"If it means that much to you, I won't see her." My voice comes out strangled, hoarse, like I've been screaming at the ball game on TV with my dad. "But I need to be decent about it. I need to tell her goodbye. I can't just walk away without another word. And I hope you'll be the kind of man who can't do that in the future either."
My father strolls into the kitchen, whistling under his breath. He reaches around Jess to open the fridge and pulls out a bottle of water. It takes every ounce of my self-control not to cuss at him. If he hadn't done what he did, if he hadn't stolen from Quinn's family, if he hadn't fucked up our lives, I never would've left Quinn. I never would've had to walk away again now.
But then it fucking murders me when his grip isn't strong enough to twist off the cap of the water bottle on his first few tries. All three of us pretend not to notice, and it takes another few seconds for him to get it, giving the anger in my veins time to cool off a little.
"Whatever." Jess's tone is bland, like he's suddenly chill because he's getting his way. "Do what you have to do."
"Don't let him go anywhere," I say to my dad, still a little gruffer than I mean to. "I'll be back in an hour."
"Like I can't make my own decisions," Jess scoffs.
My dad cuffs him on the shoulder. "We'll be right here, don't worry."
I trust him only because I have to.
So the text I send Quinn today is to ask for her address. When she sends it, I drive to her and cuss the entire time because it takes me almost half an hour to drive three miles. Saturday beach traffic makes me want to set fire to the world.
Finally, I'm there. Finally, I'm in front of her door. Finally, I'm knocking.
She opens the door a few seconds later and she takes one look at me and her face falls and I know she knows.
She smiles sadly. "At least you're saying goodbye this time."
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
QUINN
I'VE BEEN BRACING myself for this. But one look at Sawyer's face, the destruction across his expression, almost undoes me. The only thing holding me together as I let him into my apartment is the fact that he's as upset as I am—and that he's doing this, he's ending this, for Jess. I can't come between that. Even if every inch of me is dying to scream that Jess is a kid and emotions are fickle and maybe it will pass. Sawyer won't take that risk, though, and I shouldn't either.
So I'll be strong.
Or I'll try my fucking hardest.
I walk through my tiny living space, pointing to the kitchen, pointing to the dining area. "Not much to see, really. It's just my place for the summer."
He doesn't say anything, and when I glance back at him, he's studying the metal frame I found in my car that day that feels like forever ago.
"Oh." My voice comes out toneless. "I meant to ask if you made that for me."
He looks at me, his brows furrowed, and doesn't say anything.
"I found it on the hood of my car one day. Made me think of you. Wishful thinking, I guess." I shake my head. "Maybe I have a stalker. Someone stealing shit from my car and trying to pay for it with one tiny frame." It should maybe freak me out a little more, but I don't have room for the pressure of panic like that at the moment. Not with the lead-filled heart already sitting so heavy between my ribs.
"You never figured out what happened to your spare?" he asks.
"Nope."
"Did you report it?" His brow dips, like he's worried about the theft.
"Nope." I realize he doesn't know about my surfboard. Guess there's no reason to tell him now. Not when he's here to break things off. Not when my life doesn't get to matter to him anymore.
But that's not fair. I shouldn't be so bitchy.
I know my life matters to him—and I need to hold on to that knowledge if I want to get through any of this and come out at least partially whole on the other side.
It's just that the saying's true and life's a cruel little bitch and shit doesn't always work out the way you want it to. The way you know in your gut it should.
"When do you go back to school?" he asks, letting the spare tire thing go.
"A month and a half," I say, trying really hard not to picture the rest of the summer without him in it. "What about you? I mean, will you guys stick around town this time?"
He shrugs. "Depends on Jess. If he keeps his shit together, yeah. But I'm not sure about some of his friends. And it depends on my dad, too. If he can stay sober enough to keep his job this time." Another shrug. "My shop goes to half days after October 16th. Might take my board out to the Bahamas for a month after that."
"Oh. Fun." I don't want him to tell me these things. I don't want to know what he'll be doing if I'm not a part of it.
I also want to know everything.
But I bite my tongue to keep from asking anything else.
"I'm sorry, Quinn." He holds my gaze. "Jess—"
"Hates me."
He looks like he might deny it, but only drops his gaze. "Before we came back he was so close to just completely…unhinging. He got arrested. He hung around with druggies. He was a wreck—way worse than what you've seen here." He laughs, but it's sour. "Trust me, this is an improvement."
"I'm sorry," I say, my heart breaking for Jess now, too. "I hate that for him. For all of you."
"But it's not enough of an improvement. He needs a better role model than my dad. He needs to know that what he wants matters, that he's important. And for some stupid fucking reason he's fixated on…"
"Hating me." I get it. Or…maybe I don't. "I love Jess, Sawy. But he's sixteen. And confused about a lot of shit… Maybe giving him everything he demands is more enabling than helpful." I'm not sure where this is coming from, if it's me trying to think of what's best for Jess, or what's best for me. It's too confusing. I'm too…defeated.
"I don't know. Maybe you're right," Sawyer says. "But we've tried everything, and I think in this case—"
"You're going to give him what he wants."
He doesn't answer, just watches my face. He doesn't have to say anything, though. I've known it from the moment Jess melted down. Sawyer's family's everything to him.
Oh, God. This is it, then. It's over.
But I can't bring myself to be the one to say it.
Neither, apparently, can he, and after a few minutes of silence the air is so heavy with the tension of those unspoken words that I feel like I'm drowning.
I think about telling Sawyer what I'd promised Jess, to take care of him—and the reason for it. But I can't bring myself to break Jess's confidence when it was so clear he didn't want me to say anything. And…he's got Sawyer to take care of him now anyway.
I think about suggesting that I speak to Jess, that I try to explain harder to him that I didn't break my promise. But I'm sure Sawyer already thought of that, and if he thought it was a good idea he'd say so. And Jess will think I'm saying whatever it takes to be with Sawyer.
He wouldn't be right. But he also wouldn't be wrong.
Why didn't I think to speak to Jess about all of this earlier? Like…the first time I saw him? Or any time after?
God. Because I was wrapped up in Sawyer—the thought of him, the sight of him, the taste of him…
Because I'm so self-centered.
Sawyer slides his hands into his pockets, shifting on his feet a little. We stare at each other, neither opening our mouths to speak. Until the drowning sensation is too much to handle.
"That's the bathroom." I point. "In case you need to use it." Before you go, I can't make myself say.
He offers a whisper of a smile. "I'm good."
I open my bedroom door. "And this is where I sleep."
"Still have your Hop?" he asks.
"Poor Hop got lost in the college transition. I still miss her sometimes." My stuffed bunny. Had her from the day I came home from the hospital. I really do still miss her sometimes. In fact, I could use a good cry into her fur right about now. Not that she had any fur by the time I left for school, but that's beside the point.
&
nbsp; The point is that Sawyer's walking out of my life again.
The point is I can't blame him for it.
The point is I'm halfway to breaking down right before him.
He strides past me into the bedroom and I follow, looking around as though through his eyes. Green walls. Lilac comforter on the bed. Dried flowers in frames along my dresser and hung around the room.
"Suits you," he says. "Simple and pretty."
"You calling me simple?" I ask, trying to infuse humor into my question.
He turns to face me. "Not in a million years."
Silence stretches before us. Seconds into minutes into eons.
"Can you hold me, maybe, for a minute before you go?" My voice sounds small, weak even, but I don't care. It's a shared vulnerability between us, and I don't need to hear him speak to know he's feeling as hopeless as I am.
He crosses the room in three steps and folds me into his arms. I want to cry, my chest aches to let it go, but I won't. He nudges my chin up toward him, and when I lift my head I see my sadness reflected in his expression, and all I want to do is erase it completely. I want the Sawyer from yesterday and the night before. The one who floated in the ocean, hands behind his head, relaxed and finally free from the weight of the world.
I rise on my tiptoes to brush his lips with my own, soft at first and then harder, more demanding, and I give my freaking all, trying to kiss away anything sad between us, even if only for a moment. Because I know now it's all we have left.
We kiss and we kiss and we kiss until my mouth is numb and my lips are swollen and my throat is raw from breathing in his exhaled air. My fingers are so tangled in his hair, I'm not sure I'll be able to extract them. Maybe I should laugh and make a joke about it being my master plan so he can never leave me.
But it just isn't funny.
His palms are sweaty against my lower back because he's been holding me so tightly. He slides them higher now, pausing at the strap of my bra, tapping lightly at the latch, questioningly.
I look at him. "Yes."
If I can have him one more time, there's nothing in the world that's going to stop me. He must feel the same way, because he has me naked practically before I get the word out—and I don't take much longer than that to undress him, too.
But…then we stand here, quietly taking each other in. Like it's the last time.
Because it is.
Maybe it'd be easier if he did what he did last time and left without a word.
But the thought launches vertigo through me. Not getting to say goodbye again would kill me.
At least this time I can study him. Make sure to take in every single detail.
So I do. And I think he does, too. We stare at each other until the silence is so heavy I might crumble from the weight of it.
"Sawyer." My voice breaks. But I won't cry. I won't. And I won't beg him to reconsider.
"Turn around," he says, his voice gruff. "Hold on to the wall."
It takes a second for me to understand.
He's trying to give me my fantasy.
A parting gift.
But sadness sits so heavily in my stomach I don't think I'll be able to enjoy it. "Kiss me again."
He wraps his hands around my jaw and he stares into my eyes and he holds my face like it's the most fragile thing in the world. His head dips toward me, and then he feathers his lips over mine the same way he's holding me. Gently. Sweetly.
One small sob escapes from my mouth into his and I can't do this anymore. I cut off the kiss and spin, grabbing the wall with my arms spread away from my face, my elbows bent.
He places his hands on my shoulders and runs them lightly up my arms to cover my own hands, and then he pushes them up along the wall until my elbows are straight and the side of my face is against the wall. He leans against me, pressing his chest against my back, resting here for a breath, then two, then three…
His hands roam back down my arms and shoulders and back, circling around to my breasts, and sad as I am, my nipples still tighten under his touch, my breath still quickens. I try to memorize the feeling and maybe he does too, because he rests his forehead at the base of my neck and pauses again, the sounds of our breathing the only noises in the room for a moment.
Then his mouth is at the side of my neck and he's kissing me and murmuring that he loves me, and I try to say it back but can't get the words around the broken bits of my heart stuck my throat. His fingers trace circles down my ribs and across my belly and between my legs, where he gently parts me and plays with me until, yet again, he manages to push my sadness to the side, and almost immediately I'm slick with the way I want him.
While my soul's been aching for his from the moment I opened my door to him—from the first moment I met him, really—my body aches for him now, almost excruciatingly, in a much more physical sense.
One hand comes around my hip to cup my ass, sliding down along the curve all the way to the middle of my legs where his middle finger dips into me, curling in a come hither motion, once, twice, again and again until my breath hitches. He adds another finger, a little less gently this time, and his teeth sink into the skin of my shoulder. He pushes his fingers deep, deep, deep into me until his palm is flattened between my legs and the fingers of his other hand are spreading me, playing me like an instrument, shaping me and pressing against me harder and harder until I'm pulsing, tightening around his hand and my knees are quivering like slowly melted butter.
My stomach begins to flutter, the feeling growing lighter and lighter, flowing lower and lower and he's teasing every single spot between my legs and I can't stop moaning, can't keep my eyes from shutting to fully sink into the sensations, can't keep from lowering one arm to cup my own breasts, needing the pressure, the extra touch.
He trails a hand up my stomach, leaving a path of moisture along my skin, and up my neck and over my chin. He hooks his fingers in my mouth between my teeth so that the saltiness of my own body mingles along my tongue and at the exact same moment he shoves a third finger into me below, rough and demanding, and I come against his hand immediately with a moan bordering on a yell.
With a shove of his hand he spreads my legs farther apart, pulling his finger from my mouth to grab my waist, and he slams his hips against me so that his erection flattens between my legs. It's enough to have me coming even harder against him, rocking my hips and sliding along the length of him. He pulls back, tightening his fingers into my skin, repositioning himself and then pulling me down onto him, filling me to the hilt at the peak of my orgasm and I drop my head back against his shoulder, crying out.
Then he's ruthless. Shoving, slamming, hammering into me so hard my arms shake from the pressure to keep from banging my face into the wall. He's biting my neck, my shoulders, and grabbing my hands, pushing them tight against the wall while his hips are bucking, bucking, bucking so tight against me there is zero space between us and I'm rocking back to take him in deeper and squeezing myself around him.
His knees bend into the backs of mine every time he thrusts; he's grunting against my skin, and I'm gasping every time he pushes further into me. My entire body tightens, and hot sensations rush between my legs and up my belly and down my thighs. He's pushing me flat against the wall with a rumble coming from his chest; it's vibrates against my back, and it rips up his throat and out of his mouth in a groan in my ear.
I swear to God if he wasn't holding me up, I'd slide right down the wall into a puddle of… I don't even know what, and I don't have time to think of anything because everything's going really, really, really hot—white hot—and another orgasm bucks through me so hard I lose the ability to breathe or see or anything at all.
He comes a split second after me, shoving himself so hard into me I'm literally lifted onto my tiptoes, and the side of my face is pressed so flat against the wall I wonder if it'll leave a mark, and I've never been so full of someone before and I never want to feel anything else and my orgasm crests through me and circles around him, pulsing, pu
lsing, pulsing, pulling us together until we're spent, breathing hard and good for nothing, letting the wall hold us up because without it we'd be fucking toast.
Burnt toast.
Buttered toast.
Crumbled toast, sticky with jam.
I almost laugh at the ridiculous direction of my thoughts.
But the moment I gain the ability to find something funny, I also gain the ability to remember that this was my last time with Sawyer. I suddenly hate my body for feeling the pleasure still riding through it when the rest of the world seems so bleak.
"This sucks." I lean my forehead against the wall, closing my eyes.
"I'm sorry."
"I am, too."
"Quinn."
I don't respond.
"Quinn."
I can't.
"Look at me," he says, his voice a complete mess. "Quinn, turn around."
"No." I open my eyes to stare at the wall; I painted it green at the start of the summer in an effort to match his eyes without even realizing it. The color doesn't come close by a long shot, but I think I'm going to have to paint over it the second he's out the door. "If I turn around I'm going to attach myself to you and never, ever let go. So you need to leave. Okay? Thank you for this. For…" I shrug, not sure of where I'm going.
"Thank you?" He laughs without humor, and his breath hits the back of my neck, hot. He pushes at my shoulders, but I don't budge. I am a statue and if I move an inch I will crumble.
"Turn around. I want to kiss you." His voice cracks. "I need to kiss you."
I bite my lip so hard I taste blood and I focus on the wall and I don't turn around. Not when he slides out of me, trailing wetness down the inside of my thigh. Not while he dresses with the clanging of his belt filling the room like the saddest bell in the world.
Not when he tells me he loves me.
And not when the door shuts behind him.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
QUINN
IT'S BEEN A week.
It's been a week and I'm still standing.
Surf & Surrender Page 24
