One Hot Summer

by Heidi McLaughlin

  Noah bites his bottom lip, his own smirk countering mine. “Actually, I’m staying with Randy, remember? He’s on Alabama.” His eyebrows raise in challenge.

  My heart sinks into my stomach, which flutters with embarrassment. Oh, right. Well, I’ve just made an epic fool of myself.

  “In fact, I walked by yesterday, too, but wasn’t sure you’d want me to bother you.”

  Bother me? I’d laugh out loud if I wasn’t currently breaking out in a full-body blush. I guess that was him I saw though my window yesterday, after all.

  But even if he’s only staying two streets over, it is a small detour to turn down my block. “Interesting route to the beach, walking a block in the opposite direction...”

  Noah breaks out into a full smile, and it’s utterly brilliant. “Touche, smartass. You win. I wanted to check in on you.”

  I smile in victory, but it’s dulled as Noah’s humored expression is suddenly colored somber.

  His tone softens. “The other night was a lot, Liza.”

  As if I need another reminder. I still wear enough of them on my skin, only hidden by the long, still-damp hair—placed carefully over my shoulders—and beneath the three quarter-sleeve-tee it’s far too hot to actually wear outdoors.

  “I’m fine,” I murmur, making a conscious effort to stop myself from fingering the offending marks, and drawing Noah’s attention to them, and, presumably, his strange ire.

  “Hey,” he whispers, drawing my gaze back to his. “I did have another reason I wanted to stop by.

  Oh?

  “Well, I...” He hesitates again, nerves that seem completely out of place on Noah Reed slipping back into his tone. “I guess I was wondering if you had plans today.”

  Plans?

  “Um...no. Not really,” I answer honestly.

  “’Not really’?” he questions.

  “I mean, other than hanging around the house and avoiding my ex.” I accentuate the last word, making myself, and my earlier point, clear.

  The corner of Noah’s mouth quirks up at that, and something in my chest lightens. “So basically, you’re free?”

  I nod cautiously, wondering what he has in mind, but his bright smile of satisfaction begets one from me as well, and I’m suddenly ready to go wherever Noah Reed might lead.

  6

  I climb into Noah’s bright yellow Jeep Wrangler, the top down and windows wide. Classic summer boy.

  “We’re not going to the beach?” I ask.

  “Not exactly...” He glances at me between safely watching the road ahead, as we drive north, toward the bay instead of the ocean.

  Three blocks later, Noah turns onto Alabama Street, and the beginnings of anxiety take hold deep in my belly and on the telling surface of my skin. “Are you taking me to Randy’s?”

  Part of me revels at the idea of being alone with him, but most of me is ready to jump ship at the thought that this was his plan. That he might think that now that Jonah and I aren’t together anymore, Noah might just be trying to get me into bed, like I’m easy or something.

  “Not exactly...” Noah repeats, and I throw him a confused look that only incites an pleased smile.

  A gust of wind blows through the open jeep, my red waves flying all over so that I can barely see, and I let out a giggle as Noah glances at me, amused. Until he isn’t.

  He does a double take, his smile fading instantly as his brow furrows in a quiet fury I struggle to make sense of, just as he pulls into Randy’s empty driveway.

  I blink at him in confusion until Noah sucks in a hard breath between gritted teeth as the back of his large hand feathers along my neck, ever so gently, and I know.

  I momentarily forgot about the fading bruise in the precise shape of Jonah’s massive palm, a tell-tale reminder of reality, and just how bad the other night was. How bad it might have been had Noah not come to my rescue.

  Somehow, still, his touch affects me in ways I can barely understand, and my eyes flutter closed as his callused fingertips tenderly examines the damage.

  “I could kill him,” he mutters, his soft tone completely at odds with his meaning.

  “I think you almost did,” I breathe, before re-meeting his gaze.

  It earns me a small, sober smile from Noah, and, for some reason, just this makes me feel like a million bucks.

  “He doesn’t deserve you,” Noah says meaningfully.

  “I know.”

  “He never did.”

  And while a part of me had always known that, something about hearing it from Noah, who has no real reason to believe it so fiercely, and yet somehow does, makes me finally, truly believe it.

  The intensity of our locked gazes are too much all of a sudden, and I look out the open window, and gesture to Randy’s seemingly empty house in question.

  “He’s at the beach,” Noah explains.

  It does nothing to answer my question, though, and then a trace of Noah’s smile returns as he explains. “Well, smartass, we’re going fishing.”

  7

  When we were all about twelve, we played an epic game of Truth or Dare.

  When I say epic, I mean it. Because we’d played that game--that year, at least—more times than I could count.

  But this time, this time it was different.

  Jillian had known about my crush on Noah since the days when we were stuck at the club’s day camp from nine in the morning until four in the afternoon. When we’d detour our routes to activities with the express purpose of passing the group of boys Noah and Randy—whom, incidentally, Jill was always a fan of—was in.

  We’d rush to the girls’ bathroom to fix our beach-hair, cover up any acne with the minimal makeup we used at the time—despite the effort being a ridiculous endeavor at the beach—and apply sticky lip gloss we’d regret as soon as we got back to the beach, as the unrelenting grains of sand would inevitably adhere to our shiny mouths.

  Some days we’d miss them. Most days, though, we’d time our moves perfectly, and with our stares concealed by dark, trendy sunglasses, we’d strut our pitiful, new curves, carefully acting as if we didn’t even know the boys were there as we passed.

  Most of the time they were more concerned with sports, particularly beach volleyball, to notice that girls even existed, let alone us. But then there were the times when they’d look. When they’d elbow each other in some inside joke that made our barely adolescent selves cheer in triumph, as soon as we were far enough out of sight, that is.

  That summer was the first time the girls and boys started hanging out together after camp. When we’d all meet up at the back courtyard where of the club’s boardwalk, and spin bottles or share the one or two cans of beer someone stole from their parents’ cabana.

  Or played Truth or Dare.

  It was Randy, rather than Jillian, surprisingly enough, who dared Noah to kiss me, not the other way around. And while everyone laughed, cheered, and teased, I expected him to make some excuse why he couldn’t, or wouldn’t. In fairness, we were still at that awkward age when, though some of us most decidedly did want to kiss the other, we sure as hell weren’t going to admit it.

  But Noah didn’t even hesitate. He crawled across the circle we were all seated in, and pressed his lips to mine, long and hard. He tasted like cherry ices. Unfortunately, I was sent into near shock, and by the time I was fully able to even register what was happening, he pulled away to taunts of “get a room!”, and Randy’s “I dared you to kiss her not glue your face to hers!”, and, of course, a round of pre-teen hoots and laughter.

  But what strikes me now, all these years later, isn’t that kiss. Well, not only that kiss. Even though only Jillian and I knew it was my very first. What I can’t stop wondering about is several rounds later, that very same afternoon, when, still recovering from having Noah’s lips on mine, I chose “truth”.

  “What is your absolute favorite beach activity?” our friend, Matty, had asked me.

  I answered truthfully. “Fishing.” It was the one thing
my dad and I regularly did together, and we’d loved it. “Not off the jetties, though, so maybe it’s not technically a ‘beach’ activity, but going out on the bay. Definitely my favorite,” I’d explained, referring to my favorite daddy-daughter activity—the one we’d always taken part in together, at least once a week, every summer since I could remember.

  It’s been years since I’ve had the chance to do that, though. Not since my dad went out to pick up our sushi dinner from Nagahama—our favorite Japanese spot one town over in Long Beach—and some asshole blew a red light, ending his life, without so much as bothering to stop to see the damage he’d done.

  And he’d done serious damage.

  The two-seater sports car he rarely got to drive, being a family man and all, was crunched like an accordion, my dad’s very fragile, human body with it. And despite my mom and me both following up with the local police department regularly, even now, years later, they still have yet to catch the asshole.

  8

  Randy’s house is located on the bay, with a small dock in the back, where he keeps the fishing boat he got for his birthday last year. I saw it docked when he had a party last year, but I’ve never been on it.

  “Fishing?” I ask, as if I hadn’t heard him right.

  Noah’s grin widens with self-satisfaction, and I know. I know, without a doubt, that he remembers. I stare out at the space between houses, where I can view the Atlantic West Bay, avoiding his gaze, unnerved by my sudden vulnerability.

  He’s just trying to cheer me up after the other night. He probably feels responsible or something, simply because he was around that night, and happened to be the one to intervene. Still, the thought means the world to me, more than it probably should, and, for some reason, I’m not sure I want Noah to see that.

  As if he notices my discomfort with my feelings, he doesn’t push the issue. He simply says’s “come on”, and makes his way around the jeep to open my door for me.

  Jonah has never opened a door for me. Maybe that should have told me something a long time ago.

  I take Noah’s proffered hand, ignoring the heat of his touch, of the way his palm squeezes mine, as I climb from my seat, hating and loving the way his other hand supports my waist as I hop down to the Randy’s paver-stone driveway. I avoid eye contact. I’m feeling too much right now, more than the situation probably calls for, and it’s humiliating. Noah is just trying to do something nice, and my stupid heart is being ridiculous by trying to make it into something more.

  “Hey,” Noah says, sensing my strange change in mood. He waits until I meet his eyes, and I wish he’d just let me be a coward for a minute. “You know, we could do something else if you want. I just thought...”

  “No.” I stop him. I get over myself, letting him see me in earnest. “Fishing is perfect, Noah. I...” I swallow hard. “Thank you,” I whisper.

  Before I know what’s happening, Noah draws me up in his arms, hugging me with all the kindness and support I haven’t felt in a long time, and I let him. I let myself lean on him. I let him comfort me. About Jonah, or my dad, or whatever else, I’m not quite sure. I’m not sure it matters. All I know is he wants to be here for me in this moment, and in this moment, I decide to let him.

  His fingers softly trace the bruises on my neck and upper arm, and his muscles tense, but I only press my face into his chest, sucking in all of the comfort I possibly can, being selfish and needy in a way I've spent my entire life avoiding.

  “I’ve never liked him, you know,” Noah whispers into my hair. “But I don’t think I’ve ever hated him—ever hated anyone—until this very moment.”

  I don’t know why his words are so perfect, but just like his arms, they slip around me, making me feel cared for. Protected.

  He finally releases me, and we stand there, awkwardly for a moment. But Noah breaks it expertly. “So are we going to fish, or what?”

  Hell yes.

  9

  “Yes!” I squeal, jumping in victory as we measure my latest catch, four inches larger than Noah’s.

  They were both bluefish, so it’s not as if they’re actually worth keeping. Bluefish taste horrible if you try to cook them, so it’s all about the sport of the thing, but I become competitive easily, and, what can I say? I love winning.

  To his benefit, Noah doesn’t seem to mind, and smiles as wide as ever, reveling in my joy as I jump up and fling my arms around his neck, thanking him for this. For this day. For simply being him.

  His arms come around my waist, holding me a foot off the floor of the small fishing boat, squeezing me tightly. After a moment, he slips me down the front of his hard, toned body until my feet finally touch the ground, but, thankfully, he doesn’t release me, and I’m held just as securely by his gorgeous hazel gaze, by the way it drops down to my lips, as if he wants a taste.

  Oh, God, do I want him to want a taste.

  But he shakes it off, averting his gaze, before muttering something about checking the fishing lines. Even though we checked them minutes ago.

  It is getting late, though, and the sun has gotten lower and lower in the cloudless sky. Other than a quick text to my mom to let her know where I am, I haven’t checked my phone in hours, and I couldn’t even guess the time. Frankly, I don’t really care. In fact, I wish the hours would slow, that time would even stand still, because even if Noah is here mostly out of pity, or some warped sense of responsibility, selfishly, I wish it would last indefinitely, his motives notwithstanding.

  Today has been one of the most fun of my life. And how pathetic is that?

  “We should get back,” he says suddenly. “I promised Randy I’d have the boat back before dark, since I don’t have an actual license for it and all.” Noah smiles sheepishly, and it is utterly adorable. But then, most kids around here have driven small boats years before they were old enough to even apply for a license.

  “Come ‘ere,” Noah says, and I follow like a trained puppy. I don’t even care.

  He positions me right in front of the steering wheel, stepping behind me, his chest to my back, the heat of his skin heating mine in a way that both calms and excites me all at once.

  “You ever drive one of these things?” he asks.

  “Only with my dad, but not really. His hands were always on the wheel with mine,” I admit. I was pretty young at the time, after all.

  Noah smiles. He laces his fingers through both of mine from behind me, stroking each palm with his thumbs, before setting them together on the steering wheel. He settles my hands in the right position, his fingers rubbing over mine as if he can’t help himself, driving the boat with my hands, slowly letting me take control.

  When he’s convinced I’ve got the hang of it, he carefully removes his hands, almost stepping back until I lean into him, preventing him from depriving me of the warmth of his firm chest. He relents instantly, letting me drive, but supporting my stance with his own, and I drive us slowly, cautiously through the channel, my head lazying back onto Noah’s shoulder, and I suck in a gasp as he subtly nuzzles my hair, inhaling deeply as if he simply cannot get enough of the vanilla scent of my conditioner.

  I don’t move a muscle as Noah tenderly runs his nose along the line of my cheek bone, but before he reaches the corner of my mouth, he retreats, following the path down my neck, and I try desperately not to grimace as he traces what I know are the lines of bruises, before ghosting his lips up the same path, as if they alone can vanquish them away.

  And, in this moment, I believe with all my heart and soul that if anything at all had such power, it would be Noah Reed’s magical lips.

  He holds me that way, his palms eventually finding my waist, until we get to the narrows of the channel, and then he takes over, expertly driving us through the bay at low tide, and docking us back at Randy’s.

  I try not to be overly impressed. He’s just driving a small fishing boat after all. But something about this eighteen-year-old boy—no, man...definitely man—steering us with the same casual ease of m
y father who’d had many years of practice just gets to me. I try not to think too much about it. God, Freud would have a field day with this shit.

  By now the sun has set, and the mood has changed considerably. We can’t pretend this is just all friendly fun anymore, not with any kind of sincerity. Not after Noah’s lips touched my skin as I drove the boat—as he subtly pressed himself against me, making his desire for me undeniable. And I know myself well enough to be well aware that I’ve been anything but subtle. My desire, my emotions, have been displayed on my skin, on my face, like a fucking power point presentation, and there’s simply no way Noah could have missed it. And, right now, I could not care less.

  Noah doesn’t invite me inside.

  The drive home is sobering, and he slowly takes me the few blocks home in a strange silence. I can’t help but wonder if I’ve done something wrong.

  But before I can simply thank him for the wonderful day, Noah is out of the car, and, once again, opening my door for me. The perfect gentleman.

  Well I’m definitely not going to be throwing myself at him if he’s only going to pretend to be interested, and I take the first step toward my front door, turning to thank him like the ‘polite young lady’ I’ve been raised to be.

  His palm wraps around my wrist gently, before softly running his fingers over my skin. He’s getting my attention, not trying control me. The move is in stark contrast to Jonah’s of a few nights earlier, and I spin to face him, inwardly cringing at my own eagerness.

  “Today was...” he trails off, before squeezing his eyes shut in some kind of disbelief, opening them with a vulnerability I thought could only come from my end. “I had the best fucking time, you little smartass. More than I even thought I would. And I thought I would.”

  I don’t know what to say to that, but, typically, my cheeks flush red, and speak for themselves. I wasn’t expecting that kind of declaration.