Sooo, Emerson and I kissed last night. It was very intense, and today he’s taking me somewhere for my birthday. Please tell me I’m crazy for thinking we could ever be a possibility.
I sigh and set my phone down. She doesn’t reply by the time I’ve thrown on cut-off shorts and a white tank over a bathing suit. I slip on my Vans and throw on a dark grey sweatshirt. I braid my hair off to the side, and though it looks extremely messy, it’s five in the morning. End of story.
I grab some beach essentials before chucking my phone and keys into a large tote and slinging it over my shoulder.
I’m done in eleven minutes. When I get downstairs, Emerson is drinking coffee and flipping pancakes. His back is to me. I smile and watch him for a second, admiring his fine backside. He’s wearing jean shorts, a white T-shirt, and Vans.
Matchy-matchy.
“Hey,” I say, sliding into a seat at the bar.
He spins around and eyes me invitingly. He doesn’t even try to hide it. “Morning, sleepyhead,” he murmurs, handing a plate of steaming blueberry pancakes to me.
“Mmm,” I say, licking my lips, “I’m starving.”
“How do you feel today?” he asks, his back to me. The way he says it makes me think he’s gauging my feelings about everything last night and not my physical hangover.
“I’m good,” I answer, chewing. “Really. Just a small headache.”
He turns slowly. “I think I’m okay, too,” he answers, wrapping his arms around his chest and leaning against the counter. “Anyway, enough about yesterday. We’re going to Montauk.”
I’m about to reply, but my phone beeps once, twice, three times. I look down at my phone on the counter. Three texts from Hannah pop up.
WHAT?!?!?! FINLEY!!!!
To answer your question, YOU ARE OUT OF YOUR MIND. But maybe in a good way?
Was it good?!
I smile and ignore Emerson’s penetrating gaze as I respond.
It was fucking incredible.
When I look up, it feels as if Emerson can read my mind. He’s watching me with a sly grin, and his dazzling eyes are searching my face impishly.
“What?” I ask, nervous. Sometimes I feel like he can read my mind.
“You’re blushing,” he murmurs. His right brow is slightly arched.
“Am I?” I ask, fanning myself with my hand. I don’t even have an excuse.
“You told Hannah about last night, didn’t you?” His voice isn’t accusatory. Instead, it’s teasing and light. How did he know?
“Maybe.” I sigh. “How could I not?” I ask, looking down at my hands and twiddling my thumbs.
“Finley,” he says, turning to flip the pancakes. His tone has completely reversed—it’s no longer playful. It’s heavy. I see him plate a few for himself. As he sits next to me, his sad eyes wander across my face and then down to the floor. “I know I said we wouldn’t talk about it today. But I have to know—are you quitting?” I open my mouth to speak and he interrupts, suddenly acting very impassioned. “Because if you are, I’m begging you to stay.” He looks up at me, and I’m astonished to see his eyes swimming with fear. “I meant it when I said I needed you.”
I shake my head fervently. “I’m not quitting.” I have to bite my lip to keep from crying. Why does everything with him feel so intense all of a sudden?
He nods quickly and sniffs. “Good.”
We finish our pancakes in silence. I suppose emotional moments like just now will be the norm from now on. There’s no going back. We’re in, and even though we haven’t jumped in fully, we’re dipping our toes in and testing the waters. I have a feeling when we finally jump, it’ll be a cannonball.
*
Not much later, we’re in the Soob headed toward Montauk. Emerson made me close my eyes as we got into the car. He leads me to my seat, and I cringe to think what his sneaky plans entail because once we’re in the car, he says I can open my eyes. I file it away in the Emerson is strange file.
The sky is a glittering pink, as if the sun is about to burst over the horizon flamboyantly. It’s stunning. I pull my sweatshirt tighter around me. It’s chilly this morning. I’m fully awake now. The second cup of coffee has me buzzing, and I can’t stop thinking about last night. I’m like a giddy schoolgirl. I quickly grab my phone and text Hannah again.
More deets later.
“Why are we going to the beach so early?” I ask, eyeing Emerson suspiciously. He’s wearing a pair of aviators now that the sun is bright and beginning to peek out. I study his profile—his chiseled jaw, his messy hair. The way his baseball cap makes him look so artfully distressed.
“You’ll see.” I sigh and turn the seat warmers on. “It’s August,” he adds, his voice incredulous, “you can’t possibly be cold.”
“I get cold easily,” I retort, smiling.
He smiles. “You’re going to hate your birthday present, then,” he says, shaking his head.
“As long as we’re not going in the water, I’m good.”
He’s quiet as we pull off the highway and toward the part of the beach I used to go with my parents. There’s no one around. The only people at the beach at this time are . . . suddenly it clicks.
“Oh, hell no,” I hiss, under my breath. “Surfing?”
“Come on,” he yells, laughing. “Please tell me you’ve surfed before.”
“Umm, no.” I scowl at him.
“I brought wetsuits,” he says, nudging his head toward the back of the car. “You’ll be fine.”
“No,” I say simply.
He pulls into a spot right in front of the water. The expansive beach is teeming with seagulls, and there are several bodies already in the water.
Shark bait.
“No? You’re not even going to try?” He looks at me with narrowed eyes, his hands firm on the steering wheel.
“No,” I repeat. I hold back tears. “I’m . . . scared of sharks.”
He stares at me. “What? Sharks?”
I shrug. “I had a close call the last time I went in the ocean. It was here, at this exact same beach.” I point to the ocean. “Chloe and I were boogie boarding, and I felt something brush up against my leg. I was thirteen. I never went in the water again. I consider myself lucky I wasn’t eaten alive. It could’ve been much worse,” I add, my voice unwavering.
“Finley,” Emerson starts, and I can tell he’s trying not to laugh. “It was probably a small tiger shark. Or a fish. Or a seal. It’s very rare to see a great white shark.”
“Stop chastising me,” I say quietly. “I’m not going.”
“I’ll give you an additional twenty percent of my royalties,” he jokes. “Please. Try. Try for me.” He looks at me apprehensively. “Try for Chloe.”
I sigh and put my face in my hands. “That’s not fair,” I cry, shuddering at the thought of having to go in the water. Did he have to bring up Chloe? How can I say no to that? She’s my biggest weak spot. “Ugh, fine. You win. For Chloe.” I hop out of the car, courage fueling my veins. If Chloe were around, I’d do it for her. If Chloe were around, I’d do it with her. Just like old times. I’d do just about anything to see her again. I want to make her proud. “I want that twenty percent,” I add, reaching into the trunk for my wetsuit. “Also, whose is this?” I ask, holding the wetsuit up to him. God, I hope it didn’t belong to a previous girlfriend or something . . .
Emerson closes the driver’s door and meets me at the trunk. “I bought it. For you.”
I groan. “And I assume you bought me a surfboard too?” His eyes wander to the roof. I see a large rack with two boards. So that’s why he had me cover my eyes. When I look back at him, he’s grinning mischievously. If I weren’t so annoyed with him right now, I might find his eagerness endearing. “Way to guilt me into this even more,” I grumble. “I hope the shark eats you first.”
I take my jeans and tank top off. I smirk when I see Emerson’s eyes flick to my body automatically. They sweep up and down twice, and when I twist to look at him fully, he
clears his throat and looks away. I pull the new wetsuit on. It’s extremely tight—he must’ve underestimated my size. It feels like I’m wearing a scuba body glove.
“I think it’s too small,” I say, straining to zip it up my chest. God, how embarrassing.
“It’ll loosen in the water. It fits perfectly,” he adds, scrutinizing me. He reaches out and adjusts the zipper near my neck, and the tugging motion brings me forward a bit, toward him. I automatically reach a hand out and place it on his bicep.
We both freeze. I blink and look up at him. His eyes search mine. He pats the spot he was fixing.
“Better,” he says softly. He clears his throat again and looks down, stepping away. “Ready?”
I gulp. “No. I think you’re underestimating my fear.” Emerson unlocks the roof rack and I see him pull two surfboards out. One is worn, with used wax all over one side. The other is shiny and . . . teal. “It’s so pretty,” I squeal, taking it from him awkwardly. I admire the gleaming body, and the pink cord I’m supposed to attach to my ankle.
“Let’s get you used to the water before we attempt anything. Just paddle. Follow me, okay?”
I nod. My heart is pounding, and I’m beginning to sweat underneath my suit. Emerson locks the car with the valet key and tucks it into a section of his suit. Well, that’s nifty. I wonder how often he goes surfing.
The closer we get, the more I realize how much better for surfing this beach is from the one outside Emerson’s house. The sand is pristine, and the waves are perfectly formed. At the house, the sand is rocky and the waves just lap at the surface due to the house being in a small enclave.
The second my feet touch the water, I yelp. “It’s cold,” I cry, hopping out and standing a safe distance away.
“Here,” Emerson says, reaching out for my board. I unlatch it from my ankle and he carries both boards to the sand. What is he doing? I thought the whole point of surfing was to . . . surf.
All of a sudden, he’s sprinting toward me. I giggle and shriek, twisting around and running down the shore, away from him. I can hear him behind me laughing, and soon, an arm reaches around my middle. He picks me up and throws me over his shoulder. I beat my fists against his back.
“Don’t you dare,” I yell, kicking and squirming, trying to get him to drop me.
“Too late,” he says gleefully, running into the ocean. The water splashes up into my face and I scream.
“Stop,” I yell, but I can’t help but laugh.
He lets go, tossing me into relatively deep water. I go under, and for a second I’m overcome with panic. I stand up and surface, gasping for air.
“I . . . hate . . . you . . .” I rasp, splashing water at him.
He runs forward and grabs my waist with his arms. “No, you don’t,” he says quietly, pulling me flush with his body and leaning down to kiss me. The second our lips meet, my body implodes.
The kiss last night was ravenous—as if we couldn’t believe what was happening. As if we couldn’t get enough. The kiss today is even more so. His hands run through my dripping hair. I bite his lip gently, and he moans into my mouth. The guttural sound weakens my knees and makes me want to drag him underneath the water with me just so I can lie underneath him.
And holy hell, I can feel everything in his wetsuit.
This is too much. I’m beginning to feel dizzy from the intensity, but I definitely don’t want it to stop. I could kiss Emerson every single second for the rest of time.
“Warm now?” he says into my mouth. I’m overcome with desire—the way he smells, the salt water mixing with our saliva, the way he tastes, the way I crave his large, warm hands on every surface of my body . . .
“Yes,” I whisper. We pull apart. We’re both breathing heavily. He places his hands on his hips. I try not to stare at the large bulge in his wetsuit.
“Good,” he replies, dumbfounded. He turns and walks toward the beach. I take three deep breaths and follow him, touching my lips. They’re still tingling.
“Emerson,” I start, looking at him as he hands my board to me.
“Don’t,” is his reply. “I don’t know would be my answer.”
He turns and walks into the water. I scowl as he gets farther away, eventually lying on his stomach and paddling out. I sigh and follow him, because what other choice do I have?
My heart begins to beat a thousand beats per second. Sharks, is all I can think. I push forward reluctantly, feeling as if every step is inevitably leading to my death.
No wonder I’m a writer. This overactive imagination is ridiculous.
When the water gets to my stomach, I bend down and lie atop my board, mimicking Emerson. I paddle slowly. My arms immediately begin to burn. I shamefully think back to the last time I worked out. Two years ago.
Eventually, after what seems like hours of paddling, I reach him. He’s facing away from me, looking out into the vast abyss, his body stiff and rigid. He’s sitting up, one leg on either side of the board.
“Hey,” I say, out of breath.
“Hey,” he replies, not turning around. “You did it.”
“Yep.” For some reason, I’m unsure of what to say to that. “Did you kiss me to distract me?” I ask, coming up next to him. I try to get into a seated position, but I fail three times—each time the board flips, and I flop into the water. Finally, on the fourth try, I get it. I’m still a little wobbly. Emerson looks like a pro. He’s ignoring my question.
“Here’s one,” he says, his voice serious. “Turn around and get ready.”
“What?” I screech, looking out. A small swell of water is making its way toward us.
“Turn around,” he yells, urging me with his eyes. I struggle to turn, but eventually I do.
“Don’t try and stand yet. Just ride the wave on your stomach. Okay?” I nod, and he begins to paddle forward. “Go!”
I paddle vigorously. I feel the bump of water underneath me, and I swallow when I think of all the things potentially living underneath it.
“Faster,” Emerson yells from next to me.
I go as fucking fast as my little arms will take me. Eventually, the water under me curves, and I fall forward, my paddling fruitless now. The wave carries me forward quickly, and I holler as I see Emerson stand next to me.
“Woo hoo!” I yell, just before the wave stalls and I fall off the board and into the water. When I emerge, I stand and throw my arms up into the air. “Let’s do it again.”
I find the whole ordeal exhilarating and exciting. Having him around eases my fear, and I no longer feel as if I’m going to get my leg bitten off. My favorite part is sitting on the still water, waiting for the next wave. There’s something so calming about the ocean. Emerson seems to have lightened up too, and by the time the magical wave comes, we’re talking and joking like old friends. The kiss has been forgotten, for now.
When I see the wave, I know instantly that it’s different. Emerson teaches me that you can tell which wave is good versus bad, depending on where and how it forms. I study each wave attentively, and they’re all relatively the same. Until I see this one.
“This is it,” Emerson says, eyeing me excitedly. “You ready?”
“Yes,” I say, my voice determined.
“Just remember, stand up slowly,” he adds, referencing my past failed attempts.
“Got it.”
I turn and begin to paddle just as the wave lifts us. My blood is rushing through my ears, and my vision becomes tunneled. I see the wave and only the wave. I will stand. I will stand.
And then I do stand. I wobble a bit before straightening out, and I only stand for maybe ten seconds before the wave crashes, but I do it. I’m surfing! It’s an incredible sensation. The water moves underneath me, pushing me forward. I have to balance, but once I get it, the adrenaline rush is like nothing else I’ve ever felt. When I get to the shore, Emerson is waiting for me. I unlatch the ankle band quickly and run to him.
“You fucking did it,” he yells, dropping his board a
nd meeting me. He picks me up and spins me around. “I’m so proud,” he whispers, holding me in a tight embrace. I can’t stop smiling from ear to ear.
Some people bring out the bad parts of you. Various exes of mine certainly have: smoking, drinking, laziness. It took breaking up with them to realize their influence. And then there are those that bring out the best in you. For example, Hannah. She reminds me every day of what true friendship should look like—and we’re platonic soul mates because of it. She motivates me with her courage and shows me how to be compassionate.
Then there are those who bring out the most of everything. They make you feel so alive, so free. They fill your life with exhilaration. They make you feel so good, you’d follow them straight into the depths of hell just to continue spending time with them.
That’s Emerson.
The person who awakened my soul, uprooted my life, and made me conquer my fears.
When we pull apart I’m feeling overly nostalgic. “Want to see my old summer house? It’s just down there,” I add, pointing to the row of houses to our right.
He nods. “I’d love to.”
We drop our boards and walk silently toward a place I haven’t been back to in nine years, though as my feet dig into the sand and the sun begins to beat onto my face, it feels like yesterday.
“You miss them, huh?” Emerson asks, and I don’t have to ask who he’s talking about.
I sigh. “Yeah. I mean, as far as parents go, they were pretty shitty. But still, they are my parents. I unwittingly, unconsciously, miss them. They’re my flesh and blood.”
“I know. I get it. Even though my mother was a horrible person, I still feel that tugging in my heart whenever I think of her. I have, maybe, three good memories of her, and yet I think about those every day.”
I grimace. “People should have to take a test before they procreate. Imprinting on awful people is the worst kind of nostalgia. You miss them because you’re programmed to. It sucks.”
Between the Pages: A Novel Page 15
