Between the Pages: A Novel (16 page)

“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 and 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.”

When we get to the house, a large, royal-blue beauty with floor-to-ceiling windows, I stop dead in my tracks. The blood drains from my face.
It’s him. Tending the fucking rose bushes.

“Finley?” Emerson says quietly.

All I hear is the blood rushing past my ears.

And then my dad straightens out and turns around.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Emerson

I watch the scene unfold in slow motion like a car accident. First, Finley’s face goes stark white, the warm flush from earlier replaced by awe and fear. Second, I follow her gaze to a blue house with a back garden, and there I see an older man pruning a rose bush. We’re only about fifty feet away, so when he turns and holds his hand up to squint in our direction and then promptly proceeds to drop his pruning scissors, I put two and two together.

Gabriel Matthews.

Unsure of what to do, I stay quiet and still. This is Finley’s forte—I don’t want to get involved. She might run, and that’s okay. Or, she might do the unthinkable and walk up to him. Just as I’m about to clear my throat, a woman with coifed blonde hair comes out the back door and brings a mug of something to him. Her mother. Mary Matthews. When she turns to look in Finley’s direction, following her husband’s line of vision, the mug drops and shatters. The noise seems to wake Finley up, because she jumps and turns around, walking away from the whole scene.

“Finley,” I say delicately. She doesn’t answer me. I follow her, but not before I see her parents come out of the back garden toward us.

“Finley!” her mother shouts, her voice shrill and desperate. She’s chasing after us in a skirt suit and kitten heels. From the looks of it, the woman doesn’t know how to relax. It’s barely eight in the morning, we’re on a beach, and she looks as though she’s headed to a corporate office. “Wait.”

This makes Finley break out into a sprint. I don’t know what to do. I look between the three people here. Are Finley’s parents
glad
to see her? Ultimately, I’m on Finley’s side. So I begin to run after her.

We make it back to our boards. Mary and Gabriel are still following us as if Finley’s a ghost they can’t believe they’re seeing. I quickly grab the boards and we walk to the car. When we get there, Finley stops.

“Hey,” I say gently. “We can leave.”

She shakes her head and stops in place, placing her hands on her hips. She takes three deep breaths, looking for some sort of direction in what to do. “It’s okay. It’s now or never. I should do this.” She walks out toward the sand where her parents are panting and watching us with anguished expressions. One of Mary’s hands is on her hips—the other hand is holding the heels she took off to run. Gabriel walks up to Finley and embraces her, pulling her into a tight hug. I see him begin to cry.

It’s not really my place, so I load the boards on the racks and get into my car, watching from a distance. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but there are a lot of angry glances on Finley’s part, and a lot of tears on her parents’ part. They talk for a few minutes. Mary takes Finley’s hands and brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. I see Finley relax instantly.

Nothing like a mother’s touch. I, for one, know this all too well.

A minute later, they part ways. I study the situation before Finley gets into the car. Mary and Gabriel watch us, waving and beaming. Finley is scowling. She opens the door and shuts it quickly. I wait for her to say something. Finally, she does.

“I didn’t know they still owned the beach house,” she says quietly, obviously dumbfounded. “My dad’s retired. My mom works from home. They live here for six months out of the year now. They tried calling me every day for two years.” She turns to me. “When I cut them off, I changed my number. I made Hannah change hers too, because I knew they’d manipulate her somehow.”

“Are they . . .” I begin to ask, before I realize I’m not entirely sure what I’m asking.

“They seem different.” She shrugs. “It’s hard to tell. I don’t want to buy their bullshit just yet. One right doesn’t conceal a million wrongs. But we have dinner plans tomorrow.”

As I take this in, I observe her scattered behavior. She’s picking at her old nail polish and her jaw is clenched. Her eyebrows are pulled together, and she looks like a wounded child.

She looks like someone who was hurt. Badly. And that pains me to the point of no return.

“Is that what you want?” I ask. “To let them into your life again?”

She nods slowly. “I think so. But . . . only if they’re different. They’re my parents,” she says quietly, and I see a tear slowly make its way from the inner corner of her eye and down her cheek. She squeezes her eyes shut. “Can we go home now?”

I’m gutted. Thoroughly, completely gutted. Seeing her like this is like experiencing a small death. Or a big death.

Her use of
home
startles me. My house is now synonymous with
home
? That makes me extremely happy. I’m now realizing I want her to think of this place as home. I want her to stay. Not just because she’s contractually obligated, but because she wants to.

This is all getting so out of hand. I can’t deny the deep feelings I’m developing for Finley. It’s more than physical, too, which terrifies me.

I haven’t thought of Sylvanna as my girlfriend for quite some time. Well, never really. Occasionally fuck buddy? Yes. I don’t think Sylvanna has permanence on her mind, but regardless, we need to be done.

The night I pushed Sylvanna away was the start.

With Finley, I’m beginning to feel—everything that will ruin me.

There’s no denying the start of something now. Not after today. Not after the way her face lit up so brightly when she stood up on the surfboard. I want those smiles. I want that joy. I want that delight. I almost kissed her again after she stood.
Almost.

“Yes, we can go home now,” I answer, pulling out of the parking lot and onto the main road. We don’t say anything during the drive home. I play the new CHVRCHES album, because I know she likes it. She listens to it every damn day. It seems to relax her, and as we pull into the driveway of the house, she peeks up at me through her lashes.

I come undone.

She’s too beautiful.

She owns my soul whether she knows it or not.

“Emerson,” she says vulnerably. “I wrote something. Will you read it?”

I don’t know what to say at first. One, I suspected she might be writing when she holed herself up in her room on her off days. Two, I think it’s wonderful. I’m thankful she trusts me enough to share her writing with me. I know how very personal writing can be. It’s like slicing your soul and gluing it to the paper, one page at a time.

“Of course. I’d love to.”

She gives me a large grin, and I feel my cheeks burn from the smile I unconsciously mirror. We walk inside, and she goes up the stairs without saying anything. She’s still in a daze, and she needs space. I can respect that. I walk up to my bedroom and hop in the shower. As the water runs down my salty body, I think of Finley.

Why is it that my only thoughts of late are of her? Seven weeks. That’s how many weeks she has officially been
in
my life. When I first met her I told her she
interested
me. What a fucking understatement. She beguiles me. After that first weekend where I brought home a water-drenched, despondent Finley, things have changed. Initially she had been hesitant, but warm, toward me. So much so, every moment I touched Sylvanna that night, I was distracted. I turned her away because all I could think about was Finley. Fuck, that pink shirt that had hidden nothing. Every curve.
Perfection.

I hadn’t been feeling it with Sylvanna since that night. Why have I kept things going with her?
You’re a man, you ass. You want sex.
Last night, I don’t think my eyes left Finley once though. Seeing her with Isaac made my blood boil. Even the excessive alcohol hadn’t burned through that seething anger.

I had to kiss her last night. And today. Now I know what she tastes like I might not be able to stop again. Every alarm bell is going off, but I don’t fucking care anymore. Why delay the inevitable? From the start, we were like two sticks of dynamite, strings tied together. When we met, we sparked. When we kissed . . . we exploded.

I step out of the shower and change into black basketball shorts and a white T-shirt. I shake my hair to dry it, and I swish my mouth with Listerine. When I spit it out and look in the mirror, I sigh. She just saw her parents for the first time in five years, and I’m mouth-washing in case we kiss? I’m a sick fuck.

I jog downstairs and spot a freshly showered Finley at the breakfast bar, eating yogurt from the tub. It disgusts me that she doesn’t use a bowl. So much bacteria . . . I don’t say anything. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t matter. As long as she’s happy, I can deal with germ-ridden yogurt.

I sit down next to her and we exchange a wordless glance. Her eyes are heavy—perhaps she’s just tired, but I think it’s more than that—and she slides a stack of papers over to me. I look down, astounded to see a legitimate start to a book. There are at least fifty pages before me, and I honestly can’t wait to dig in. I want to learn anything and everything I can about her. The writing is my way into her soul.

She’s inviting me into her soul? Like I invited her into mine?

“Have at it,” she says, smiling. “I’m going to go take a nap. Surfing wiped me out.”

“Okay.” I smile back. “Goodnight,” I add, cheekily. She just smirks and walks off. She’s wearing the lace shorts. I admire the backs of her tanned thighs, and then I immediately exhale.

Finley Matthews . . . what have you done to me? More importantly, what are you
doing
to me?

What will we do to each other?