Vital Sign (7 page)

The b
oundary between wet and dry sand runs like an uncoiled ribbon along the beach, reaching higher inshore in some parts and further back in others. With no rhyme or reason, waves roll in just where they happen to fall. 

The sand is warm under my feet. The afternoon sun shining down heats the top of my head
, but it feels nice. I remember my mom insisting that I wear a floppy beach hat when we were here on vacation so many years ago. It was mid-summer and the heat was far more intense. She warned me and Jenna about sunburned scalps and how they were no fun. We wore our straw hats, mirroring mom’s own oversized hat, loving every minute of it. Thinking about Mom, and our conversation in her car yesterday, reminds me that I have to find a way work my way through my grief. I have to try. I have to hang on. At the very least, I need to work harder at controlling my urges to lash out.

The buildings become fewer and fewer. I can’t see anyone around
, which isn’t surprising, I guess, given that it’s the off season. I doubt any tourists are racing for the beaches quite yet. Give it a few more weeks and I bet these beaches will be covered. Schools let out next month and the beach-bumming days of summer will be upon us.

I like it like this though. It’s quiet. It’s peaceful. It’s private. I’m even more invisible here than
I am at home in Atlanta. And the water is so welcome. It occurs to me that the water is the first thing I’ve seen that seems to be bigger than the grief overwhelming every aspect of my life. The water is so powerful and it’s just so expansive—it must be bigger than the weight of my loss, that weight that’s been cinched tight to my back for two years. I hope it is.

I’m not sure how far I’ve walked down the beach
, but it must be quite a way. I can’t see the boardwalk I came from anymore. I look around me and see no one. There is a big white beach house about a hundred yards away, but it’s likely someone’s summer place or a rental. It’s doubtful that anyone is there. It’s surrounded by palm trees and brown brush. There’s what looks like a wraparound balcony, but I don’t see any movement or lights from where I stand, so this spot seems ideal. I drop my flip flops on the sand and fish the surfboard keychain from the teeny pocket on the front of my dress and toss it on the sand beside my flip flops.

The fist slow wave that washes over my feet confirms that I was right
—the water is cold. Very cold. My shoulders tense a little but the small wave retreats and my toes sink down into the sodden sand beneath my feet. It’s the same squishy feeling that I loved as a kid. What is it about sand squishing beneath your toes that’s so fascinating? I wiggle a little, allowing my feet to sink a bit deeper. It feels good. I want more of this.

I take one heavy step into the water
, about ankle deep, just as another wave comes rolling in and crashes against my shins, sending water splashing around me. Sea foam zips past me as the wave continues toward the shore, seemingly unaware of my presence. I gasp a little. It’s still cold. Very fucking cold. But I like it.

One more step. One more wave crashing.

Somehow, I’ve managed to drag myself chest deep into the water. My teeth are chattering now and half of my long brown hair is wet, but I finally feel a little weightless. Even though it’s only physical weightlessness, it’s still a good feeling. Maybe it’s a combination of the freezing water and the feeling of it around my body that’s a distraction from my sorrow. Swells roll past me, each one carrying me up with it like a floating pelican and then returning me to where I was as it continues its solo trip to the shore.

I can feel water
sloshing all around me as I bend at the waist, lifting my feet from the sandy sea floor and pulling my knees into my chest. I’m like a navigational buoy, bobbing in the water and tilting from side to side with the current, or, in my case, the waves. The water is up to my chin now and I can’t feel my fingers or toes. Saltwater is on my lips and in my nose, but I remain here, letting the cold water wash over me in hopes that I can hold on to this weightlessness when I step back onto the shore.

I release
my knees, letting my legs stretch out until I’m flat on my back, floating and staring up at the sky. It’s blue and clear without a cloud in sight. With my ears just barely submerged, I hear the muffled clicking and ticking and swishing of the ocean. It makes me wonder what the hell makes all that noise.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath
, and allow my lithe form to slip beneath the surface. The cold water envelopes all of me just as another wave rolls by. I sink down, relaxing my arms and legs as I go. This is what I wanted. This is what I came into the water to get. This is complete weightlessness. I crack my eyes open. The water is a dark blue. My hair is floating all around me like a billowing, ominous rain cloud. I look upward toward the sky. The sun shines clearly on the surface and seems to dance as the movement of the water reflects its light in all directions.

My mind is occupied with nothing but the sensations of the water. I’m consumed with the feel, the taste, and the sound of the ocean instead of the all consuming grief that never gives me a moment of rest.

Just as my breath is about to run out, something wraps around my arms, sending fear racing through me. I’m not sure what the hell it is, but I thrash and flail in the water, fighting hard to free my arms. The last of my air goes flying from my mouth and nose in huge bubbles that rise to the surface, leaving me to drown. The grip it has on me tightens and I’m lifted from the water only to come face to face with the culprit.

A man.

Well, we aren’t exactly face to face. It’s more like face to ass. I gasp, drawing in air like it’s a luxury I wasn’t privy to.

Goodbye
, weightlessness. Hello, embarrassment.

He’s hauled me up over his shoulder so all I can see is his ass
, and while it’s a nice ass, it’s still an ass. A stranger’s ass.

“Put me down! Now!” I snarl, trying to catch my breath and sputtering saltwater.

“What the hell are you doing, lady? Trying to get yourself killed?” The would-be lifeguard goes on tromping out of the water, toting me on his shoulder.

“W-what?” I stammer through the seawater dripping from my hair and onto my face.

“This water is cold enough to cause hypothermia. Not to mention the undertow in this area. You have no business here. This is a private beach
, anyway,” he nags on and on while dragging me from the water, my legs dangling and my hair stuck to my face and neck.

The nag sets me to my feet on the sand and I teeter as my bloo
d pressure tries to adjust to the upright position and the heaviness that I had already forgotten during my brief reprieve in the water.

Forgotten.

“Easy,” he says, reaching out to hold me by my shoulders.

My vision goes blurry for a moment
, but it quickly clears. I wish it would go hazy again. Mr. Would-be Lifeguard is gorgeous. My already ragged breathing becomes nonexistent as I take the sight of him in. I feel guilty almost instantly, but there’s no denying that this man is beautiful. Even though Jake is gone, I still feel very much taken, so admiring the man in front of me feels wrong and dirty and it makes me dislike him for even being attractive.

Tall. Sculpted. Impossibly handsome. Perfection.

“Let go. I’m fine,” I snap
, suddenly completely aware of the nearly transparent sundress sticking to my wet skin. “Oh, God,” I mumble, peeling it away from my skin. I look up, feeling so embarrassed.

He’s watching me
, but not my body. He’s looking at me, at my face. “What were you doing out there? Are you insane?” He props a big hand low on his hip and I ogle like the dumbass that I am. His shirt is clinging to him like my sundress is clinging to me. I can see right through the fabric and his hand draws my attention to the muscles hidden beneath the soaked cotton. A divine, narrow, sinewy waistline complete with those lovely little, or shall I say
bulging
, oblique muscles that seem to point directly to what’s concealed in his pants.

Kill me now.

“Ah, swimming, well, floating,
or sinking…actually…I guess.” I shrug, feeling a tad lightheaded, though the reason for my faintness is unclear. Cold water, holding my breath for a little too long, embarrassment unmatched, or the exquisite man in front of me. Maybe it’s a dodgy blend of all of the above. Whatever it is, it has me feeling like a colossal idiot. I’m sure I
look
like a colossal idiot too.

Mr. Life
guard seems unimpressed with my answer. His face is vacant and expressionless despite the body language that quite clearly spells out irritation.

“Okay, then, um, see
ya.” I turn away with full intentions to walk slowly back to my things, then walk even slower back to the Beachcomber in hopes that my dress will have dried a little by the time anyone else sees me.

I grab my hair in my hands and wring out the excess
saltwater, then toss the tangled mass over my shoulder so that it hangs down my back.

“Wait a second,” the man says.

I stop in my tracks, only a few feet from him, and turn around. His face is curious and still insanely…
flawless.
Even with that tiny scar on his cheek. He’s flawless.

“What’s your name
?” he asks in a way that comes out more of a demand than a request.

My insid
es tremble with delight and the self-abhorrence that it spawns doesn’t go unnoticed. “Um, Sadie. Yours?”

“Zander.” He extends his hand to me and we shake.
His eyes freely skate down my left side and seem to come to a stop at the wedding ring on my hand. Something flickers there in his sapphire eyes for a moment, but whatever it is, it’s gone after only a few seconds.

We shake politely and I allow it.
It’s a lot nicer than ignoring him and walking off like I had considered. Truthfully, at the moment, I don’t think I can walk off from this enigma of a man even if I wanted to. Embarrassment unmatched be damned. I’m glued in place, cemented before him in dripping clothes that do nothing to shield my secret places from his gaze. Anyone else would have the common sense to retreat. Yet here I am. I’m a living breathing contradiction. I’m a willing captive, open to his scrutiny, held only by the bonds that those deep blue eyes seem to wrap me up in. They’re invisible to the naked eye but they
feel
ironclad, tangling around every cell of my body and mind. In spite of myself, there’s something about him that makes me want to be in his presence. His appearance is likely to thank for that. Male perfection. I hate myself for even noticing it. I hate me even
more
for wanting some part of that perfection. The sensation deep within my stomach is so long forgotten that it nearly feels like the first time I’ve ever experienced butterflies in the presence of a man. Scary. Foreign. Disarming. Deliciously addictive.

“Sadie,” he says my name like it’s a statement and one of his eyes squints a little
, then corrects itself. “It’s a little early in the season for me to shoo people away from this beach. Visiting?” His hand squeezes once again around my freezing fingers then releases me. Almost immediately, a little zing of disappointment dominates my pheromone-drenched brain.

“Not exactly. I’m here to meet someone.”
My arms wrap around me instinctively, shielding myself from the sea breeze that only makes me shiver more than I already am.

“Who?”
Zander’s pebbled nipples press against his wet shirt and prove to be an intense distraction.

My eyes involuntarily admire his broad chest, pebbled nipples, and tightly muscled torso. I
’m embarrassed to find it so hard to concentrate with him like this in front of me. His muscles flex a little as his body twists at the waist, looking around us in every direction. What he’s looking for is a mystery to me.

“Alexander McBride is his name,
” I offer absentmindedly, still taking him in.

He hesitates for a moment. The loudest moment of silence settles between us
, causing my nerves to build. I drag my eyes to meet his.

“Nice to meet you
,” he says.

Just like t
hat, realization crashes into me like a goddamned brick wall.

“What? Wait. You’re Alexander?”
My voice sounds foreign and screechy even to my own ears. If hiding my disbelief was what I wanted, I failed miserably at that task.

“I go by Zander
, but yes.” His lips tilt up in a small grin.

I shrink in place, right where I stand. Unbelievable.

Fuck my life.

“Oh.” My eyes automatically hon
e in on his chest again, but for a vastly different reason than his gorgeous form. Beneath the wet fabric of his shirt, I can see a faint line extending down his chest, which I presume is his scar. I don’t want to see it. I can’t believe I’m standing here so close to Jake’s heart. I’m struck dumb, just staring. My fingers flex around myself, digging into my ribs on either side of me. I glance up to his blue eyes again and search for something. What? I don’t know, but I search anyway.

“Come on. That’s my house just there. You need to dry off and get warm.”
Alexander—Zander extends his hand to me, but I don’t take it.

“No. No thank you. I’m just
—”

“No
, really, let me get you a towel or something.” His dark blue eyes rake over my dripping wet body, making me fully aware of how I must look.

I glance down the beach then to the house he indicated was his. It’s the same place I assumed was a rental or something. I got the
or something
part right. It’s the throne belonging to this god of a man in front of me.

“No really. I’m fine,” I insist
far too weakly to come across as convincing. The sea breeze is so much colder with my body completely soaked. My chin quivers and Zander’s eyes turn stern.

“You need a towel.” The way he says it
is like an order rather an offer and it has me ready to give in, remembering how Jake would take that tone with me sometimes. I miss it.

“Okay,
” I relent on a mumble.

“Okay.”
Zander’s fingers reach forward, curling around my elbow, and pull me until I begin to follow him compliantly. He turns fully towards the big white beach house and starts walking. He releases me after a moment and takes a couple longer strides, positioning himself in the lead. He doesn’t say another word. Nothing. He doesn’t even turn to look at me once the entire walk to his mammoth beachfront home. I feel myself wither a little and privately bemoan the loss of his intense stare.

Even though his jeans are wet
, he walks in long, easy strides back towards the beach house, which I’m beginning to think is more like a beach mansion, the closer we get to it.

Zander leads the way down another
boardwalk that seems to go directly to his house. The boardwalk that inclines over the sandy dune is wide and weathered looking from who only knows how many years exposure to the seaside elements. Wind, rain, salt, and sand have worn down the wood, rewarding the planks with an uneven surface for having endured the abuse. The wood is sort of a gray color and I suddenly feel an inexplicable kinship with then entire thing. If I had to assign a place or item to represent me over the past two years, this boardwalk would be it. It stretches from one point to another. A passage. A journey. Gray, worn, warped—but still intact, somehow.

I pause and step to the railing
, nearly forgetting Zander leading the way. My fingers glide lightly over the banister. The wood is rough and could easily give out a splinter or two if someone got too close and carelessly rubbed against it. It’s clearly in need of some love and attention. I can’t imagine it weathering another hurricane or tropical storm, but what do I know? It may have been here through countless storms. It’s a little ratty, but not broken or useless.

“Don’t worry. It’s solid. Doesn’t look that way to everyone else,
but I know different,” Zander asserts from where he has stopped, only feet from me. He has turned to face me, leaning against the same railing my fingers are resting on. His light brown hair is tousled, a single lock hanging lazily over his eyebrow. Something powerful, yet perfectly silent, sheaths my mind and it’s as if Zander knows that I, somehow, relate to this boardwalk similarly to how I related to the beach. Somehow he knows that a part of me wants this boardwalk to last forever, even in its weathered condition.

A flicker of hope resonates thro
ugh me, praying that maybe if this boardwalk could last an eon of high seas, easterly winds, and merciless rains, then maybe there’s a chance for me too. It’s my hope. My ardent prayer. My silent mantra.

In spite of my anger and self-destructive tendencies, somewhere deep down in the recesses of my soul, I still hope. I’m human and
hope
is so inherently human that there’s no escaping it. I guess everyone hopes, even widows who wander through life unsure of their place in the world.

In this moment, looking into his knowing eyes, I’d give my next breath to know what Zander hopes for. Somehow it seems
like it would be a worthy trade. I don’t know it, but…
I do
.

Zander’s
perceptive gaze lingers a moment longer, then he turns in place and continues down the boardwalk. He steps down from the last plank, makes long strides to the sand-spattered cement patio beneath his home, which rests on stilts, elevating it beyond the reach of storm surge that coastal residents deal with every hurricane season.

I follow silently behind him.
A set of wide white stairs lead us to the second level of the house. I tiptoe up the steps behind him, still barefoot and carrying my things in my hand. The stairs open up to the balcony that I’d seen from down on the beach. It’s much larger than I had imagined. This massive balcony does appear to wrap around the entire house, wide and painted pristinely white. White wicker furniture dots the space. Small wicker end tables sit between each set of chairs. I peer up at the lighting above us. Lantern-style light fixtures the same clear blue of the water line the underside of the awning. Wicker benches, matching the chairs and tables, are sporadically placed alongside the railing, looking out towards the water. Comfortable cushions adorn the tops of each bench. He must have lots of gatherings here to have so much seating. I imagine he has quite the circle of friends. He just
looks
the part of someone who has regular, kickass, slightly swanky parties.   

“Wow,” I whisper mostly on reflex
, stepping to the railing to look out over the water. It’s gorgeous. The view is spectacular and for right now, I forget how cold I am. I forget how shitty my life has become. I even forget Zander standing near a sliding glass door. I step closer to the railing so that my stomach presses against the wooden banister, rest my palms against the top rail, and draw in the salty breeze.