by Mariah Dietz
Mother Mary, help me, I’m swimming toward her. Kennedy’s seething, but she doesn’t move as I get closer to where she’s now standing in the shallows, the water lapping against her hips. My heart pounds harder in my chest as each of my questions about her family and childhood are replaced with thoughts of how I want to run my fingers through her hair and make it part like the water had. How soft and smooth her lips look. How badly I want to feel her skin against mine. And how much I want her to admit she’s curious, too.
Her breath is cool against my damp skin as I take two steps closer to her. “You clearly don’t like me. I don’t like you, either,” I tell her, shaking my head. “You hit my truck, you give me dirty looks, and you insult me . . . using words I don’t even know . . . You’re this confounding and confusing and stupidly beautiful woman serving to remind me why I’m still single.” Her breath is cool against my damp skin as I take two steps closer to her.
Her eyes narrow, and her lips purse with a retort.
I reach forward and place a hand in the middle of her back, noting how warm her skin is against my fingers.
“What are you doing?” she asks. “People who hate each other don’t make out.”
“I never used the word hate.” I take another step closer to her.
“It was implied.”
I pull her closer so that our chests brush. “I want to kiss you.”
Her eyebrows draw low, a dozen questions racing just below the surface of her eyes, too deep for me to see clearly but shallow enough for their presence to be known. “It won’t change anything.”
“Is that a no?”
Her brows delve lower. “What?”
“Can I kiss you?”
“You’re asking me?” Kennedy’s voice is pitched with surprise.
“Say no or I’m going to.”
“This has to be the least romantic or sexy moment in history. Like, all of history.”
“You’re not saying no.”
Her shoulders rise. “So there are check boxes now? What is this?”
I lean closer and close my eyes. It feels like I’m jumping off that damn rope swing. My stomach is in my throat, and my entire body is anxiously awaiting contact with her. The second our lips connect, the heat of her lips sear mine like an imprint, and time freezes. I have too many thoughts running through my head that all begin with If I and end with will Kennedy run? Ranging from if I angle my head so I can kiss her deeper, to where I can safely place my other hand. The lapse of time heightens each of my senses as they note how the pressure of her lips increases and then lingers, sending chills straight down my spine. Her cold hands wrap around the back of my neck, drawing herself even closer to me so I can feel her skin and the small triangles of her bathing suit. I hold her closer and swipe my tongue along the seal of her lips. Kennedy hums a quiet appreciation. The questions stirring through my head cease, and all I focus on are the sensations coursing through me. How each one seems more intense and lasts longer than the last.
My hands glide up and down her sides, pushing and pulling the pieces of her bathing suit with each pass, creating a frenzy in both of us.
“I want to take off your top.” My voice is hoarse, but I forget about that when she places a kiss on my chin and nods her agreement.
I pull the back of her head toward me again, swiping my tongue along hers, faster this time, and while I do, I pull the perfect bow around her neck and the second one in the middle of her back. The fabric slides between us, falling with a gentle splash. Kennedy’s breasts are full and soft, skimming my chest and sending me into sensory overload.
Chapter 10
Kennedy
“Kennedy! Kennedy!”
It takes hearing my name growing louder before it registers that someone is actively looking for me. Not only that, but that they’re not far from finding me standing topless in the water with Joey, ready to climb him like I’m a cat and he’s a tree.
Joey hears it as well, pulling back from me, his chest heaving. “Who’s that?” He doesn’t wait for a response, moving to fish my floating top from the water.
“Kennedy!”
Joey hands me my bathing suit top and places himself in front of me, allowing enough space to not make it appear like we’ve been caught doing what we were about to be doing but close enough to create a distraction. The triangles seem awkward, the strings too long and too short, and somehow backward as I frantically turn the top several times, imagining what rumors about me will spread.
Joey plucks one of the strings from my hands and then another and reaches forward, tying them securely around my neck and then turning at the sound of the brush moving.
“Kennedy?”
“Jackson?” I complete the knot behind my back as he comes into sight.
“I stopped by your place, and Grace mentioned you went out. Said you seemed kind of upset.”
I’m struggling to regulate my body and thoughts that are still consumed by Joey. The memory of his lips, the heat from his shoulders, and the lingering scent of his cologne that is mixing with my perfume in the most decadent of ways. It all makes replying a chore. “You stopped by my parents’?”
“Is everything okay?” Jackson asks, keeping his focus on me. “Are you all right?”
Joey moves, standing closer to my side.
“Yeah.” My voice is uneven, hormones waging war with my logical mind, demanding that everything is not all right. In fact, things are very far from all right now that he’s here.
“Who’s that with you?”
I look over at Joey and back to Jackson. “It’s Joey,” I tell him. “You guys met at the store last week.”
Jackson’s chin lifts higher.
“Did you need something?” Joey asks after a few moments of silence.
“Just wanted to check on things.” Jackson crosses his arms over his chest. For a second I’m positive he knows exactly what Joey and I were about to do—can read the guilt with our mere proximity to one another. Then Joey mirrors him, crossing his arms over his chest, which enunciates every muscle along his torso and ones in his arms I didn’t even know existed.
“Everything’s good,” I assure him.
“You want me to walk you home?” Jackson asks.
“That’s okay. I’m fine.”
“There have been some reports of foxes and coyotes recently.” Jackson looks toward the woods as though one might appear.
“In all the years I lived here, I’ve never seen a fox.”
Jackson looks at me, a small smile playing on his lips. “Did you even bother to bring a towel?”
“You’re going above and beyond the duty of a concerned citizen,” Joey says, taking a step back so he’s nearly even with me. “I can assure you, she’ll be safe. I won’t let a coyote or a fox get her.”
“You think you’ll be able to scare it off by flashing your badge?” Jackson laughs humorlessly, forcing the remnants of my desires to float away and recognize how awkward and tense the moment is.
“I should probably go,” I say. “I’m opening the store tomorrow.”
Joey keeps his focus on Jackson, and like he did to me during dinner, I stare at him, waiting for him to acknowledge me.
“I’ll walk you home,” Joey says, keeping his attention forward on Jackson.
I release a low laugh. “That’s okay. No one needs to walk me home. I live like ten minutes away.”
Joey doesn’t argue as he follows me up to where our piles of clothing are.
“You working tomorrow?” I ask Jackson, trying to bring some semblance of normalcy to the situation.
He nods. “I’m opening with you.”
Both men stand on either side of me, neither moving or talking, which makes the movements of pulling my clothes over my wet bathing suit agonizingly painful and drawn out.
“Okay, well . . .” I clap my hands once, then double-check my pockets for my phone and keys. “I’ll see you guys around.”
“I forgot my phone at your house,”
Joey says. “I need to go that way anyway.”
I turn to Jackson. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Be careful.” He looks hesitant.
“I will.” I wave goodbye and turn toward Joey. It’s harder to look at him now because it’s impossible not to focus on the details I’ve been trying so hard to ignore: the way he runs his hand through his dark hair, parting it to the side. The shadow of a beard that he occasionally shaves clean. The width of his broad shoulders that I’ve now felt the strength of. And how it’s likely that every woman he’s encountered has pictured him naked.
We walk back to my house, neither of us saying anything as the sun hangs low in the sky, casting an orange glow through the forest, making his flawless skin appear to glow.
When we reach my front yard, he turns to me. “Are you okay?”
I try to nod, but somehow my head is shaking that I’m not.
“Talk to me.” He places a hand on my elbow. His grip is featherlight, and I have to glance down a couple of times to ensure he’s really touching me. “Was this too much? Too fast? Are you worried he might have seen you without your . . .”
I glance back to his hand, amazed how gentle he can be when he’s a tower of muscle. “I don’t know.” And I don’t. I have no idea why everything inside of me feels so coiled and on high alert—or if it is a single thing.
“He didn’t see you. I—”
The front door opens, and Mom appears on the porch, her apron still tied around her waist. “Joey?”
“Hi, Mrs. Wallace.”
“I thought I heard someone talking.”
I cringe, hoping she wasn’t able to make out the words.
“I came by because I think I forgot my phone,” Joey says.
“I don’t think I’ve seen it,” Mom says. “But come on in and we’ll take another look around.”
With a parting look, Joey and I head up the stairs and into the house, where my dad’s sitting in the living room, watching TV.
“Joey!” He mutes the television and stands.
Joey smiles. “Sorry to disturb you guys. I think I left my phone in the kitchen.”
“No bother at all.” Dad leads the way into the kitchen.
“There it is.” Joey reaches for the counter next to the fridge. “Sorry again for the intrusion.”
“You’re welcome anytime,” Mom tells him with a smile.
Joey smiles; it’s barely a degree below earth shattering, and I know by the way Mom doesn’t continue talking she’s affected by it also. I’m pretty certain it’s impossible for anyone to not be.
“Do you think I could get your number?” Joey turns to me.
Dad’s eyes round with surprise.
“Hayden was really excited about the idea of going fishing. I thought maybe we could bribe you and Grace to take us out soon?”
My eyebrows furrow.
If he wants my number, why can’t he just ask for it?
Both of my parents stare at me for a moment too long, and once again, I feel like a teenager. Dad clears his throat, and they both turn, their movements toward the living room even more obvious than their stares were.
“What are you doing?” I hiss.
Joey’s eyebrows draw low, and he shakes his head. “What?” he whispers, looking toward my parents and then me again.
I roll my eyes, uncertain myself of what I’m feeling. Why I’m frustrated by him being here and asking for my number, despite the pretenses.
“Kennedy,” Mom sings my name. “It’s getting late.”
I swipe loose strands of hair from my face and drop my head back before reciting my number.
Joey’s eyes are thinly veiled with patience as he stares at me, trying to read my mood.
Maybe I’m crazy, too.
It’s a question I’ve asked myself no less than a thousand times a week since my parents sat me down and explained my sister’s diagnosis of bipolar disorder with me after she refused to get out of bed for an entire week—experiencing one of her first longtime lows that seemed impossible for her to bounce back from.
When his eyes don’t stop searching mine, I take a deep breath and face him. His eyebrows quirk up with question, and I force myself to focus on the here and now.
Slowly, a smile curves his lips. “I’ll talk with you soon.” His brown eyes are intense, soaking up each of my final reactions as I nod.
“Have a good night,” he tells my parents, heading toward the front door.
“You too, Joey!” Mom and Dad both call.
Once he’s out of sight, Mom turns around, her blue eyes wide and bright with excitement as they dance over me. “Joey DeLuca? How great is he?”
“Christine, they’re just friends.” Dad retires back to his chair.
“Well, for now they are of course. But he is—”
“Mom!” I raise a hand, not wanting to hear the words that will follow. For the past couple of years, my mother has given me a hiatus for finding my perfect match, something she began doing back in grade school when James Cooke signed a Valentine’s Day card with the scribbled word love. Never mind that he had spelled love with a u and had zero interest in me, my mom had begun outlining my wedding that day. When I hit middle school, Mom was the first to sign up to volunteer for all the school dances and anxiously watched from the sidelines of our gymnasium each time a slow song came on to see if or who I’d dance with. I knew all of the kids there. Had known them since the days of diapers, and while many had no problem dating the same person they had seen through too many phases of their life, I did. Not to mention I was taller than most of the boys at that age, was the first in my class to develop breasts, and wasn’t brave enough yet to even wear contacts, let alone kiss a boy. By high school, Mom was certain I’d be ready to find a boyfriend. Truth be told, I was. I had seen Grace fall in love her freshman year of high school, had heard the stories of my parents falling in love during their sophomore year, and had watched as many of my friends got in serious relationships. However, the only dates I attended during those years were one off and with boys from schools outside of Haven Point. Grace having her heart broken busied my mom, distracting her from my lack of dates until I made it to college. Once there, it was harder for her to keep track of whom I was spending time with.
This excited face—those rounded eyes and that smile, which is serving to stop her from screaming with joy—is the same one she’s gotten each time she wants to discuss a guy with me.
“I have good news!” I tell her. “Violet’s coming up this weekend. I hope you don’t mind that I offered her to stay with us. I know it’s really short notice.”
Mom blinks as I turn the conversation in a complete 180. “That’s great, honey. Of course she’s welcome to stay here.” A few more heavy blinks, and pity almost convinces me to throw her a bone and mention that Joey seems like a nice guy.
Dad unmutes on the TV, reminding me of his presence and how this isn’t something I want to discuss with my mom at all, much less in front of him.
“Where’s Grace?” I ask.
When I’d left for the pond, Grace had been singing along to the radio while washing dishes with my mom. Her sleeves were rolled up, exposing her arms, and no one had said a thing.
I had to get some space and search for patience because I was ready to scream at everyone. Now my thoughts are on what would have happened if Jackson hadn’t stopped Joey and me. On what would’ve happened if I hadn’t found Grace when I did. How one single moment can shift everything—rock the world off its axis and misalign the stars.
“She’s in her room. She has a headache.” Mom frowns.
“I’m going to take a shower and get to bed.” I lean forward and kiss her cheek, which has grown softer with age.
I head down the hallway to my room and rifle through my suitcase until I find a clean pair of underwear and some pajamas, and I continue to the last door, where I drop my things on the small bathroom vanity and stare at myself in the large mirror.
Th
e hum of the TV and the constant chirp from bugs has me focusing, listening carefully for additional sounds.
There’s nothing.
My heart skips and races as I make my way to Grace’s door and scrape my knuckles three times in warning as I twist open the knob.
Inside, Grace is sitting on her bed with her legs crossed, writing in her journal. My heartbeats slow.
“Hey.” Grace looks up, smiling—calm.
“Hey.” Relief is evident in my tone.
She tilts her chin. “Why haven’t you changed?” She laughs. “You’re soaking wet, you dork. What are you doing?”
“Just . . .”
“Checking on me?” Her forehead creases as her eyebrows shoot up. She’s not embarrassed or uncomfortable with the question, unlike me.
“I just want to touch base with you. See how you’re doing.”
“I’m fine. I promise. You just caught me at a really bad time today.” She smiles, and it pushes over a chain of lined dominoes that connect my feelings, reasoning, hope, and fears. It spiders out to memories, ambitions, rejections, and dozens of other emotions that in one way or another are all tied back to my sister.
My eyes itch with unshed tears. “Grace, you scared me.”
Her gaze skates around the room, never settling as she shakes her head. “You have no reason to be scared. Everything’s fine. I’m fine.”
“Grace.” I wait for her to look at me. “I think you should talk to someone.”
Her blue eyes flash to mine and then slit with anger. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Grace, you said you want to die.” My nose burns, and my chin begins to tremble.
“I’m fine! You’re overreacting. You’re always overreacting!” she shoves her diary aside and sits up.
I open my mouth to argue, to tell her that what happened was not fine, but I stop, knowing our argument won’t matter without logic and facts. Everything in my arsenal is emotional. “You need to talk to someone. I can help you find the right person, but we need to tell Mom what you’re experiencing. Maybe you need to change your medication or something.”
