by Piper Lennox
Pull Me Under
Piper Lennox
Copyright © 2018 by Belienne Press
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For Freeman, as always
A life without love is like a year without summer.
Swedish proverb
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
Also by Piper Lennox
Sneak Peek
Stay in the Loop
About the Author
One
Kai
When I surface, Dad is pacing the shoreline. Looking for me.
I take my time paddling in. Today’s the first official day of tourist season—not that it ever really ends—and I’m on duty.
“You’ve got a line at the cantina already,” he hisses, motioning up the beach. “What, you didn’t surf enough during the meeting you skipped?”
“I got Luka to cover the cantina, Dad. It’s fine.” I wipe the salt from my face and pretend I couldn’t care less that he’s still glaring while I grab my bag.
He shakes his head and blinks a bunch of times, his signature “I’m done with you” move. “I just don’t know what to do with you, Kai. You used to be so helpful and now...it’s like you don’t care.”
I don’t know what to tell him. I don’t care.
I used to, though. Back when our family’s empire was small and manageable and actually fun, just a regular bed-and-breakfast kind of place, working for the family business was my dream job. I loved every second of it.
Now, though, I squint down the beach and see our new hotel, giant and looming. Hideous. I can’t believe Dad caved to the Paradise Port suits who approached him almost two years ago, talking about franchising and expansion, the bottom line and cornering the market—all the words I’d heard my father spew with contempt as, every year, the island turned more and more commercial.
He’s changed, too. I can tell he doesn’t love the business anymore: it’s turning his hair gray, keeping him up late. I can’t remember the last time he took Mom out on a date, or hit the waves with me and Luka.
Great. Now I feel guilty.
“I’ll go to the cantina now. Sorry.”
He nods and starts back towards the resort, the opposite direction from me, but I notice the way his eyes catch on the horizon. He’s watching the waves.
“Caught some good ones today,” I tell him. Startled, he snaps out of it and looks at me—at the board I’m now offering him. Really, I’m offering him a break. “If you want to paddle out for a few.”
For a second, I swear, he actually considers it: glances between the board and the ocean, one hand almost reaching.
Then, he stops.
“Just go to the cantina, son, all right?” He gives me another done-with-you move and turns on his heel, marching back to the crown jewel of his empire.
Now it’s my turn to sigh. I do it as a curse, one long and breathy, “Fuck.” The sun is so high as I trod to the little hut down the beach, I can’t even see my own shadow.
Luka’s playing video games when I get to the bar. “Hey,” he says, without looking up.
I knock the handheld out of his grip with one hand, catch it with the other. “You should be prepping.”
“You should be prepping. Last I checked, this isn’t my shift.”
I ignore this while I wash my hands and slice a couple limes. “You missed a good set,” I tell him.
“Yeah?”
“Well, decent. Would’ve been better down near Drew’s place.” I pile the lime slices into the container, then start on the pineapples. Already, my hands are sticky; the entire bar smells like fruit salad, sickly sweet. “Dad saw me.”
Luka nods at some passing tourists. “I figured. You wouldn’t be back here already if he hadn’t.”
“He told me there was a line.”
This makes him laugh. “Two people. And they didn’t even order, they just wanted to know where they could rent bikes.”
Instead of laughing along, I shake my head and curse again.
“You know, you could at least pretend you care,” he adds, serious now. “For Dad’s sake.”
I stop carving the pineapple and look at him. He took the game back from the countertop when I wasn’t looking. “First of all,” I spit, “you’re sitting there playing a video game, trying to lecture me about caring? And second, I used to care. Back when we were actually running shit the right way instead of...this.” I spread my arms to the beach, encompassing the two miles that make up the resort property—four times as big and a hundred times more ridiculous than what we had before.
“I cared,” I add, stabbing the knife back into the pineapple, “when Dad decided to sign everything over, just like that, without even asking us. And it seemed like I was the only one who cared that everything changed.”
Luka looks up from his game. “I cared, dude.”
“Yeah? Then why didn’t you say anything?”
He shrugs. Not like he doesn’t know, but like he doesn’t care enough to talk about it anymore. I pile the pineapple pieces into the container and slam the lid so hard, half wind up on the floor.
Mollie
“You’re going to ask him out?”
“Is that so hard to believe?” I mumble, toothbrush halfway in my mouth, as Tanya grabs her hair straightener and starts wrapping the cord.
“I just think,” she says slowly, “if he was into you like that, he would’ve asked you out by now.”
I spit and stare at my reflection. The same thought has crossed my mind several times before—okay, several hundred times—but I’m tired of waiting. Carpe diem. YOLO. Whatever the hell.
“Look, I’m only being honest because I don’t want you getting your hopes up. You’ve had this crazy, giant, stupid—”
“I got it. Thanks.”
“—crush on Damian for, what...four years? And nothing’s happened with it.” She follows me into our living room, where both our suitcases lie open, packed to the gills. I bag my toothbrush while she finds a spot to wedge the straightener. “Just don’t want you setting yourself up for heartbreak. That’s all.”
“College is over, Tan. If I don’t go for it on this trip, I might ruin my last shot with him.” Damian, the only other architectural studies student in our friend-group, landed a job in Oregon before our final semester even started. And since I’m currently jobless and set to move back into my parents’ guesthouse come July, this big, end-of-college vacation is my one chance to get with him.
I watch as she sits on her suitcase, which doesn’t even budge,
let alone close enough to zip. “I know it’s risky,” I go on, “and he might say no, which yes, will probably be upsetting.”
“Devastating.” She picks split ends from her hair. “Apocalyptic. I will be on standby with the stomach pump when you drink yourself into a coma.”
“But I’ve spent every party and class we had together since freshman year,” I continue, throwing a sun hat at her face like a Frisbee, “being scared shitless to even let him know I like him. Shouldn’t I at least try, before it’s too late?”
She sighs. At me or her suitcase, I’m not sure.
“I guess,” she says, finally, letting her hands flop into her lap like I’ve defeated her with some impeccable logic. Maybe she’s just tired of trying to talk me out of it. “If there was ever a perfect place for a crazy idea, Hawaii’s probably it, right?”
“Looks like we’re sitting together.”
I pretend I’m surprised when Damian takes the seat beside mine on the plane, not letting on one bit that I swapped seats with Macy. “Oh, are we?”
He nods. “Makes sense, though. Carrie ordered all the tickets at once.”
“Oh,” I say again. “Yeah.”
We’re quiet until the plane takes off and the attendants start handing out tiny cans of soda and packs of crackers. My hand brushes his when we put down our trays.
“Sorry,” I mutter, but he’s already tearing into the snacks and doesn’t notice.
With Damian, part of the problem—at least, according to Tanya—is the build-up. Her theory is that I’ve spent so long building him up in my head, pining after him in secrecy, that I’ve made him unattainable. “You keep thinking he’s some Greek god and you’ll never get a chance with him,” she’s explained to me, more than once, “so that turns into, like, a self-fulfilling prophecy.”
My chest swells with a few deep breaths, calming myself. If my failure up to this point has been self-fulfilling, then it stands to reason my bravery after this point can be, too. Fake it till you make it. Believe to achieve.
I flip my hair off my shoulder and turn in my seat. “So. Excited about Oregon?”
“I wouldn’t say excited.” He takes a sip of his soda while he’s still got crackers in his mouth. I hate when people do that, but seeing Damian do it makes it less gross, somehow. “Just...ready for anything different. You know?”
“Yeah,” I say, even though I don’t.
“It’s a good job, though. At least until I’m ready to go to grad school and get licensed.” He glances at me. “What about you?”
“I might get my M. Arch, too.” I’ve learned this is a great placeholder answer when people ask me about my plans: no one argues with more education.
“You kind of have to. Bachelor’s aren’t worth shit without it.”
“That’s not entirely true.” I hear how standoffish I sound and try to laugh it off. Moot point: he just gives me a smile like I’m naïve.
“You ever hear back about that...uh, that thing?”
“Thing?”
“Yeah, you were talking about this program up in Vermont, or something.”
I think a minute. “The internship in Maryland?”
He nods, far more enthralled with his next pack of crackers than I’d prefer. “Yeah.”
“Uh...no, that kind of fell through.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”
He’s actually heard it before. I told him as soon as I got the rejection email, back in January. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t upset he forgot, but it feels petty to care.
We lapse back into silence. No witty conversation topics come to mind, and the longer the gap lasts, the dumber it feels to be halfway facing him like this, when he’s just crunching away and enjoying the movie.
“Hey, uh,” he says, right when I’m about to slide back into my seat and decide self-fulfilling bravery isn’t gonna happen, “can I, uh....”
Ask you out? Invite you to stay in my hotel room? Rail you from the time we land to the moment we board again?
“...borrow your headphones?”
My entire body deflates. I slide him the cellophane packet of headphones and force a smile when he says thanks.
The flight feels longer than it is. Tanya follows me when I get up to use the bathroom.
“Hey? How’s it going with Damian?”
“Great. He asked to borrow my headphones. I’m thinking gold and emerald for our wedding colors.”
She gives me a “bless your heart” kind of smile and offers me some gum. “It’ll get better,” she says. “Just wait till we’re at the resort—all the alcohol and fun stuff going on, you’ll loosen up.”
I look past her at the back of Damian’s head. He’s nodding off, my headphones still tucked into his ears. “I hope so.”
Two
Mollie
“I need a drink.” Tanya loops her arm through mine as we climb out of the taxi. Carrie and Macy rode with us; Damian, his roommate James, and the twins, Ian and Ted, rode in the taxi just ahead. They’re already hefting their luggage to the curb, intercepted by eager bellhops in suits, when we pull up.
Tanya gets her wish, because no sooner have we stepped into the lobby than we’re greeted by a woman with leis and a guy with tacky coconut cups. I don’t know what’s in them, but it smells strong. Mine’s finished before we’re upstairs.
“Whoa, look at this place!” Carrie starts flitting around the suite, pressing her nose to every window like a child. She does that—acts like a kid, but hates that people don’t respect her. It’s probably why she’s pre-med, but I can’t imagine people taking a 4’11” doctor who wears actual glitter on her face and carries a kawaii donut purse seriously.
Meanwhile, Macy’s reading the menu for the restaurant downstairs, and Tanya’s stealing whatever’s left of Carrie’s drink. Which leaves just me and the bellhop. I give him a five, then shut the door behind him.
“So,” Carrie squeaks, falling onto the plush sofa with her makeup bag—covered in sequins, no less—to touch up her lip gloss, “how was everyone’s flight experience?”
The way she drawls “flight experience” makes it clear she’s really asking me if I had the spine to flirt with Damian or not. I ignore all six eyes on me and rummage through my bags for some ibuprofen.
“You know,” she adds, “there’s a big luau tonight, all-inclusive. Maybe you and Damian could get a little alone time down by the waves.”
Macy grabs Carrie’s gloss and swabs it on her mouth. I get that, as roommates, they’re used to sharing everything and crossing boundaries, but stuff like that always grosses me out. I have to look away, lest the thought of them sharing saliva and bacteria makes me vomit.
Tanya and I don’t do that stuff. We share clothes, but that’s about it. I don’t think she has a problem sharing things like makeup or drinks—made evident by the fact she’s now stealing Macy’s, as well—but thankfully, she understands my quirks. Like never sharing saliva unless you’re dating the person, or keeping the television at the lowest audible volume when your roommate’s studying.
Or the fact I’ve had the dumbest, most pathetic crush on Damian since the day we all met, and as much hell as she gives me about it in private, she respects the fact I hate talking about it in front of other people. Even Macy and Carrie.
So when she instantly changes the subject to where we should grab lunch, I give her a look of gratitude. It’s not anything noticeable, but I can tell she gets the message.
Kai
“The luau’s tonight. Or did you forget?”
I stop in my tracks, hand still on the fridge. “No,” I tell the magnets, polymer clay and tacky as hell, sent from relatives and friends on the mainland. The Space Needle is broken right down the middle, jagged as a knife. “Couldn’t forget if I tried.”
Dad sighs and shakes his head. He’s got about a thousand papers spread out on the kitchen table. Typical: ever since he signed the franchise contract, he’s been forced to work right through his lunch brea
k, even when he comes home to eat with Mom.
The pop of my soda can blasts through the house like a bone breaking. The place is too quiet nowadays, even with so much more going on.
“Kai?” Mom’s voice floats to me through the door leading to our garden. “Is that you?”
I step out and wave. She’s kneeling in the dirt, seed packets scattered by her feet.
“Cucumbers,” she explains, motioning up and down the row. “I’m thinking of doing some radishes, too. What do you think?”
“Radishes are good,” I say, feigning interest for her sake. Gardening is Mom’s newest thing, and it seems to be helping those stress dreams she started getting around Christmas. She refuses to tell us what they’re actually about, but I have a feeling it’s an endless compilation of all the ways Dad’s working himself into an early grave. “Hope you’re going to pickle those cucumbers, or else I won’t be eating them.”
This makes her smile, which makes me smile.
“Hand me that watering can, would you?” We watch the rain she scatters on the new mounds, the soil fresh and aromatic. It reminds me of when our garden was just dirt, back when I was a kid, and every new blade got turned up by our Tonka trucks and bike tires as soon as they sprouted.
“Where’s Luka?” She stands and brushes her hands off on her jeans. I notice they’re an old pair of Dad’s, held up by a belt on its innermost notch. I wonder if she consciously does these cute, couple-y things to get his attention—stealing his clothes, cutting his sandwiches into hearts—or if by now, it’s just force of habit.
