by R.S. Grey
“I don’t see what that has to do with me.”
He’s so muscled, but not in a way that seems vain. It’s cowboy muscles, as I call them. Real-life, sports muscles. I-want-to-lick-them muscles.
“Just help me, will you? I don’t want to end up like all these other sunburned schmucks.”
“You don’t burn. You tan.”
He’s had enough of my arguing. He reaches down, picks up my leg, and moves it out of the way so he can sit between my thighs. It’s the most sensual position we’ve ever been in. His butt is nearly touching my…YOU KNOW. My jaw is on the sand, but he doesn’t know that because his back is to me. Thank god.
While I’m still recovering my wits, he nabs my crossword book and pen out of my hand.
“If you’re so keen to get rid of me, I’d start applying.”
I puff out a breath filled with indignation and grab the bottle of sunscreen.
Surely, this is against the rules somehow. Does HR track us over the summer? Will they catch wind of the fact that we’re sitting close, practically naked, dripping wet, and oh dear, I still haven’t actually started putting sunscreen on him. I’m just sitting here staring and I’m aware of it now and I should really do something, like move, but I just can’t.
Noah’s back is so broad and smooth and olive—no, brown—no golden.
“You good back there?”
I uncap the sunscreen and squirt some onto my hand.
“Couldn’t get the top open,” I lie. “Now hold still.”
I start with his shoulders near his neck because that seems like a safe enough zone. I try hard to barely touch him, tap tap tapping the sunscreen onto him, but it won’t sink in unless I press down, so before I know it, I’m really going for it, rubbing and caressing and covering every last inch of him.
His skin is as warm as it looks. I can’t get enough.
His focus is down on the crossword as he pens in various answers. It’s like my touch doesn’t even affect him.
“So why are you avoiding me?” he asks suddenly.
My hand stills on his back.
“I’m not,” I insist.
Although I completely am. Running from the dining hall last night, not letting him into my room, sending him an email rather than opening the door and having a face-to-face conversation with him—it’s Avoidance 101.
But instead of admitting that, I deflect.
“You never replied to my email last night,” I point out, like this is all his fault.
He pauses from filling in an answer and looks out toward the ocean. “I didn’t think there was a reason to. You weren’t going to let me finish what I wanted to say in the dining hall.”
My heart starts to race and I toss out the first excuse I think of. “I hate arguing.”
“You? Hate arguing?” He pffts. “You could win debate team nationals. You missed your calling as a lawyer. You live for a battle of wits. What’d you write down here next to the clue for four across?”
“Will & Grace because I wasn’t sure. I was going to come back to it at the end.”
“Right. I’m stumped on this one under it. Six-letter word for scaredy-cat.”
Is he kidding?
“Coward.”
He hums and then writes.
“Oh, okay. What about this? Six-letter word for someone with their head buried in the sand. Starts with an A.”
“What? I have no idea. It starts with an A? You’re sure?”
“100% sure.”
I mull it over while I continue applying sunscreen. I’m doing his lower back now, near his swim trunks. I have to shift a little to get every spot. I’m really taking my job seriously. If I were being graded, I’d get an A++. There’s a chance I missed my calling as Noah’s Personal Sunscreen Applicator.
“Oh! Got it,” he says, scribbling in the answer and then pushing himself up to his feet. He drops the crossword book and pen onto my chair and takes back his tube of sunscreen. “Thanks.”
I wave him off and lean forward, curious about the answer. As an English teacher, I pride myself on my vocabulary. How could he have solved the clue before me? I mean, sure, I was a little distracted there. But then I see the word written in big bold caps across the top of the page: AUDREY.
It’s a clear message. Noah thinks I have my head buried in the sand. Oh, and look at that, scaredy-cat wasn’t a clue either. He also thinks I’m a coward.
I take my pen to my name and scratch it out until there’s a big chaotic swirl of black lines across the top of the page. There.
Better.
Chapter Fifteen
Noah calling me a coward is a tiny insidious seed that sprouts and grows roots while I sit under that umbrella the rest of the morning. I try to push it from my mind, telling myself it was nothing but a joke, but my brain won’t drop it.
Am I a coward?
Why? Because I don’t want to fight with Noah about what happened at the bar? I just want to drop it and move on even though he seems intent on hashing it out.
What does he want? An apology? Okay. Sorry I blew up on you after you kissed me, but guess what, we’re not really people who kiss. Call me crazy, but I thought you had it out for me. I’m lucky you didn’t stab me in the heart while our lips were locked à la Jon Snow and Daenerys.
I’m trying to get us back on track as playful enemies who want to do the other in. It’s fun! Spunky! Will we kill each other? Find out on next week’s episode!
Meanwhile, Noah’s trying to mess everything up.
What’s with this cryptic flirting bullshit?
Sigh.
Okay.
Here’s the truth…
Just to be crystal clear, right here, sitting on the beach, I know. Deep down, I KNOW. Noah’s making his intentions pretty clear.
But I’m not ready to admit it yet. It’s like my brain is padding my heart, trying to keep it safe from the truth.
There, there, little guy. Just keep pretending to be confused. Keep avoiding him and running away and going for another swim as if you think that will help.
Eventually, I know, I’m going to have to rip this Band-Aid off.
But I like the Band-Aid. It’s been there for a few years now. Sure, it’s a little dirty around the edges and one side’s just flapping free in the wind, but that Band-Aid is there for a reason. I AM NOT TAKING OFF THE BAND-AID.
Noah can go to hell.
Around lunch time, I help Gabriella set out the spread for the students. The cooks at St. Cecilia’s packed up quite the beach picnic for us. There are little finger sandwiches and cold pasta salad, Italian sodas, and fresh fruit. Peaches and cherries and melons—all in season, all divine. I have a little bit of everything and I eat standing up, like a jittery little rabbit who might flee at any moment.
Noah leaves me alone. He must sense that I’m liable to crack if he’s not careful while handling me.
After lunch, the students disperse again. A few take naps on the loungers. Some head right back into the water. I take a group of girls out on a walk along the shore. We pick our favorite umbrella colors and pass around what’s left of the cherries. I ask them if they’re enjoying Rome.
“It’s different than I thought it would be,” Lizzy says.
“I didn’t think I’d miss my parents this much,” Alice admits sheepishly.
“I feel the same way,” I assure them.
“But even if I am a little homesick, Rome is so cool,” Millie adds.
“Yeah,” Alice agrees. “We’re going to have so many stories to tell everyone when we get back to school in the fall.”
“And Millie totally has a crush on one of the Trinity boys!”
“LIZZY!”
“What?! It’s true! Ms. Cohen doesn’t care. She’s cool!”
“Yeah, well YOU also have a crush on one of them. So there!”
“It’s not like anything is going to happen anyway.” Lizzy rolls her eyes. “They don’t even know we exist.”
I don’t bother
reminding them that relationships between students in the program are prohibited. They know that. It’s all in good fun. When I was their age, I would have been doing the same thing. Those Trinity boys are like little Justin Biebers—I get why they’re all freaking out over them.
When our loungers are nothing but specks in the distance, we turn back, taking our time, scouring the sand for seashells, stopping for some Italian shaved ice when we pass a man working hard, pushing a cart along the beach.
“Don’t tell the others I got us these!” I warn them, and we all pinky-promise to keep our secret.
We finish our treat before we make it back to the group, disposing of the evidence in a trashcan a few yards away from our loungers. Then we apply more sunscreen and head right back out into the water.
Noah and some of the guys are boogie boarding. He’s gotten pretty good at it over the day, flinging the board down and running after it, hopping on and riding the little crests of the incoming waves before stumbling off with a confident burst of laughter.
It’s getting close to dinner time, but no one’s all that anxious to leave. In fact, I’m about to start a second crossword puzzle when the sky turns. It’s as if someone waved a magic wand and brought on the black rolling clouds all at once. One second, the sky is a picturesque blue, and the next, it’s black and ominous. Torrential rain comes on so suddenly there’s nothing we can do but call out for the kids, get everyone out of the water, and try to scramble and pack everything up.
Beachgoers perform a mass exodus. The kids are squealing, laughing, complaining as they try to find any cover they can.
“Don’t stand under the umbrellas!” I warn, worried the metal will attract lightning. That’s how it works, right? Who knows—I teach English, not science. I’d rather be safe than sorry though.
It’s pure chaos.
How did we manage to bring so much stuff!?
The beach toys are spread out everywhere. Towels and snacks and phones and books and everyone runs around trying to pick up anything they can get their hands on. My arms are laden with sopping-wet towels as we start to make a mad dash back to where the vans and car are parked. It didn’t seem like all that long of a walk when we got here, but now it’s somehow morphed into miles.
“Come on!” Noah shouts to everyone. “We’re almost there.”
At the vans, each chaperone is counting heads, trying to confirm we have everyone.
“We’re missing Lee and Chris!” I shout to Noah.
He curses under his breath and runs back to the beach. I go with him, worried we might have lost them. Oh crap. Oh crap. There! Lee and Chris are helping an elderly couple fold up their chairs and pull up the umbrella they brought down to the beach with them. Noah rushes down to help speed things along.
All the while, the rain doesn’t let up.
It’s coming down so hard, so fast it’s almost impossible to see more than a few feet in front of me. The sand turns to mud. My feet sink in and I lose a flip-flop. I growl and turn back, freeing it with a hard yank.
When we finally make it back to the parking lot, everyone’s still loading up into the vans. There’s a problem because we have coolers and overstuffed bags filled with snacks and beach balls and towels and boogie boards. Everything’s been packed up haphazardly so it doesn’t fit properly in the trunk space. Lorenzo is doing most of the heavy lifting, but I don’t want to leave him with everything, so I grab whatever I can. We’re nearly done. I’m struggling with one of the last bags when Noah comes up behind me and takes it, lifting it up and over my head.
“Go get in the car. You’re getting soaked.”
I blink quickly, trying to clear my vision, but it’s useless. Rain comes down in sheets. “Are all the kids accounted for?”
He nods. “They’re mixed up in the two vans, but they’re all in there.”
“Have you seen Gabriella? She rode here with me.”
“She’s in the first van. I’m riding back with you.”
What?! No!
Booming thunder interrupts my thoughts. My puny little yelp is impossible to play off.
“Go get in the car, Audrey,” Noah says again, this time with less patience than before.
There’s no point in arguing. Now’s definitely not the time. I run for the car, squeeze myself into the driver’s seat, and drop my soaked bag onto my lap.
I take stock of the situation.
Everything on me and everything in my possession is drenched, save for the plastic bag that contains my passport and license. I confirm they’re both still bone dry (thank god) and then I root around in my bag for anything that might help me dry off. Let’s see…there’s a wet crossword book. A wet granola bar. A wet pair of sunglasses. My towel is with everyone else’s in the back of one of the vans, not that it would even matter. They’re as soaked as everything else we have.
The passenger side door opens and Noah tries to fold himself down into the seat. He is too much man for this tiny car. I swear he might not fit. It’d be comical if not for the dire situation we’ve found ourselves in. The longer it takes him to get inside, the more rain pelts into the car.
“Jesus, does this chair move back?”
He pulls a lever and it scoots back a paltry inch. A laugh bursts out of me before I can help it.
“I swear to god,” he groans.
He shoves his shoulders through the doorframe and then shifts so he can tuck his knees up close to his chest. He looks over at me, I look at him. My mouth twitches first, and I fight it, but then we both just start laughing. Big, heaving, tears spring up in the corners of our eyes.
I let my head hit the steering wheel, and the Fiat lets out this pathetic little toot that only makes us laugh harder.
“The next two hours are going to be horrific for you,” I tell him. “I could barely drive this thing in the best of conditions.”
“Right, well, it’s not like I have a choice. I can’t fit in that seat with the steering wheel, so you have to drive. And the vans are leaving, by the way. There’s no point in trying to stick with them. It’s going to be a nightmare driving in this. You’ll have shit visibility.”
“We could sit for a second and wait it out?”
“I don’t think it’s going to let up. Lorenzo was worried some of the roads will flood.”
I heave a deep sigh, trying to keep it together.
“Okay, well…I guess we should get going. Do you want to navigate?” I ask him.
“My phone’s almost dead. Can you?”
I dig around in my bag. Searching. And come up empty. “I don’t have my phone.”
I rack my brain, trying to think of the last time I saw it. I checked the time on it a half hour ago, when I was sitting on my lounger. I remember putting it back down beside me.
“It must be in my towel. Hopefully it made it into the van.”
There’s no point in getting out to look for it on the beach. I’d never find it. The umbrellas and chairs were all getting cleared while we were packing up, and I don’t even think I could find where we were sitting. If it’s not in the towel, it’s gone. I can’t worry about that possibility right now.
“It’s fine,” he assures me. “I’ll look up directions and jot them down in case my phone dies on the way. Do you have that pen still? And the crossword book?”
“Pen, yes. Book, sort of.”
I hand both over. The book is basically just sludgy pulp at this point. There’s not a single page he can write on.
“Right. I’ll just use my hand.”
The traffic in Sperlonga is at a standstill because everyone is trying to head in the same direction: away from the beach, all at the same time. There’s congestion at every turn. Honking, rain, windshield wipers whipping back and forth—none of it will let up.
It’s a good thing I wasn’t trying to stick close to the vans because we immediately lose them. Noah’s phone dies about ten minutes in and he guides me with the directions he wrote on his skin. I tell him to guard those scri
bbles with his life. I don’t want to end up in the middle of nowhere in this downpour.
Lorenzo was right to be concerned about the roads. These old Italian towns weren’t built with modern transportation in mind. There’s mud and muck everywhere. My tires keep spinning out, and not far into our drive, I pass straight over a shallow pothole flooded with water. I didn’t see it coming or I would have swerved around it or at least slowed down. I wince at the heavy THUMP from the front right tire.
“Sorry! I didn’t even see that!”
“It’s fine,” Noah tells me. “I would have done the same thing. You can’t see anything right now. Just keep going slow. You’re doing great. Here, I’ll clean the windshield again.”
It keeps fogging up because of the temperature difference between outside and in here. The humidity level in our car resembles a tropical rainforest. We can’t even roll the windows down for a breeze like we did on the drive earlier, so we’re just stuck like this.
“I’m just as wet as I was when we left the beach,” I say with a deflated laugh.
“We’ll dry off soon.”
We make it out of Sperlonga after an hour of driving. The trip back to Rome is going to take us all night.
“What a mess.”
That’s when I notice something’s wrong with the car. Through the heavy rain, I start to hear a perpetual thump, thump, thump, and the car keeps trying to pull to one side. I keep my hands firmly on the steering wheel and then we start to bounce. The car’s suspension was never great to start with, but now it’s like we’ve got a—
“Flat tire,” Noah says, just as I realize it myself. “Don’t slam on the brakes. Put on your hazards. Shit, does this thing have hazards? Oh, there. Okay. Try to gently steer toward the side of the road and let the car slow itself down. I’m not sure if it’s a blowout or just a flat.”
Noah keeps me from panicking as drivers lay on their horns behind me. Even with my hazard lights on, they’re confused about why I’m going so slow.
“Go around me!” I shout even though they can’t hear me.
Noah’s hand touches my arm. “You’re fine. Ignore them. See up there? That little turnoff? Pull over there for me.”
