by J. L. Mac
“Sadie,” he says my name like it’s a statement and one of his eyes squints a little, then corrects itself. “It’s a little early in the season for me to shoo people away from this beach. Visiting?” His hand squeezes once again around my freezing fingers then releases me. Almost immediately, a little zing of disappointment dominates my pheromone-drenched brain.
“Not exactly. I’m here to meet someone.” My arms wrap around me instinctively, shielding myself from the sea breeze that only makes me shiver more than I already am.
“Who?” Zander’s pebbled nipples press against his wet shirt and prove to be an intense distraction.
My eyes involuntarily admire his broad chest, pebbled nipples, and tightly muscled torso. I’m embarrassed to find it so hard to concentrate with him like this in front of me. His muscles flex a little as his body twists at the waist, looking around us in every direction. What he’s looking for is a mystery to me.
“Alexander McBride is his name,” I offer absentmindedly, still taking him in.
He hesitates for a moment. The loudest moment of silence settles between us, causing my nerves to build. I drag my eyes to meet his.
“Nice to meet you,” he says.
Just like that, realization crashes into me like a goddamned brick wall.
“What? Wait. You’re Alexander?” My voice sounds foreign and screechy even to my own ears. If hiding my disbelief was what I wanted, I failed miserably at that task.
“I go by Zander, but yes.” His lips tilt up in a small grin.
I shrink in place, right where I stand. Unbelievable.
Fuck my life.
“Oh.” My eyes automatically hone in on his chest again, but for a vastly different reason than his gorgeous form. Beneath the wet fabric of his shirt, I can see a faint line extending down his chest, which I presume is his scar. I don’t want to see it. I can’t believe I’m standing here so close to Jake’s heart. I’m struck dumb, just staring. My fingers flex around myself, digging into my ribs on either side of me. I glance up to his blue eyes again and search for something. What? I don’t know, but I search anyway.
“Come on. That’s my house just there. You need to dry off and get warm.” Alexander—Zander extends his hand to me, but I don’t take it.
“No. No thank you. I’m just—”
“No, really, let me get you a towel or something.” His dark blue eyes rake over my dripping wet body, making me fully aware of how I must look.
I glance down the beach then to the house he indicated was his. It’s the same place I assumed was a rental or something. I got the or something part right. It’s the throne belonging to this god of a man in front of me.
“No really. I’m fine,” I insist far too weakly to come across as convincing. The sea breeze is so much colder with my body completely soaked. My chin quivers and Zander’s eyes turn stern.
“You need a towel.” The way he says it is like an order rather an offer and it has me ready to give in, remembering how Jake would take that tone with me sometimes. I miss it.
“Okay,” I relent on a mumble.
“Okay.” Zander’s fingers reach forward, curling around my elbow, and pull me until I begin to follow him compliantly. He turns fully towards the big white beach house and starts walking. He releases me after a moment and takes a couple longer strides, positioning himself in the lead. He doesn’t say another word. Nothing. He doesn’t even turn to look at me once the entire walk to his mammoth beachfront home. I feel myself wither a little and privately bemoan the loss of his intense stare.
Even though his jeans are wet, he walks in long, easy strides back towards the beach house, which I’m beginning to think is more like a beach mansion, the closer we get to it.
Zander leads the way down another boardwalk that seems to go directly to his house. The boardwalk that inclines over the sandy dune is wide and weathered looking from who only knows how many years exposure to the seaside elements. Wind, rain, salt, and sand have worn down the wood, rewarding the planks with an uneven surface for having endured the abuse. The wood is sort of a gray color and I suddenly feel an inexplicable kinship with then entire thing. If I had to assign a place or item to represent me over the past two years, this boardwalk would be it. It stretches from one point to another. A passage. A journey. Gray, worn, warped—but still intact, somehow.
I pause and step to the railing, nearly forgetting Zander leading the way. My fingers glide lightly over the banister. The wood is rough and could easily give out a splinter or two if someone got too close and carelessly rubbed against it. It’s clearly in need of some love and attention. I can’t imagine it weathering another hurricane or tropical storm, but what do I know? It may have been here through countless storms. It’s a little ratty, but not broken or useless.
“Don’t worry. It’s solid. Doesn’t look that way to everyone else, but I know different,” Zander asserts from where he has stopped, only feet from me. He has turned to face me, leaning against the same railing my fingers are resting on. His light brown hair is tousled, a single lock hanging lazily over his eyebrow. Something powerful, yet perfectly silent, sheaths my mind and it’s as if Zander knows that I, somehow, relate to this boardwalk similarly to how I related to the beach. Somehow he knows that a part of me wants this boardwalk to last forever, even in its weathered condition.
A flicker of hope resonates through me, praying that maybe if this boardwalk could last an eon of high seas, easterly winds, and merciless rains, then maybe there’s a chance for me too. It’s my hope. My ardent prayer. My silent mantra.
In spite of my anger and self-destructive tendencies, somewhere deep down in the recesses of my soul, I still hope. I’m human and hope is so inherently human that there’s no escaping it. I guess everyone hopes, even widows who wander through life unsure of their place in the world.
In this moment, looking into his knowing eyes, I’d give my next breath to know what Zander hopes for. Somehow it seems like it would be a worthy trade. I don’t know it, but…I do.
Zander’s perceptive gaze lingers a moment longer, then he turns in place and continues down the boardwalk. He steps down from the last plank, makes long strides to the sand-spattered cement patio beneath his home, which rests on stilts, elevating it beyond the reach of storm surge that coastal residents deal with every hurricane season.
I follow silently behind him. A set of wide white stairs lead us to the second level of the house. I tiptoe up the steps behind him, still barefoot and carrying my things in my hand. The stairs open up to the balcony that I’d seen from down on the beach. It’s much larger than I had imagined. This massive balcony does appear to wrap around the entire house, wide and painted pristinely white. White wicker furniture dots the space. Small wicker end tables sit between each set of chairs. I peer up at the lighting above us. Lantern-style light fixtures the same clear blue of the water line the underside of the awning. Wicker benches, matching the chairs and tables, are sporadically placed alongside the railing, looking out towards the water. Comfortable cushions adorn the tops of each bench. He must have lots of gatherings here to have so much seating. I imagine he has quite the circle of friends. He just looks the part of someone who has regular, kickass, slightly swanky parties.
“Wow,” I whisper mostly on reflex, stepping to the railing to look out over the water. It’s gorgeous. The view is spectacular and for right now, I forget how cold I am. I forget how shitty my life has become. I even forget Zander standing near a sliding glass door. I step closer to the railing so that my stomach presses against the wooden banister, rest my palms against the top rail, and draw in the salty breeze.
Just a little north, toward the point, is a lighthouse that appears to be the real deal. I hadn’t really seen it until just now. The oversight is just another indicator that I’m missing so much of what’s right in front of me because I’m too busy licking my wounds. I look out across the horizon, scanning the water as I go. I squint, trying to see as far as I can. It’s so clear to
day. I must be able to see for miles from here. The water is calm with the exception of normal whitecaps. “You have quite the view, Zander,” I say without turning around.
“I agree.” His voice is smooth and deep, rousing me from my staring. I turn to face him. His dark blue eyes go from me to the water then back to me.
I’m unsure, and I could be hallucinating due to hypothermia or something, but I think he may have been referring to me. I blush, feeling embarrassed and out of place and fucking guilty, like I’m betraying Jake in some adulterous way. I know he’s gone from this earth, but he’s not gone from my heart. He never will be. It makes me pissed off at myself and at Zander for causing these feelings. Irrationality should be my middle name.
I’m not here for this. I’m not here to drool over some stranger. I’m here to see that he’s alive and that my husband’s heart has gone to a good person who deserved it. I didn’t come to Tybee Island to ogle this god of a man in front of me. I didn’t come here to make subliminal connections with just a couple of intuitive stares at one another. I didn’t come here to feel this. I didn’t come here to feel anything.
“I should probably get dry and head back to my motel room,” I say, holding up my blue surfboard keychain like it’s proof that I have a room to go to.
“Right.” Zander turns and slides the big glass door open and I follow him in.
The place is a goddamned testament to all things summer paradise. If I thought that the outside was impressive, the inside is extraordinary.
Everything is decorated in a light, airy color palette. White furniture, glass tables, hardwood floors the color of white oak. There’s a fireplace built into the far wall. I can’t imagine him ever using a fireplace except for the coldest days of the year, but it damn sure looks nice. I can picture him sitting in front of that fireplace, watching the flames lick at the chimney above it. The walls on either side of the mantle have small built in alcoves that he has put various decorative things in.
Or maybe his wife did.
It occurs to me that this man may be married and it makes me bristle. If he’s married, then why does his wife get to keep her husband? Why does her husband get to avoid death but mine couldn’t? It isn’t fair. It isn’t right.
And just that fast, Bitter Sadie has joined the party.
“Bet your wife is glad that you were able to get my husband’s heart,” I say plainly, doing nothing to hide the resentment I feel.
Zander is standing in front of some wicker trunk near the sliding glass door. He opens it and pulls out a folded white beach towel, then holds it out to me, expressionless.
I walk towards him and reach forward, gripping the plush towel in my hand, but he won’t let go. He tugs it forward and I step close enough to smell him. Masculine and musky, laced with testosterone, sweat, and the vague scent of soap. My heart stills in my chest and I bite the inside of my lip hard, resisting the urge to lean in and press the tip of my nose to his neck just to take in his heavenly scent.
“Not married,” he says, still showing no clear expression, but his eyes are his tell. They burn white hot and send a message loud and clear. He’s not taken and there’s an invitation in his smoldering gaze.
I tug lightly on the towel in his hand but he holds it captive for a moment longer before releasing it. Some part of me wishes he’d kept holding it in his vice-like grip. Some part of me wishes he’d hold me in his vice-like grip. I imagine I wouldn’t feel so lost in Zander’s arms. I imagine I’d feel at home. It’s a dangerous train of thought that I am quick to shove aside. I can’t go there. I won’t go there.
Jake. What about my Jake?
I utter his name inwardly and just that quick, the melancholy that has become my “normal” rushes back in. I can’t risk forgetting Jake. Nothing could ever be worth that, not ever the man in front of me who I’m certain, if given the chance, would wipe away my past. The prospect of that is a hybrid of heaven and hell. I can’t let go. I can’t forget. If I forget my past, I’ll forget Jake right along with it, and that’s a fear of the greatest proportion. I go to sleep every night fearing that by morning, I will somehow have lost another little bit of my love. It’s the most unrelenting sort of agony. It’s a battle against time and space. It’s a battle between the past and the future and I’m wedged between the two without an obvious escape. Even if I were given an escape, I can’t be entirely sure that I would take it. I think I’d let the battle swallow me up as a casualty; the part of me that silently hopes fears that I’d let it.
I don’t know what to say about his little show of intrusive dominance with the towel. What an ass? I can’t even convince myself of that line of bullshit. He isn’t an ass. I liked it and I daresay that I would feebly cave and let him do it again if he tried. I hate me.
I unfold the towel and wrap it around myself, but Zander doesn’t bother with a towel for himself. It makes me wonder if he takes care of his health. If he’s a transplant patient, he had better take good care of himself. Especially for the simple fact that he was lucky enough to get such a good heart. And I mean that both ways.
“Aren’t you going to dry off?”
“Come on. I have dry clothes you can borrow.” Zander turns away without answering my question.
What is this guy’s issue? So intense. Of course, he’s likely wondering the same damn thing about me. I can’t blame him either. I’m as screwed up and nuckin’ futs as they come.
I take a quick glance around, noting that there are two exits that I can see clearly from where I stand. There’s the one we came in from, and another set of sliding glass doors on the rear wall leading out to the other side of the balcony. Jake wouldn’t be too happy with me willingly following a stranger into his home. I know better. I know that something awful could happen, but somehow, I also know that it won’t. Somehow, the only awful thing I can imagine happening to me at Zander’s hands is being swept up into this man that beckons my mind and body so easily. I’d be swept up into him and I’d forget Jake. That’s something I could never forgive myself or Zander for. Resentment would rear its devious head like it always does where exes are concerned and implosion would be all but unavoidable. I can see it now.
Zander leads me into a room that is lit only by the sunlight pouring in through a wide set of three windows. They’re lined together, creating a panoramic view of the beach facing toward the lighthouse.
Opening the top drawer of a dresser, he produces a white t-shirt and a pair of black drawstring shorts. “Sorry, I don’t keep women’s clothes around,” he says dryly, handing me the outfit. “You can get dressed in here. I’ll change in the bathroom.” He motions towards another door right off the room and grabs dry clothes for himself, then leaves.
As soon as he shuts the door behind him, I peel off the soaked dress. My panties and bra are soaked, of course, and after a moment of hesitation, I peel those off too. I set the wet clothes in the towel on the floor, glancing back and forth to the door that Zander retreated behind. Once I have the soft cotton t-shirt on, I quickly pull on the shorts, which are about ten times too big. I tie the drawstring in a big bow to keep them in place on my hips.
I can hear water running in the bathroom. I assume he’s washing up, so I grab up the wet pile on the floor and leave the room, heading back out into Zander’s impressive living room.
I’m not sure what the hell I’m supposed to do with my dress, panties, and bra. He can’t see me like this. I’m so exposed. My nipples are peaked and pressing against the fabric of the t-shirt he gave me. I have no underwear on. This is just a bit much for me coupled with the odd, nearly inescapable attraction I feel toward him. I’ve got to go. I spot my flip flops by the sliding glass door and waste no time getting out of here.
I need a shower, some panties, and a fucking bra—like yesterday! A familiar voice on the line would help too. I don’t even know if I can see him again in the morning. I may not stay around here for a few extra days after all. The brash thought makes a tingle of achiness spring
up through my heart. I don’t want to leave him. I don’t want to leave that heart residing in his chest. Not again. Not ever. Maybe there is a happy medium here. Maybe holding close to Zander means holding close to Jake too.
Chapter Six
Unspoiled Silence
Zander McBride
April 22, 2013
I had wiped down the counters in my kitchen about five times today. I’d already worked out. I stretched lazily and alternated between speed walking and light jogging on my treadmill for my normal three miles. I breezed through the squats, pushups, sit-ups, lunges, and planks. After I showered, I tried reading one of the books that Mom mailed me, but it wasn’t holding my interest the least little bit. She’d said I’d like it and was constantly asking when I would finally use the e-reader she’d bought for me. I never answered her about the e-reader, I just sent her a text saying, “thank you for the book” and went on ignoring the family back in Atlanta that I had made a point to forget. I wasn’t a part of their lives much anymore, only here and there where it was required, but other than that, I was left alone here in Tybee just like I wanted.
Dad still meddles and so do the poor staff that he employs to do various things pertaining to me. The poor sons ‘o bitches. They come around on occasion and I send them right back to wherever the fuck they came from. Sure, I’ve had to sacrifice a golf club or two across the windshield of a black Lincoln, but it makes no difference to me. I never use my clubs anyway and Grandpa’s clubs are safely tucked away in the corner of my coat closet. A busted windshield usually communicates my point pretty thoroughly and they scramble for their cell phones to call my dad. Of course.
