by Ryan Schow
“Incredible,” he says, looking me over, but not like a pervert or a creeper. He’s looking me over like he can’t believe I’m this hot in and out of a bikini.
“I clean up alright,” I hear myself say, thinking he cleans up nice himself. The funny thing is, as much as I wasn’t nervous this whole time, now I am. Holy shit, I am! Which isn’t great, because I feel my armpits threatening to get all swampy. Nothing cries of summer like damp armpits and a sundress.
“My car or yours?” he says.
“Can we keep the top down on yours?” I ask. Thank God I put my hair into a ponytail because I totally need the open air to dry my armpits and now my lower back, which feels moist against his good looks. “The air is so nice right now.”
“For sure. Next time we should take yours, though. It’s beautiful.”
“That’s not mine,” I say.
“No?”
“Okay, it is. I just…I’ve never been in a Bug before, so…”
“Yep,” he says, taking my hand, walking me down the crushed gravel path to his car, “well let’s get going otherwise my stomach is going to do all the talking. I’m starved!”
“Me, too. Where are we going?”
“To Don the Beachcomber. It’s this unbelievable restaurant on the PCH. One of my favorites. If you don’t love it…well, you’re going to love it. Hopefully.”
“What’s it like?”
“It’s the quintessential tiki bar,” he says with a beach boy grin, “and it’s absolutely gushing with personality.”
My bones feel weak just looking at him. I’m powerless against his generous mouth. And those full lips! He’s not perfect the way Damien and Caden are perfect, and he’s certainly no Jake Teller, but holy cow, there’s something rugged and beautiful about him that hits me in the right places. Perfection is boring, I decide. Behind any real face, there’s a story to tell. Right now I want to know his story. Or at least something about him. It wouldn’t surprise me if he worked construction, or some sort of manual labor. I study his hand on the steering wheel, specifically his fingers and his knuckles. Two pencil thin scars run across the fronts of his two knuckles on his right hand, like he hit something, or someone. A small charge shoots through me. Why does the idea of him thrill me so much? The way I’m staring at him, how nothing is familiar, I think that’s what intrigues me most: the unknown.
As in, I don’t know him, but he also doesn’t know me.
We hit Hwy 1, better known as the PCH (Pacific Coast Highway) and the trademark VW diesel engine sputters to life. A car like this, it’s not meant to be quiet, or fast; it’s not built for speed the same way a Harley Davidson isn’t crafted for dragstrip racing. Saying nothing my unrestrained smile doesn’t say for me, I let the wind churn about the cabin of his white leather two seater, working strands of my short black hair out of my teeny ponytail. Who cares if my hair gets wrecked? I love the feeling of the open air drive, the vinyl smell of the old-but-clean looking seats, the sounds of the noisy diesel engine diligently at work.
Sebastian reaches over and takes my hand and I let him, melting into its warmth, rubbing my fingertips lightly across his skin. Oh, how I could do this forever!
Right now I think I’ve found the most perfect moment of my life. I’ve found it and I don’t want to let go. Tightening my hand in his, it forces him to look at me with those big, luscious eyes. His grin, the wind teasing his hair, the freedom I feel—it has all my girly emotions in an uproar.
Wow. Did I say wow? Yeah, freaking wow!
Seriously, though, who knew life could be like this? Filled with so many best-ever moments? I didn’t. But future me?—she spends centuries traveling like this.
Perhaps one day I will, too.
6
We arrive in front of this South Seas looking restaurant that instantly makes me feel like I have found someone who just might give me that one thing I’m missing in life. The problem is, I don’t know what that one thing is, only that he’s doing everything right. Sebastian. The way his name rolls around in my head, it’s crazy I didn’t see him in future me’s memories.
Did the future me even meet him? Is he not a part of her past? Holland says she came back so I could change her past, rewrite my future. Am I doing this now? Am I rewriting the past by being here, with him?
“Don the Beachcomber,” I say, reading the sign.
“I have to admit,” he says, shutting off the car, “I’m a tikiphile. That’s what they call us, people like me who love places like this. Tikiphiles. Basically, I’m an addict. Me and my friends, anyway.”
He gets out and opens the car door for me, takes my hand and helps me out. I have to say, a girl like me, a girl who can do anything on my own, I’m surprisingly moved by his chivalry. This feeling, I realize, is me being doted on. A girl could get used to this!
The tall A-frame overhang held up by intricately carved and sealed wood, the tropical paradise plants complete with color and small clusters of cabbaged plants, the all-bamboo front door and the sounds of island music coming from within—this is like nothing you would ever find in Palo Alto. My chest tightens with excitement. My heart flutters with glee.
Sebastian opens the door for me and inside it’s every bit the tropical paradise the entrance suggested. There’s a big stage with a live band and people dancing to the sounds of reggae music, and the South Seas smell of cooked meat. I turn to Sebastian with a wide smile and he nods like he gets it. Like he knows exactly how I’m feeling. For a second, I forget we’re holding hands. Then he squeezes mine and my insides gush with affection.
When the hostess approaches us, her eyes flash with delight. She gives Sebastian a big hug that makes me wonder how often he comes here, or if there was anything between them in the past. She’s a good ten years older than him with tanned skin and long, black hair. Plus, she’s beautiful the way older women sometimes are.
“You want the Hidden Village Room?” she asks.
“Sure do,” he says.
“It’s kind of loud in there.”
“Yeah,” he replies. “If there’s a booth available—”
“I’ve got one available.”
Then she looks at me with kindness in her face and Sebastian says, “Marie, this is a good friend of mine from up north, Raven. Raven, this is Marie.”
She takes my hand and says, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Raven.”
How can I not smile at her? Her lively mood is practically contagious! And she is beautiful. I wonder about their past, if they ever dated, or had sex. I can slip inside their minds, take a peek around, if I want to know for sure. But I don’t. I don’t want to do that anymore, not unless I’m forced to.
Marie takes us to an enclosed booth on the outer perimeter of the Hidden Village Room, which is a room with twenty foot tall ceilings, rustic beach-wood plank walls and tiki huts on the borders of what is most likely open seating during the day. Tonight, the tables and chairs look cleared and the center of the room is a jamboree of people dancing to live music. Our booth is semi-private, seclusion without us feeling left out of the party. I love it. Marie opens her palm toward our table to let us know we’re here. Sebastian lets me sit down first, then he slides in right beside me.
“Is this okay?—me sitting next to you?” he asks, his mouth next to my ear because the music is really going. The way his breath tingles, my skin breaks into goosebumps. Again. “It’s not too loud in here, but I definitely want to hear you.”
I nod, the corners of my mouth lifting. Marie hands us our menus, but I can’t stop feeling his leg pressed against mine. Am I thinking hooker thoughts for wanting him closer? Should I worry about the physical and emotional things I’m feeling for him?
No, my mind says.
This is the effect attraction has on me. Good Lord, it’s like being buzzed, or even drunk on his attention. My body, for all its superiority, is a complete adolescent next to this boy.
He puts his arm around me and I scoot into it.
“Wh
at are you having?” he asks into my ear.
I wish he would kiss me. It doesn’t make sense that he’d do this, but a girl can hope. A guy like Sebastian wouldn’t assume he could do such a thing on the start of the first date, which makes me resent and crave him at the same time. OMG, he smells like the beach, like sand and soap and fresh skin.
“I’ll have the brie quesadilla with chicken,” I hear myself saying. The combination of brie and smoked mozzarella sounds enchanting. Add chicken, cherry tomato salsa and a chipotle crema and my mouth is already watering. The only thing that can keep me from getting dizzy with lust is food.
An ex-fat girl’s favorite friend!
“You’re going to love the quesadilla. I’m having the sticky ribs. Do you like ribs?”
My head nods on its own; I’m unable to tear my eyes from him. He leans in and says, “I want to kiss your neck.”
Apparently a girl’s dreams can come true.
He leaves his head there, his mouth hovering beside my ear, his lips so dangerously close to my skin I’m practically hyperventilating with need. I lean my neck closer to his mouth and he gives me the softest, most gentle kiss. My heart starts galloping at this point. Then the whole side of my body races with the chills and the swimming starts below my navel. I pull myself away from him, but not like I’m offended. One kiss was enough. The truth is, one was too many, but a thousand wouldn’t be enough.
“Please don’t do that again,” I say.
“Too good?” he says, confident, which makes him even sexier to me.
“Yes,” I say, woozy with need. “Way too good.”
“I love the way you taste, Raven.”
I lean my body against his, nuzzle up to him. Tilting my chin up, I kiss him on the mouth, which has that erotic, dizzying sensation starting in me all over again. I’m practically exploding with want and need, and everything carnal.
I don’t even remember what my quesadilla tasted like, but when I got to the beach home, I found out exactly how Sebastian tasted.
He tasted like sin.
7
When he woke up in my bed the next morning, he rolled over, yawned and smiled at me. “Do you have an extra toothbrush?” he asks.
I shake my head, then say, “Just rinse mine off when you’re done.” He gets out of bed, naked, his body stripped of fat. He’s all muscle. All lean and sinewy, like he spends his days surfing, like he spent the better part of his young life in the gym getting that look.
Somewhere off in the distance, I think I hear harps playing and angels singing.
“It’s not polite to stare,” he says, walking into the bathroom. He doesn’t even look back, he just knows. Which makes me giggle to myself.
When he’s in the bathroom, brushing his teeth, I’m thinking, it’s not polite to cheat either. That didn’t stop him. When he’s done brushing his teeth, he comes in wearing a towel and kisses me on the mouth. I take his kiss, melt into it, and yet I’m hating the absolute shit out of both of us right now, too. He’s got to go. I just want him gone. Grabbing his hand, I don’t let go. If I could take him home with me, I would. This son of a bitch.
“You have someone,” I say, matter-of-fact.
He blinks twice, his body going perfectly still. “What do you mean?”
I pull the sheet up over my breasts and say, “Come on Sebastian, you know what I mean.” I’m crawling his brain right now; his thoughts are my thoughts. And right now he’s totally into me, and not at all into his girlfriend, who has been short with him, and talking about taking a break. He’s still with her, though, and he knows this was wrong.
“We had a good night, a great night, and I enjoyed you more than you know, but until you are single, you and I both know you shouldn’t be doing things like this.”
“I’m not exactly happy,” he says, not knowing how I know the things I know, but knowing I’m speaking the truth.
I have to say, I’m surprised by his candor. He doesn’t even try to deny it!
“Then you should let her go, don’t play the middle ground between two women. It’s totally unattractive, and not really you at your best.”
“How do you know this?” he says, clearly baffled. “Are you really from out of town?”
“I am.”
“Then…?”
“I’m a different kind of girl,” I say, not at all planning to tell him much about me, “the kind who knows things. Like for example, I know you spent two years trying to make Corinne the one, but now you realize she’s not and this has you rattled.”
He stiffens up, grabs his clothes and scrambles into them, like he thinks Corinne set him up and now it’s over.
“She didn’t set you up,” I say. He looks up at me. “But she’s feeling the same things you’re feeling, right? Isn’t that the problem?”
“You don’t know that,” he says, his breath high in his throat, his words coming fast and sharp. The room suddenly feels very cold, dark even though the morning light is cutting in through the drapes.
“But I do.”
“You’re a freak if you do,” he says, red faced and pointed. He says “freak” like I should shrink from the insult. Whatever. I’ve been called worse.
“Yes, Sebastian, I’m a freak. But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong. It also doesn’t mean last night was flawed. It happened for a reason, for both of us.”
He stops what he’s doing, looks at me. His hair is hanging in his face, his eyes dangerously blue. Already, he’s scrambling for an alibi.
“I usually chase a certain boy. You’re different. Not my thing, but a delicious surprise.” I can’t help smiling at this, my heart warming up the ice crystalizing between us. Sitting up, I say, “Sebastian, you showed me what it’s like to have fun, to relax, to throw myself into the moment, romantically. I’ve never had that. If you knew how important this night was to me—OMG, Sebastian…”
Sliding his belt through the loops, buttoning up his jeans, he says, “How do you know Corinne? And when did you find out about her?”
“I only knew this morning, otherwise I wouldn’t have let you have me last night.”
“How? Were you snooping?”
“In this beach house? Seriously?”
“You know what I mean.”
“What could I possibly snoop through to find out anything about you?” I ask. “Much less her?”
“How should I know? You’re the one telling me about my girlfriend’s feelings.”
“There’s a reason you’re here with me and not with her, so all I’m saying is maybe that has some relevance in your life. You had fun last night, right?”
The question makes him uncomfortable. Then: “I did.”
“Okay, so what does that tell you?”
He runs his hands through his hair, looks away, then back at me, frustrated that I’m making him admit the truth. “I need more of it.”
The bed sheet slipping some, the tops of my breasts exposed, I say, “If you already know you can’t make it work with Corinne, then let her find someone else, because being with her when you’re allowing yourself to also be with other girls isn’t right. It’s shitty and you know it.”
He nods his head, contemplating.
“I haven’t been with other girls,” he says. He’s telling me the truth, and I appreciate this about him. “You’re the first.”
Pulling out of his head, I say, “One for the road?”
He thinks about this for a moment, then I let the sheets fall all the way down to my waist and his clothes start coming off again. This is capricious of me, and wanton now that I know he’s with someone else, but he’s already been inside me once. Will doing it twice make things worse? Less moral?
Nope. Yep.
Whatevs.
When we’re done, when he’s cleaning himself up and getting dressed, he apologizes for being with me when he has a girlfriend. He says I was right, that cheating on Corrine was wrong. I give him my number and tell him when and only when he breaks up with Corinne—if h
e decides that’s the right thing for both of them—he should call me. But only when it’s done done. Not if they’re on a break, or any of that noncommittal bullshit.
He kisses me good-bye, and I can’t let go of his hand. Then I do. A few minutes later, a text comes through. It’s him telling me I was amazing.
Gosh damn right I was.
I’m also a bit crushed. If he had been single, I would’ve relocated to Huntington Beach to see how things went. In some part of my brain, the hopeful girl part of my brain that still understands and relishes innocence, I was soooooo hoping he was single.
But he wasn’t. He isn’t.
Instead, I get up, get ready for the day, throw on a bikini and a pair of ripped jean shorts and eat. Up the road, there is a bike shop that rents bikes. I get there early, pick a great beach bike and a floppy beach hat that should keep the sun off my face.
“Where’s the best place to ride?” I ask the scruffy kid behind the counter.
“The Huntington Beach Bike Trail will take you almost up to Sunset Beach.”
He isn’t paying an ounce of attention to me, almost rudely, so I slip in his brain wondering why he’s being this way only to discover he’s nervous as hell around me because he thinks I’m the sexiest girl he’s ever seen. Talk about reading a situation wrong! I thought this guy could give two shits less about me, and then this! How many other situations have I misjudged before?
Oh, the things I don’t know about men.
“Thanks,” I say. And then: “I really like your hair.” He looks up at me and smiles, and I can tell I’m making his day. I like doing this, being this girl.
“You do?”
It’s shaved on the sides with a short blade, but the top is long, draped over one side with tons of product in it. It really does look good. I wasn’t lying.
“Absolutely. I like your face, too. You’re cute.”
The day is warm, with a light, salty breeze coming off the water. Seagulls chirp overhead and the bike trail is busy. At first, I’m fighting for balance on the bike (I haven’t been on one in years), but after a few minutes my confidence sets in and I’m happy I’m doing this. A moderate ride north, up the Huntington Beach Bike Path heading toward Sunset Beach, becomes enjoyable, even a bit entertaining. Along the way, in longer and longer stretches, a lot of the scenery becomes dry, flat and brown. Even the ocean looks a little sick of the beach.
