by Kyra Davis
“I did three semesters at a junior college,” I remind him, bringing my eyebrows up and down teasingly. “See? There are things you don’t know about me.”
“No, you told me that,” Ash says as he throws back the rest of his drink and then adds more vodka to both of our glasses. “I also think you told me you were kicked out for selling weed on campus.”
“Oh please,” I snap. “I haven’t done that since eighth grade.”
He bursts out laughing and I can’t help but smile a little, too. “But . . . you did tell me you got kicked out of junior college, right?”
“For selling fake ID’s,” I mutter. I feel a heat creep up my neck as I look away. “I don’t do that anymore . . . Anyway, I had bills. Rent, tuition, it was all on me, and it’s not like a part-time job at Urban Outfitters was going to cover me.” I sit up a bit so I can drink half of what’s in my glass in one swallow. Ash refills it immediately. I’m vaguely aware of feeling intoxicated.
He places a hand on my leg, just a few inches above my knee, not too presumptuous, and yet it feels so intimate. A subtle reminder that I have yet to claim my kiss.
“I remember that,” Ash says quietly. Even without looking at him I can feel him studying me. “Your parents kicked you out of the house when you were still in high school.”
“You do remember a lot,” I say with an uncomfortable laugh. Why had I opened up like that to him? Had I been looking for pity? Probably. Ridiculous that I had ever felt entitled to the comforts of my parents’ home. A temperature-controlled bedroom in a picket-fence neighborhood . . . that’s not where I belong.
“I remember that you worried your parents didn’t love you,” he adds softly.
“Yeah.” I throw back the rest of my drink, finally managing to drain the glass. “I don’t worry about that anymore.”
With one hand he reaches out and guides my face toward his, then slips that hand into my hair, cradling my head. “I know that you always make a wish on the first star you see.”
“You do, too.”
“Yeah,” he says with an embarrassed laugh. “Yeah, I do. We know each other pretty well for strangers.”
“We talked for a long time that night.” I try to look away again, but he holds me in place with just the light but steady pressure of his hand.
“We didn’t just talk.”
I can feel his breath against my skin. When did he move so close? The world has taken on an appealing fuzzy quality, blurring the stars together into flickering lines of white against a gray-black sky. And it’s under that sky that Ash is here, touching me, silently demanding so much while asking so little. He doesn’t understand. And slowly, oh so deliciously slowly, he touches his lips to mine. It’s not aggressive or overtly sexual, but it’s definitely not innocent, either; not as my mouth opens just slightly against his and he reaches around my waist, pulling me just a little bit closer. This is a kiss that dances on the edges of sweetness and sin. It tastes like a promise. When he pulls back, just half an inch, I reach up and touch his beautiful hair. I could lose myself in this man, utterly and completely.
And yet I don’t tell him that. I’m tempted to, but part of me just isn’t sure if he deserves to be told.
“You hurt me,” I whisper. His eyes widen in a flash of surprise and then, reluctantly, he drops his hands. “I know I don’t have the right to say that,” I add quickly, pulling a little farther away. “I know what that night was supposed to be and what it wasn’t. Any girl who fucks a guy hours after meeting him and expects him to call is an idiot, no matter what he promises. You don’t owe me an explanation. Still”—I shrug and hug my knees to my chest—“you should know that you hurt me.”
For at least a full minute he doesn’t say anything at all. More cars pass on the highway, the flames from that distant bonfire flicker and die, and the ocean continues its quiet roar. It’s odd, because while I’m not sure if Ash deserves my confidence, I know I don’t deserve his understanding. Melody may be dead, but I still have to deal with the karma of that past life and it’s just not pretty.
An all too familiar sense of agitation is beginning to take hold of me. It’s like I want to crawl out of my skin and get away from my thoughts. I want to feel something outside of myself, something impersonal, distracting, and wonderful.
“Like I said, you’re not like anyone I’ve ever met before,” Ash says quietly.
I don’t respond. I just focus on the sounds of the waves. I’ve surfed those waves before. Some people say that riding a wave makes them feel powerful, but when I paddle out to the horizon it just reminds me of how insignificant I am in the grand scheme of things. I like that. I cherish those moments of virtual invisibility almost as much as I cherish being in the spotlight.
“Have you ever hurt anyone, Mercy?”
I wince involuntarily and then try to cover with a self-deprecating laugh. “Only all the people I’ve ever really cared about,” I say. “My whole past is like one big landfill for broken hearts and misplaced expectations.”
“Yeah.” From the corner of my eye I see him tap his empty flute against the small vodka bottle. “Okay, so we don’t know each other very well. Just a few shared secrets, some trivia . . . But here’s the thing. I feel like I know you. I felt that way from the moment I spotted you in that club in Seattle, just giving your body to the music while cheering on the band. And yeah, I know that sounds like a line, but I swear I’m keeping it real here. And I’m sorry I hurt you . . .” His voice fades off as he seems to consider what to say next.
“What?” I whisper. “What are you thinking?”
“That I don’t believe in love at first sight.”
“Seriously?” I snap. “That’s what you’re thinking?”
“Yeah, but . . . I believe that sometimes you can meet someone and almost instantly realize that this is a person you could fall in love with. That’s possible, right?” When I don’t answer he takes a long, shaky breath. “I guess what I’m saying is, let’s get to know each other because . . . because I want to be one of those people you care about. I’d like to give you the opportunity to hurt me.”
I laugh again, although this time the sound isn’t coated in derisive sarcasm.
“Seriously!” he insists. “I have this feeling you’re worth the pain.”
“Well then, you’d be the first person to think so.”
“Aw, I’m your first,” he says with a suggestive grin.
I groan and rest my head on my knees.
“What about me?” he asks, nudging me with his elbow. “Am I worth it?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” I scrape my nails against the back of my hand, leaving a mark. It hurts, but maybe not enough. The vodka is protecting me from the sting.
“That’s a yes.”
“Maybe,” I counter. “Or maybe I’m just a crazy masochist.” This time it’s the skin on the inside of my wrist that I scratch. He doesn’t see the marks. He just thinks I’m making a gesture, that it’s a joke.
“You don’t strike me as the masochist type.” His teeth are so white they glow in the darkness. I imagine them biting gently on my earlobe, on my neck . . . “And you’re not even close to being as crazy as me.”
I give him a withering look. “You realize that Crazy was literally my nickname in middle school. Seriously, that’s what they called me. Not Crazy Melody, just Crazy. As in Crazy got detention again, or Crazy painted a skull and crossbones on her big toenails.”
Ash does a quick double take. “Did you really paint a skull and crossbones on your nails? With nail polish?” When I nod, his eyes flash with approval. “That takes serious fine motor skills. You could be one of those Chinese artists who can paint intricate pictures of landscapes on hollowed-out eggshells.”
“Okay, so I have no idea what you’re talking about right now.”
Ash laughs and tilts his head up to the stars. “That’s ’cause I’m crazier than you. It’ll take more than a middle school nickname to best me. Hell, my stepmom
considered institutionalizing me when I was fourteen.”
“Oh yeah, that’s impressive. My dad did institutionalize me at sixteen. And then when the doctors refused to keep me in the nuthouse for more than a couple of days, he kicked me out of the house because he was afraid my craziness would rub off on my little sister.”
“Ah, but the doctors kicked you out because you didn’t need to be hospitalized in the first place, right?” He rests his forearms on his knees, his drink still clasped in his hand. “So your father locking you up doesn’t make you crazy, it just makes him a douche.”
I scrunch up my face into a goofy, sardonic expression and tap my finger to my nose.
“Onstage you were a little wild,” he admits, “but not out of control. You haven’t given in to one crazy impulse all night.”
“I got on the back of your bike, didn’t I?”
“That was spontaneous, not impulsive. There’s a difference.” He fakes a yawn. “You’re so sane you’re almost boring.”
I scoff and glance back out at the ocean. “You want me to give in to my impulses?”
“Yes.” Ash’s lips curl into a sexy little smile. “I’d like to see that.”
I get up and the world wobbles under my feet. I’m restless and edgy. I can’t stay still. Standing before him, I slide out of my jacket and slowly pull off my shirt. “You have no idea how impulsive I can be.” My fingers fumble with the buttons of my jeans, but it doesn’t take long before they’re in a pile on the sand. Ash’s smile grows slowly. I see everything he wants to do to me in the glimmer in his eyes. I see the quiet twitch of his fingers as he plots their course. I take a deep breath and manage to hold myself still as he reaches out and runs his hand up my inner thigh. The warmth of his touch feels utterly incongruous with the cold of the night. “You sure you want me to get a little crazy, Ash?” I ask quietly.
“Yes,” he says, his voice hoarse, needing.
“Alright then, just remember”—I lean over and gently kiss his lips—“you asked for it.”
And in a flash I’ve turned from him and I’m running, running as fast as I can toward that dark, roaring abyss before me. I hear Ash calling after me, but the element of surprise is mine and he is now working hard to make up the distance between us. He’s yelling warnings about riptides and sharks as if he thinks I’m afraid of those things. But I can’t fear something that has no will to hurt me. I’ve never been scared of anything other than the people I love . . . oh, and myself. I’ve always been smart enough to be scared of the dark workings of my own mind.
And so when the cold water touches my toes I keep going until it’s splashing around my ankles, then my knees. Ash is cursing, but I only know this because of the tone; his words are swallowed by the sound of the Pacific. I love that.
Swim, I want to swim! I want to be part of this! Once the water is almost to my hips I immerse myself. The cold makes it feel like my lungs are lurching into my throat. It’s literally painful.
You have to be alive to feel pain.
I want to swim as far as I can, to Santa Cruz Island, Hawaii if I could! Maybe it’s the challenge, or maybe I just need to prove that I can still defeat death no matter how much others may wish I couldn’t. Or maybe it’s the opposite and it’s just time for me to give my life to the sea? Get it over with?
I know it’s madness. But . . . it’s me.
Then suddenly someone is grabbing my ankle, and I taste the seawater slip down my throat as I struggle to free myself.
And I’m being lifted. His hands on my waist, pulling me from the water, half dragging, half carrying me back to the shore as I shiver and cough and laugh. Yes, I’m alive. The blurry stars shimmer down, twinkling with their own brand of laughter.
“Jesus, Melody, there are riptides out there! And it’s fucking freezing!”
For a second I close my eyes and imagine what it would be like to let the water take me. What would it feel like in those first moments after the ocean filled my lungs? Would it just be darkness? Or is there an afterlife? If so, would she be there waiting for me?
If I believed that, really believed that, would I go to her? Or am I too selfish?
“Melody!” he says again desperately. “We need to get you somewhere warm!”
“M-Mercy,” I stutter as the chill sets in. “M-M-Melody’s d-dead.”
He doesn’t answer but instead puts me down on the wet sand and forces me into his leather jacket, which is much longer and warmer than mine. For the first time, I notice he took the time to get out of his jeans and shoes before going in after me, which he hurriedly puts back on over his own wet legs and feet. “You’re totally out of your mind,” he mutters, and glances up at some houses that line the beach.
Yes, out of my mind. Now you understand.
He points up to one of the homes. “That’s where we’re going.”
“Th-they w-won’t l-l-let us in,” I stutter. The cold is excruciating, and part of me cherishes it. I find that I’m able to stand although I’m still shivering. His jacket is just long enough to brush against the tops of my thighs. Ash rubs my legs with force, warming them until it feels like a thousand pinpricks are bringing them back to life.
“They don’t need to let us do anything,” he grumbles, and then grabs my hand and runs toward where I abandoned my purse and clothes, scooping them up. He turns to me as if trying to decide if he should dress me, and then he shakes his head impatiently. “Fuck it, I’m just getting you inside.” Again he takes hold of my hand as I grab the champagne. He pulls me at a sprinter’s pace toward a beautiful house right on the edge of the beach. Even in the state I’m in I know this isn’t going to end well.
CHAPTER 4
I COME TO THIS beach all the time,” he yells as we run. “Come on, keep moving, you have to keep your legs moving! Anyway, I think the woman who lives here is out of town. I know where she hides the key.”
“W-we’re b-b-breaking in?”
Ash ignores me, and when we finally get to the house he lets go of my hand and shoves my things into my arms before turning and climbing over the tall fence that surrounds it. In a second he’s unlocking the gate and pulling me inside. There’s a tree by the front porch with a small birdhouse hanging from it. He reaches up to it, his fingers caressing the miniature awning until he finds what he’s looking for. He pulls out a shiny house key that was hidden there.
I half expect an alarm to go off as he slips the key into the front door lock, but there’s nothing but silence as he pushes it open. Grabbing my hand again, he pulls me into the dark house and slams the door closed behind us.
“I c-can’t believe we’re d-doing this!”
“What’s wrong, Mercy? Did you really think you were the only crazy one?” He flips on the lights, revealing a pretty little Cape Cod–style interior. And for the first time I can see the lower half of the tattoo hugging his triceps. For a moment the cold seems unimportant as I consider reaching for it, touching it as if this would somehow be the thing that could prove that he’s really here, back with me, entering my second life months after he unwittingly destroyed the first. But before I can do anything he’s taken hold of me again and is dragging me up the stairs.
“Who is th-this w-woman who l-lives h-here?”
“Am I supposed to know everything?” he says as he leads me through a beautiful bedroom with a steeple ceiling and into a master bathroom. “I think she’s in her midthirties, and like I said, she seems to be out of town.” He finally releases me so he can start to fill the whirlpool tub, which sits a few feet below a row of windows.
“Oh my G-God!” I don’t even know if I’m stuttering from the cold or from shock anymore. I’m going to take a bath in a stranger’s house?
“Get in.”
I look at him warily and then pull the leather jacket around me a little tighter. It’s all I’m wearing other than my bra and panties, which are now both soaked through and sheer. I hadn’t thought about it when I was protected by the dark. But now, in the br
ight lighting of this room, I’m questioning if I’m really ready to bare everything to him, again. I’m also beginning to realize that I just had an “episode.” At least that’s what my mother used to call them when they happened during my childhood.
Impulse control, hyperactivity, mania . . . I had heard doctor after doctor whisper these words to my father as he glared at the floor. “She needs help,” one had said. “She needs self-control,” my father retorted. “Discipline. Don’t let her fool you, she knows what she’s doing!”
“You have to get in,” Ash says sternly.
“W-what?” I say, blinking as I pull myself out of the memory.
“Into the bath!” he explains, clearly exasperated now. “You’ll get hypothermia, for Christ’s sake!”
“The ocean t-temperature doesn’t go b-below fifty-f-five degrees at worst here. I’ll be f-fine.”
“Water isn’t like air, genius. Fifty-five-degree water will mess you up. Get in the tub.”
“I w-want b-bubbles.”
“What?”
I point to the glass bottle of bubble bath by the tub.
He looks at me like I’m an alien from outer space. “Are you kidding?”
Slowly and deliberately, I pull my purse strap over my shoulder and clutch my clothes to my chest, the perfect picture of stubbornness.
“Alright, bubbles.” He pours the liquid into the tub, and immediately mounds of bubbles cover the surface of the water like frothy white clouds.
“Now will you get in?” he asks, taking the champagne from my hand.
“Turn around.”
“Oh now you’re modest?”
I just make a turning signal with my hand.
“Jesus.” He swivels and covers his eyes as I put down my clothes, careful to leave my purse right by the bath, and then, finally, I get out of the leather jacket and peel out of my bra and panties before lowering myself into the tub. The warm water adds a new pain to my frozen limbs, but then the pain quickly fades as I bend my legs and dip the back of my head in before rising just enough to lean my upper back against the porcelain.
