creeps across her face.

  Not sure what she’s grinning about—as of our last conversation, the girl doesn’t think very highly of me.

  Torrin nods with his chin. “Hey, Linds.”

  Linds?

  She approaches, eyeing my soggy shoes all the way up to my rung-out hair. And as she does it suddenly dawns on me I’ve slipped up. Epically. Overlooking the fact that Lindsey would be here—recognize me from Loyola as Quinn Montgomery: the girl whose family ruined the Kingsleys’ lives.

  I turn away, hoping to suddenly become invisible.

  “If I would’ve known you were going to be playing lifeguard,” she says to Torrin, her voice low and weighty, “I would’ve given this to you later.” She hands him a small black case of tools. He tucks it under his arm and smiles at her.

  “I need to grab some towels. I’ll be right back,” he says and disappears down the dock, not even bothering to introduce me to his…whatever she is to him. Friend? Girlfriend?

  I feel sick.

  A short silence passes. I stare down at the puddle forming below me. Drops of water trickle between the wooden slats, returning themselves to the salty sea in which they belong. Lindsey’s combat boot starts tapping. She’s in the same clothes as last night—tattered jeans and a tight black T-shirt.

  “I’m going to go out on a limb here,” she finally says to me, “and say you’re the reason Torrin’s been so grouchy lately.”

  I whip my head up. “What? No.” Great. It’s worse than I thought. Not only is she his girlfriend, she’s a jealous girlfriend. I hold up my hands. “Look, Torrin and I are just friends. I came down here only to talk to him. I didn’t know he was dating anyone.”

  “Dating?” A loud chuckle booms across the harbor. “You think T and I are dating?”

  I knuckle my waterlogged ear. “You’re not?”

  “No!”

  “Then why…?” Why would she think his PMS was because of me?

  “T doesn’t talk about girls much. Not to me anyway.” Her hands casually slide into her pockets. She looks so comfortable talking about him, like she’s been doing it for a long time. “So when he does I know it means he really likes her. A few weeks ago, when he went from being Jolly Joe to Crabby Bob, I pried it out of him: A girl he met at school. Named Quinn.”

  It’s not a nice sound—my clipped name off her tongue, and I take a quick glance over my shoulder for Torrin. He’s down the dock, returning with towels.

  “I never thought twice it could be you, even though Quinn is a peculiar name for a girl, because you’re at Loyola. But…” She tips her chin. “Seeing you here with him, and the tension obviously floating between you two, I guess I have my answer.”

  I look at her, not knowing what to say.

  “He doesn’t know who you are, does he.” It’s not even a question; she must already know the answer. I shake my head anyway. She crosses her arms. “Not sure I can keep that from him.”

  My stomach twists. “At least let me tell him.”

  Footsteps echo behind me. “Tell me what?”

  I cringe, locking and unlocking my knees. A towel falls over my shoulders and I pull it tight around me. Torrin steps beside me, his wet shirt in hand and a towel draped over his bare chest.

  He looks sideways at me. “Is my sister putting you up to something you don’t want to do? She’s pretty good at manipulating other people to work for her.”

  Sister? The one from Ohio? How could a sixteen-year-old be an R.A.?

  Lindsey smacks Torrin’s arm with one of her dreadlocks. “You wanna talk about manipulating?”

  Before she can say another word, Torrin shoots her a look that could spear a fish. Some unsaid conversation passes between the two of them then Torrin looks directly at me. Still waiting for my answer.

  “Um…” I shift on my feet, socks squishing inside my shoes. My mind’s gone completely blank, all possible lies disappeared. Instead I point to Lindsey. “She’s your sister?”

  “Half-sister,” Lindsey clarifies, her eyes gleaming. I know the look—enjoying watching me fumble. She lets me go on for what feels like a full minute before she steps forward with a sly grin and says, “Quinn’s dreadfully in love with you, T, but can’t bring herself to tell you.”

  “Wait.” I turn to Torrin, shaking my head. “No…I mean…that isn’t—”

  Lindsey whirls around and heads for the parking lot. “Gotta go!”

  “That isn’t—”

  “You don’t have to explain, Quinn.” Torrin looks off into the distance where the blue sky meets the even darker blue water. “I know it’s not true.”

  But it is, I think.

  Damn, I really need to stop thinking.

  We stand for a moment, staring off at the horizon where a few seagulls have decided to feed, nose-diving one by one into the water.

  “Are you sticky yet?” Torrin finally asks.

  “Sticky?”

  “From the salt drying on your skin? It leaves a film.”

  “A little,” I answer, although with drenched jeans and a flannel I can’t tell what feeling is what other than it’s heavy and uncomfortable. We turn and head up the dock.

  Past the promenade, at the fork which separates his school from my bus station, he bids goodbye and we part ways. My steps are sluggish, chest burning like I’m trapped underwater.

  It isn’t supposed to end like this.

  And if I let him walk away now, I’ll never see him again.

  “Stop,” I call out to him. Slowly, he glances over his shoulder and before I can think about it, I run up to him. Fling my arms around his neck. “Please give me another chance.”

  He doesn’t budge.

  I will not let go. I won’t. Losing Zoe’s necklace is enough and I will not lose Torrin too. I press my entire body up against his and, after a moment, his arms close around my back. Squeeze me tight. I bury my head into his shoulder and clutch him as hard as I can. Then his voice is in my ear.

  “I have some dry clothes back at the dorm, if you want.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Twenty minutes later, my phone rings. I slip it from my bag and answer. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hi, sweetie,” she chirps. Mom doesn’t usually chirp, nowadays anywa
y. Maybe she has good news? I press the phone harder to my ear. “I’m just calling to remind you tuition is due next Friday,” she continues. “On the first. We sold some of Dad’s old coins so we ended up with a hundred fifty. I hope that helps.”

  Doesn’t matter. I’m still going to fall short. But I’d rather not talk about it with Torrin at my side so instead I say, “Okay.”

  “Oh, and great news!” she sings into my ear. “We had some buyers come by the house today. A nice married couple with twin toddlers and a baby on the way. Seemed like they were interested. They really loved your room, with the big windows and all. They said it’d be a perfect nursery.”

  Nursery?

  “So I’m going to need you to come home next weekend, start boxing up your things. I think we might have a yard sale and anything we don’t want to sell, Aunt Lisa said we could store in her garage so we won’t have to pay for a storage unit while we figure out where we’re going to go. That house on the east side, the one for rent, fell through. So we’ll have to look for something else.”

  I can’t picture them going anywhere.

  “Anyway,” she continues, her voice muffling against the receiver. I know she’s supporting the phone with her shoulder. Next she’ll switch the phone to the other side and massage her neck. “I’ll send in my portion of the tuition on Monday. Admissions said you could drop off the rest to the office any time before Friday at four.”

  There’s a small silence then, “Oh, honey don’t carry that yourself. Quinn, I’ve got to go, your Dad’s about to break his back. I’ll see you next weekend. And come early. We have a ton to do.”

  How can she possibly see any good in what’s happening to our family? How can she pretend the Kingsleys didn’t utterly ruin our lives? I shove my phone back into my purse and glance over at Torrin.

  “Everything okay?”

  We pass under the flagpole in the center of the quad, flags ruffling with the ocean breeze. I hang back a half-step, giving Torrin the impression he’s leading me toward Merriam Hall, even though it’s the only dorm on this side of campus and I could find it blindfolded.