A/N: So it's been awhile...hi! This is just a oneshot I wrote last year and realized I never shared it with you guys, so here it is. It takes place after the events in Secrets Outside California but isn't a continuation of that story. I wrote it from Fallon's point of view, which was actually a lot of fun. I hope you like reading her as much as I enjoyed writing her.
Shitsters. My hands are already sweaty. How the hell are my hands already sweaty? I got in the car barely, what? Five minutes ago? I glance at the clock on the screen. Not even. Two minutes ago.
I clasp my hands together tightly, only to realize that makes the problem worse. Separating them again, I hastily wipe my right hand on the side of the leather seat. Probably not the best idea…whatever. Brad certainly won't say anything.
But I wish he would. This lack of sound between us is downright awkward. Part of me even wishes we were arguing instead of sitting in silence. I know I can't talk—anything that comes out of my mouth right now will have something to do with the disgusting amount of sweat congregating in my palms. That's not exactly the best first date conversation. My bodily functions probably aren't even sixth or seventh date material.
I desperately push my hands further into the leather, hoping it'll soak up some of the moisture. My fingers graze a rough bump and I move them back to go over the spot more slowly. It's a tear in the seat. I vaguely remember Marina telling me something about puncturing Brad's seat when she shifted in his car. I thought he would have gotten it fixed by now. But I guess not. Maybe he likes the memory the hole brings forth. Because it's not like he doesn't have the money to fix it.
The leather gives way beneath my fingertips to something softer and less durable on the inside of the seat. This is where Marina's wolf claw went through. And with that thought comes another, less appealing one: Marina shifted in Brad's car, meaning, at some point, for who knows how long, she was naked in his front seat. And Brad, being a teenage boy, had more than likely looked. And had most definitely liked what he saw.
This progression of thought makes my stomach turn over. Of course I know Brad had feelings for Marina. Hell, I even know he admitted to loving her. But she chose Jet. And Brad got over her. At least, that's what I was told. But people lie, even if they don't mean to. My dad told me that I would one day be able to shift into an animal. He didn't know it then, but he lied.
I sneak a peek over to where Brad sits in the driver's seat. His blue eyes are glued to the road in front of us, but he must feel me staring because he glances my way and I quickly turn to look out my window.
Smooth Fallon, I think as I try to memorize the names of the passing streets. Glendale. Harrison. Glendale, Harrison, Birch. He's definitely moved on from Marina. We pass street after street. Glendale, Harrison, Birch, Williamsburg, Sanford. If he hadn't, then he wouldn't be here with me.
I don't know where we're going. I tried to get it out of him all week, but he always had his guard up, never falling for any of my tricks. It's like he knows my next move before I make it, which is one of the reasons why my heart and mind teamed up against me to give me a crush on him. The other being his extremely sexy looks, but he already knows about those.
Not that I'll ever admit to having a crush. Pining over someone can make you look weak, and, when someone looks at me, weak is the last adjective I want to come to their mind. Opening up to someone, however, is completely different. Or, at least, that's what I tell myself. I've confided in Marina, and I believe I can do the same with Brad. Just not right now. And not about my sweaty hands.
I've been trying to let my guard down around him. But it's harder than I thought it would be. I was so used to being on my own back in the tribe, to having people ignore me, that I didn't even realize I used those close to me as bricks in my own version of the Great Wall of China. Connecting with Marina was easy—it was like she became the first gate in my wall—she provided me with an outlet for my frustration and the promise of escape. But it was different once everyone else walked up to the doors. I had to prove my worth. I had to be tough. I had to show I could handle anything and everything. And I know I did exactly that. I just don't think I made any friends along the way.
While I'd like to think Brad's my friend, I can't be sure. Yes, I'm here now, but what if he only asked me out out of pity? Like he realized he kissed me and was like "oh shitsters, guess I better take her on a date now." It's possible he only kissed me the morning after the battle because everyone's emotions were high and I was the one standing next to him. It could just as easily have been Marina or Grace—although if it had been Marina I'm sure Jet would have punched him in the face. And I would have laughed…while screaming on the inside.
Brad hasn't kissed me since that morning. I don't even know if he liked the kiss. I know I did. Every time I think about it, I start to squirm…or sweat.
I shift in the passenger seat, crossing one leg over the other. I glance at the clock again. Six minutes have gone by. Eight minutes total. I'm not going to last. I can't survive this date if all we do is sit awkwardly beside each other.
"Where are we going?" I ask for what has to be the billionth time this week.
"You'll see," he says, like always.
"Not if I poke my eyes out in frustration first," I spew before my brain can even process what I'm saying. Good going, Fallon. First conversation on your first date and you're already giving him a hard time. I turn back towards the passenger window, trying to hide my increasing blush.
"If you did that then I'd have to take you to the hospital instead, and I don't think that'll make for a good date," Brad says. Something about his tone makes me think he's smiling.
I peek at him. He is—sort of. His mouth is in a taut line, but the one corner of his lips is raised above the rest. It's like he's trying hard not to smile. I know the feeling well.
"You said instead," I point out, "So that means I can cross 'hospital' off my list of possible date locations." Of course I knew he wouldn't actually bring me to the hospital for a date, but I'll take my wins wherever I can get them.
"You made a list of possible date locations?" he asks, pulling his car to a stop at another light. He sideways glances at me.
I snort and roll my eyes. "No. I only keep one list and, trust me, no one wants to be on it."
He widens his eyes in mock horror. "Have I ever been on your list?"
The light in front of us turns green and Brad presses on the gas a little too quickly, his black car shooting out into the intersection. The time between my heartbeats shrinks as a car about to turn right into our lane jerks to a stand still. The driver behind the wheel shoots Brad the middle finger, but he doesn't see it and I receive the gesture instead. I smirk and send the driver double back.
"You were on the list when we first met," I tell Brad, stowing my trigger fingers back in my lap.
"But I'm off the hook now?"
"You were…" I say, sticking my nose in the air, my smirk lingering.
"Were?" Brad repeats. "Are you trying to tell me that I'm back on it?"
"Well, secret date locations aren't exactly my favorite thing."
"Come on, you love surprises," he says, though I can tell from the way his eyes shift between me and the road that he's beginning to doubt his own assumption.
"You don't know that," I tell him, making him doubt himself even more. I glance over at his fallen face and immediately take pity on him. Shitsters. I did it again. Trying to repair my damage, I say, "But if you're planning the surprise, I'm sure I'll like this one."
His smirk returns and my heart lifts at the sight of it.
"Exactly, because you know my surprises are the best ones." He takes one hand off the wheel and lets it fall on the console between us.
"Don't fly too high in that inflated ego balloon of yours." I roll my eyes, but then they fall on his right hand, which is still resting in the middle of our two seats. Silence beats on the car windows around us. I consider taking his hand. Do I dare? This is only our first date. Is handholding an appropriate first date kind of thing? I wouldn't know. I don't have anything to compare it to.
Screw it. I want to hold his hand.
Trying to be inconspicuous as possible, I slide the palm of my left hand down my jeans to wipe away any excess sweat. I keep my eyes on the road straight ahead as I lift my hand off my leg and quickly grab his hand.
He doesn't say anything. I don't say anything. Seconds and streets tick by. His hand moves beneath mine. Or tries to move at least. Glancing down at our hands, I realize mine is clenched around his in a death grip. I allow the muscles in my hand to loosen before pulling it away and placing it back in my lap with the other.
I'm clearly not ready for handholding.
A movement across my thigh jerks my gaze down. I watch as Brad's hand inches closer to mine. His fingers run over the top of my hand and then slide in-between mine. He squeezes my hand and brings both our hands back to the center console. Neither of us say anything. Instead, we both smile.
He takes me to the pier. It's not something I'm expecting. So he got the surprise part right. But I'm not so sure about the date location or the possible date activities.
"The pier," I say as I climb out of his black Charger. "What are we supposed to do on a walkway made of rotten wood?"
"Nothing." From inside the car, Brad reaches over and opens the glove box on the passenger side. He pulls out a small golden key with a shark keychain attached.
"Then what are we doing here?" I ask, "Doing nothing on a pier doesn't sound like a fun date to me."
"Me either," he says as he stretches up to his full height and walks around the car to stand beside me. "But how does sailing sound?"
He lifts his hand and points to a small, white sailboat tied to one side of the pier. The little boat is rocking side to side and already I'm wondering how it stays upright.
Ah, shitsters.
I don't answer him, but he doesn't wait for my answer either. He takes my hand again and drags me down onto the pier—which is probably a good thing because I don't think I would have been able to lie to him at that moment.
"She's not the sturdiest ship on the sea in a storm. I've learned that the hard way," he says, glancing down at the white sailboat, his eyes gathering a darkness. "But she'll be fine on a calm day like this."
"So she's not that good a swimmer?" I joke, knowingly hiding my own fear beneath forced humor.
Brad doesn't notice my unease. He has a smile on his face like that of an excitable child—one who just received a puppy for Christmas—and I can't bring myself to take that away. Besides, admitting fear would be just as bad, if not worse, than admitting a crush.
I watch as Brad hops down from the pier onto the small deck of the boat. Reaching inside a small opening, he pulls out two blue lifejackets. He climbs back up next to me and holds out the lifejacket.
I should reach out and take it from him. But I don't. And I can't keep my mind from recognizing that just because the jacket can keep me afloat, it doesn't mean it can keep me alive. Because water is unpredictable, and land is not. Or less so.
Land is safe…r. On land you can defend yourself. With your head on a swivel, you can see every possible angle from which an enemy might come at you. The same cannot be said of water. Not only do you have to worry about the waves crashing down on you from any side, you also have to take into account the things below you. Because while you may need to keep you head above water to breathe, that doesn't mean your enemy does.
"Here," he says. "This one's smaller so it should fit you." He opens the life vest and holds it up behind me, waiting for me to put my arms through. I comply—sliding one wrist and then the other through the proper holes. He then brings the jacket up until is rests on top my shoulders. I stay still as he moves to stand in front of me, only inches away, and takes hold of the zipper near my waist, connecting it to the other side before zipping it up my front. I feel secure beneath the vest. As if it really can protect me from the world.
"There." Brad takes a step back, a blush filling his colorless cheeks. "You're all set."
"Thanks," I mumble, a smile dangerously close to my lips before I remember that he expects me to not only get in the thing that barely floats, but to also have fun in it. The first thing, I think I can do. The second…isn't something I could ever promise.
Next thing I know, I'm seated on one side of the boat, while Brad starts yanking a string attached to the engine. I didn't know sailboats had engines. This shouldn't have been surprising since I've never been on a boat—any boat—in my life. I still have a hard time believing the thing isn't going to start filling with water.
"This sailboat is small," Brad says and the little engine begrudgingly comes alive, "and it isn't meant for deep sea sailing. So we won't be going out into the open ocean. We'll hug the shore before circling back around, okay?"
I force a smile on my face, hoping it doesn't come out a grimace. "Okay."
I should be happy with what he's telling me. Staying close to shore is a good thing. That means we'll be closer to help. It means if I scream someone might actually hear me. But I can't get past the whole isn't-meant-for-deep-sea-sailing thing. What if Brad loses control and we're swept out there? Or what if this tiny death dangler can't even handle the water close to shore?
Either way I don't see this adventure ending well. So much for my date.
Brad reaches his leg over the side of the boat and, for a second, I think he's going to jump in the ocean, but then he presses his foot against the edge of the dock and and pushes us away from the wooden planks. He settles down on the side across from me, grabbing hold of the ropes that I assume control the sails. He does something to them I don't see because I'm too busy staring at the waves and we move. The distance between the sailboat and the dock increases and this being-out-on-the-water thing becomes very real very quickly.
I suddenly find myself yearning for that punctured leather seat and my sweaty palms. Better that than this hard plastic and my hands clenched around the metal bar. Don't let go. Don't let go. Don't let go. If I do…
Get ahold of yourself, Fallon. This isn't some tribe survival test.
No, it's worse. Because it isn't a test. I could really die from this.
And that's ridiculous. Brad wouldn't let that happen.
But Brad's a hunter. A killer.
He isn't hunting me.
Because I'm not a shapeshifter.
Bam. And that's where I always end up. The fact that I can't turn into an animal. The fact that I disappointed my family. The fact that I'm literally a social outcast in the tribe. Why is that always on my mind?
I've moved on. I actually moved away from my family and the tribe to get a life that didn't revolve around shapeshifting. And I found it. And part of it is right here, with Brad. Possibility of drowning and all.
So, as my twin so eloquently puts it, I will "suck it up." No more complaining about not being a shapeshifter. If I were one, I wouldn't be able to have this date with Brad. And no more fearing for my life while sitting on this goddamn sailboat.
"Fallon?"
"Yeah?"
He frowns a bit and I realize Brad must have been talking to me. And I haven't been paying any attention whatsoever. Shitsters. I am such a terrible date.
"Do you…uh…have a favorite color?" he asks lamely. He clearly hates having to repeat a small talk question. And I can't blame him. If this is all we can talk about we're going to have a major problem.
"Yeah," I say, "black."
He blinks once, twice.
I wait for him to ask if I'm joking. He doesn't.
His cheeks tug his lips into a smile. "Me too."
Bewilderment is the sum of my reaction. Could it—? Could we be more alike than I thought? I don't dare hope. Except maybe, just maybe, this date won't turn out to be too horrible.
Things get easier after that. We talk about anything and everything. I tell him how suffocating the tribe was. He tells me what it was like growing up as a hunter and what happened to his older brother. I tell him I want to be a physical therapist. He tells me he has no idea what he wants to do with his life. I tell him I like to eat my pizza backwards, crust first. He laughs, asks if it tastes better that way.
My nerves slow to a faint pulse inside me. I almost forget we're out at sea.
I watch as Brad pulls on a rope and leans into a long wooden handle in the middle of the boat. The sail tightens and we turn, the tip of the boat cutting through a small wave.
A breeze swishes a smile onto Brad's face as he raises a single eyebrow, staring at me. "You want to learn?"
I push my shoulders back, perking up. Learning a new skill—any new skill—sparks my interest. Though I won't tell Brad, it is definitely the quickest way to my heart.
After discovering I couldn't shift, I started collecting things. Never tangible things, but skills, abilities. It started with basic skills like learning to survive in the wilderness or thrive off the land. But when I added a black belt to my collection, it just sort of took off. I learned to sew, to weld, to track different animals, to cover my own tracks, to cook the perfect creme brûlée, to grow plants, to shoot, to mix paint colors, to render a person unconscious with one simple touch…the list goes on and on. And, adding a new skill to my already abundant set will only make this date better.
"Learn what?" I ask.
"To sail," he says, the other eyebrow floating up to join its twin.
Or…maybe not. While part of me knows sailing can be a useful skill to have in my arsenal, the other part thinks learning to be useless considering after today I will never be out on the ocean again. And yet, I thought I wouldn't be out here today, and I am. I am no seer (thank god!) and therefore can't predict the future. So perhaps it would be best to add sailing to my collection of skills.
"You gonna be the one to teach me?" I ask.
Wrinkles form across Brad's forehead. His eyes shift from one end of the boat to the other. "There isn't anyone else here."
"Well, I'm not so sure I feel comfortable learning from a guy who almost drowned after falling off a boat."
He groans. "I really should have sworn Marina to secrecy," he says. "I'm never going to live that down."
"She did tell me it was during a really bad storm," I say, briefly trying to validate him, then deciding against it. "But I'm not sure I believe her. I think you just…tipped over."
His lips are like a rubber band, trying so hard not to stretch into a smile. "What? Like Humpty Dumpty?"
I raise my hands in mock surrender. "Hey, you said it, not me."
"Okay smart-ass, get over here and tell me the first thing you need to remember when sailing a boat," he says as he pats the seat beside him.
I eye him warily, but don't argue. Plucking myself up from my current seat, I wobble across the middle of the boat to Brad. As I shakily sit beside him, I wonder if he was just flirting with me. I can never tell. But the better question is: have I been flirting with him?
No matter what's been happening, he doesn't seem to care. Holding the ropes tight, he says, "Okay, so the first thing you need to remember is that you're never completely in control."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, that no matter how hard you pull, sometimes the waves are going to take you whatever way they want," he explains. "When sailing, you have to be able to adapt. To change course and move with the current if necessary, instead of fighting it."
"I'm good at fighting," I say, looking up at the white sail, "adapting…not so much."
He chuckles, shaking his head a bit. "You'll learn. Watch me here."
My eyes follow his hands as he uses his right one to pull a rope into his chest. The sail above us becomes taut and we glide easily over a small wave directly in front of us. Another wave approaches, but this time, he grabs the wooden steering mechanism in the middle of the boat and pushes it away from us. We swerve around the oncoming wave and continue on.
"See?" he says, glancing over at me. "Easy."
It does look easy enough.
He, quite literally, hands me the reigns, and I try not to freak out on the inside. I can do this. Surely it can't be any harder than making creme brûlée (I tend to get a little over-excited with a blow torch). There's no fire involved when sailing. Plenty of wood and cloth to burn, but no spark. The possibility for permanent damage is minimal. Unless I somehow manage to tip the boat over and send us both into the depths.
I try not to think about that.
As long as I do exactly what Brad showed me, it won't happen. I'll stay right here in the boat, safe, and away from the dancing waves surrounding us.
Brad lifts his arm between us, pointing out in the distance. "See that wave? The one with that little piece of driftwood?"
"Yeah."
"Aim for it," he says as he lets his arm fall back down.
It doesn't escape my notice that he placed said arm behind my back. He's not touching me, but his hand grips the edge of the boat beside my hip—just close enough to reach over and wrap his arm around my waist if he so desires. The proximity makes me feel safer and more anxious at the same time.
He's here and he wants to be here. But if that's the case why won't he just go for it? Make a move? Instead of the half move he's fiddling with while I slowly wind the crazy tighter in my head.
"I want us to sail right over it," he tells me a matter-of-factly, oblivious to my discomfort.
I force myself to focus on the task at hand. The task in front of me. Not hand, not his hand. Behind me.
I smirk at him and begin directing the sailboat towards the wave. "Challenge accepted," I say, yanking the sail taut.
We glide towards my target, right on track. The driftwood could be a lit beacon the way it stands out on the water. This isn't hard at all.
But I spoke too soon. Another wave hits the side of the boat and knocks us off course. Now, there's only a few yards between us and my goal and we aren't lined up anymore. I scramble to turn us the right way, tugging hard on a rope and pushing the wooden handle away from me. We start to turn, but it isn't enough. We aren't changing course fast enough. It's like the water wants me to fail. Like it wants me to be humiliated.
"You've got to pull harder. I thought you were strong," he teases.
I'm not going to fail.
"Stronger than you," I shoot back, yanking the rope towards my body once more. The sail listens to my demand and moves, subsequently turning the sailboat to the left. I let a bit of the rope out, but keep it steady, allowing the boat to smoothly stroke the surface of the water, right beside that damned driftwood.
Brad is smiling. "You did it."
I try to glare at him. A smile escapes instead. "Did you doubt me?"
He doesn't say anything, but the smile never leaves his face. His eyes—much lighter than the blue surrounding us—bore into mine.
I'm suddenly affronted by how close we are. Has he leaned in since he moved his arm behind my back? I don't remember him doing so. Was I the one who moved closer? Because there definitely aren't as many inches between us as there were before. My jean shorts are in direct contact with his black ones, and there is a small spot by my knee where I can actually feel the heat of his skin. It's delicious.
The wind picks up as he leans in. It pushes him towards me. I am very grateful I decided to chop all my hair off last year. Having it in my face would be incredibly annoying and hazardous…for my perfectly kissable lips. One cheek is cooled by the ocean breeze and the other warmed by the softness of Brad's breath. I feel giddy with possibility. And I don't do giddy. Excitement? Sure. But not giddy. Giddy is for teenyboppers and girls who pronounce god with a "w." I am neither of those.
But Brad is so close to me. I can feel his presence even though we aren't really touching. It's like I've tuned into his personal radio station. I can hear nothing but the soft tunes emanating from him. His left hand slides across his lap, fingers reaching for the sing of my skin. I know he wants to kiss me. I want him to kiss me. And it's that want that brings forth the foreign giddiness inside me.
I let it take over, my heart thrumming like a wavering note. The inches between us turn to centimeters, but I want to kiss him now. I want to shove my lips on his and feel every inch of him the sun has warmed. Swallowing my impatience, I force myself to sit still, to wait for him to come to me. He's so close. Almost. Almost…
The sailboat surges over a wave, one much larger than any of the others out to play. The steering device thing—whatever it is—falls to the other side of the boat and we lurch. My shaky balance is gone and I'm flailing.
Shitsters. No, I'm falling.
Backwards. Off the side of the boat. Into the ocean. Like Humpty Dumpty.
Though fear grips me, the irony of these turn of events is not lost on me. Perhaps it is even karma.
I see Brad's hands reach for me, his fingers clasping and unclasping in a desperate attempt to grab hold of me, any part of me, before I am lost. It is just my luck that he fails. Definitely karma. As his arms hopelessly grasp at air, water soaks through the neck of my shirt. A heartbeat later and I'm drenched.
Sputtering, limbs thrashing, and with every orifice being consumed by saltwater, I struggle to find the surface. This life vest around my chest should support me, and yet, it isn't doing its job. Something is wrong. For once in my life I'm actually too heavy for something. And of course it happens during the worst possible time.
Water surrounds me and I know I'm fighting a losing battle. I will never win this. And never isn't a word I like keeping in my vocabulary. But, unfortunately, it is necessary in this situation. I can't beat something bigger than every land mass combined.
Proof of that comes when I try to take a breath. Someone's lit a match in my lungs. They must have. It's the only possible explanation for the scorching within. The burn I feel inside me is as hot as any flame I've come in contact with. But, fire, I now realize, is actually easier to tolerate on the outside. Inside, there is no escape.
Light breaks through right before a wave rolls over me, filling my ears with silence. Death is silent. Because in death your heart stops. Your brain stops sending signals throughout the body. It stops processing the signals it receives. And you can't hear a thing. Nothing but silence.
I am dead.
I am dead.
I am dead.
I'm alive.
The sound of inhalation reaches my ears, reminding me to fight. My lungs feel heavy, something inside is still burning, an accelerant keeping things alit. I know I need to get it out. My coughs are weak at first, but then they turn into vicious hacking, my body shaking under their weight. The heaviness is gone, my trembling lips touched with water instead. I keep them firmly shut against the wetness. No more.
Somehow, some way, I got out of the water. Someone rescued me. I bite back bile at the thought that I needed rescuing in the first place. My rescuer is breathing heavily next to me. My hand can feel the closeness of his skin. I open my eyes and wait for them to adjust to the bright light.
"Oh god, Fallon," Brad heaves. From strands of his blonde hair, droplets of water fall onto my already soaked shirt. He's kneeling over me, sunlight strewing out behind him, his own t-shirt drenched enough that I can easily make out the outlines of his chest muscles. "I'm so sorry. So so so sorry."
You should be, I want to say, but I just spit more saltwater from my mouth. I can't believe you didn't grab me. Are your hands made of butter or something? That's what I should say. But my lips can't seem to find anything other than drying salt to push out.
Brad keeps talking anyway. "I never should have—I was stupid to think—"
He can't finish his sentences. And were I not so focused on the stinging in my lungs I might have taken notice. As it is, I'm still working on breathing normally again, forcing air through raw nostrils.
"You're just so—still, I shouldn't have thought it'd be okay."
I realize he's holding the soaking wet life jacket in his hands, digging his nails into it like he wants to shred the thing. On the inside, under what I assume is the brand name, sit the words "For Children 50-90 lbs." I am not a child. Nor am I under 90 pounds—no matter how skinny everyone tells me I look. And I shouldn't have worn a life vest meant for someone smaller than me.
That's why Brad's apologizing. That's why he's mixed misery and guilt in his eyes as he stares down at me. He screwed up.
Despite all my training, despite my strength, he still saw the thin twig my body insists on showing the world. The tiny sapling of a tree that no one is sure will survive the winter. The one with the narrow trunk that needs support beams on either side just to stand. He saw me as breakable. As vulnerable.
And what makes all this worse is that I was vulnerable. I couldn't swim. The vest couldn't keep me afloat. Brad had to jump in and save me.
Shame coats me faster than the ocean water ever could. The slime of embarrassment slicks through me as I look up at Brad and realize he's waiting for me to say something. Probably to forgive him. I can't. Even though I know I'm the one who ruined this date, I can't tell him it's okay. Because it's not. It's not okay that I wasn't strong enough. It's not okay that I couldn't take care of myself. It's not okay that I needed him.
I'm supposed to be able to survive on my own. And he was the one who put me in a situation where I couldn't. He's just as much to blame as I am.
"Fallon?"
He reaches a hand out to touch my shoulder, but I jerk away, sliding back until my spine is pressed against the siding of the boat. "Take me back."
"Wha—"
"To the dock," I hiss, "Take me back."
Disappointment, worry, perhaps even a bit of anger, cast shadows over his face. But he listens to me, turning the sail around and steering the boat towards the pier. The ride back is quieter than when my head was beneath the waves—but just as violent. Tension rolls like tumbleweeds between us as the wind sails us closer to shore.
As soon as the boat hits the dock, I'm standing on those wooden planks, walking away from Brad. He yells for me to wait, but I ignore his pleas. I pull my phone out of my pocket. There are water droplets on the screen, but when I press a button I'm surprised to watch it spring to life. It's one blessing in a day full of curses.
I dial Marina's number. She picks up on the second ring. The phone garbles her voice a bit, but not enough for me to not understand her.
"Hey, Fal," she says, "I thought you were on your date."
"Can you come get me," I ask, though I know it sounds more like a demand. I purposely left the inquisitive tone off the end of my sentence. "I'm at the pier."
"Sure, but—"
"Thanks," I say, cutting her and the phone call off. I can't answer any of her questions now. I slide the phone back into my pocket, hoping it'll last long enough for me find the money for a new one.
"Fallon?"
I turn to see Brad standing right behind me, half-naked. In the time it took me to call Marina, he removed his shirt and wrung it out over the edge of the dock. He still twists it in his hands, but the t-shirt isn't nearly as interesting as what it used to cover. His carved chest is a sight my eyes hungrily gulp down.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
The sound of his deep timbre pulls me out of my feeding frenzy and back into the reality of today's disaster. "Fine," I snap.
"Would you like me to take you home?"
I turn my back on him. "Marina's picking me up."
"Oh." He sounds disappointed, but I don't look back at him to check. He just stands there, behind me, until I can't take his presence. He's taunting me and I won't allow it. I walk away, moving to wait for Marina in the parking lot. Brad doesn't follow me.
I sit down on the edge of the curb and struggle to keep it all in. It proves harder to do than I thought and I slip a little. While I wait, I try to regain control, wondering when I lost it in the first place.
I have to give Marina props for not saying a word when I hop in her Jeep, still dripping wet. As we drive back to her house, I can tell from the way she bites her bottom lip that she wants to ask what happened, but she keeps her mouth shut. I'm thankful she does, and she should be too.
I know she doesn't ask because of the scowl holding my features together. It's my I-will-punch-you scowl, and right now, it's the only thing keeping me from breaking down. But I will not cry. I refuse to cry. I am a hell of a lot stronger than that.
It was just some stupid date. Brad is just some boy. I take a deep breath in and let it out slowly. Nothing worth crying over.
I mumble a thanks to Marina as we pull up her driveway and get out of the car. She starts to suggest the two of us having a girls night or something, but I'm inside before she can get all the words out. I head straight for the basement where her father graciously hung a punching bag for me, not bothering to change out of my wet clothes. Their coldness helps remind me why I'm mad.
The punching bag was Marina's birthday present to me. She said it was because I didn't have a reason to punch people anymore. I laughed when she gave it to me, but today isn't the first time I feel lucky to have it. Though he doesn't know it, Peter Randolph from my physics class should feel particularly lucky I have my own punching bag, otherwise any social dignity he possesses would be broken like the bones in his nose.
I punch the bag…hard. Or I try to. It moves maybe an inch. My force lagging at the last second. Brad's concerned blue eyes flit into my mind. I don't need his pity. I punch it again. Harder this time. The camera lens in my imagination zooms out, showing me Brad's whole body: a frown on his face, his shoulders slumped, and droplets of water dripping from the ends of his hair onto his perfectly bare chest. I don't need him. I punch the bag again and again and again. Stupid—punch—Brad—punch.
Fallon,
punch
you're
punch
such
punch
an
punch
idiot
punch.
I punch it until the skin on my hands turns red.
"Try turning your arms in a bit when you swing. It'll give you more power."
I can't stop my body from jumping at the sound of Brad's voice. I turn to find him standing at the bottom of the stairs, watching me, his arms crossed over his chest. He has a shirt on now—thankfully—but I can still see where it serves as a towel, soaking up the remaining ocean water and clinging to his body. How long has he been there?
Scowling, I turn back to the punching bag and give it a few more hits. "My power. Is just. Fine. Thankyouverymuch," I say in between swings. I punch the bag twice more to prove my point, before facing him again.
He shrugs. "Sorry, it looked like you were trying to hit it as hard as you can is all."
Trying? Trying? I'll give him trying. I turn back, winding up my arm and letting it go with all of my force. A solid thud echoes off the basement walls as my fist makes contact with the punching bag. Even though the bag sways back and forth, I pull my hand into my chest, scrunching my face. Shitsters, that hurt. I take a deep breath in to try to steady my breathing and then open my eyes. A small part of me takes pride in the fact that the bag is still swinging.
I shake out my hand before curling my fingers in to form a fist once more. I wait for the bag to stop moving and then I pull my arm back, preparing for release. But my strength falters when Brad runs his hand down my arm. My focus all but disappears when I realize that he is standing right behind me—one more step and he'd be on top of me. How did I not notice him until now?
"Here," he says, wrapping his fingers around my wrist, his thumb rubbing the skin over a bone, "like this."
I should tell him that I don't need his help. That I can take care of myself. But I don't. Instead, I let him gently guide my arm, twisting it inward, until it touches the bag.
"Feel that?" he asks.
I suck in a breath. I definitely feel something, but I don't think it's what he's referring to. His exhalation flutters the tiny wisps of hair around my ear, tickling the skin there. The sensation causes me to involuntarily tilt my head towards his. I know he's waiting for my answer, but being in such close proximity to him is…hypnotizing. I want to give him a smart retort, but I can't find one. Words fail me for the first time in my life, so I settle for a nod.
He rests his other hand against the small of my back in a reassuring way. "Try again," he says and then steps back, taking his hands with him.
The cold air of the basement fills the space between us, my wet shirt soaking it in, and I find myself yearning for the return of his body heat. I mentally shake myself, narrowing my eyes to attune my focus to the punching bag. This time I picture the wave that almost pulled me under for good. I yank my arm back and then launch it, turning my fist in at the last second like Brad showed me.
This time when my fist makes contact with the bag, I can feel what he was talking about. I can feel the eruption of power as it travels down my arm and is released in an explosion that sends the punching bag swinging with more force than any of my other punches.
"Woah," I whisper, admiring my own work. But I fail to recognize the bag's pendulum qualities in time and forget to get out of the way.
Brad quickly steps in front of me, stretching out a firm hand to stop the bag from swinging back and hitting me. I stare at him. At his blue eyes. At the mop of wet, blonde hair he's smoothed back. At the soaked through sections of his white t-shirt—the ones that have become windows to his sculpted chest.
Once the bag is settled, he steps away from me and shoves his hands in his pockets. "Sorry."
"For what?" I ask, trying to keep my voice from sounding like an animal whose space was just invaded. Especially since I'm really hoping he'll invade my space again.
He shrugs. "You're upset. I feel like I should apologize…again."
I send the bag swinging. "Grow a pair," I spit out, "If you're going to apologize, at least be man enough to figure out what you did to warrant being sorry." I pull my lips in. Maybe that was a bit harsh, even for me.
"Fine," he agrees, catching me off guard. I half expected—and half hoped—he'd start an argument with me just so I'd have an excuse to get up in his face.
"You're right," he says instead, "I know I screwed up with the life jacket, but I don't think you care about that. You're mad at me for something else. And I don't know what. I just wish you weren't."
"Not everything you wish for comes true."
I can't face him. I don't want to see him accept that whatever's between us is over. That it isn't worth fighting for. Because I haven't given him one reason to fight for me. I already fight myself too much. I am corrosive. Like acid. I break down anything in my proximity.
"I know."
The tone of his voice is low, the emotion thick, and I know I've actually hurt him this time. I mentally berate myself. Any second he'll turn and walk back up the stairs and we'll never be anything more than friends.
"But…"
The rising change in his one word makes me turn, and I am surprised to find that a smile has slid across his face.
"That's only because I already used my three wishes to get me here," he says, toying with me.
I'm stunned. How can he just shrug my comment off like that?
I stare at him, uncovering a mischievous glint in his eyes. I smirk. Oh right. Because he's cocky. Conceited. Vain. An ego-maniac. I think of voicing all these insults, but decide against it, not sure how many hits his well-toned ego can take.
"I'll have to have a talk with Milos then," I say instead.
"To have him take the wishes back?" Brad asks. He shakes his head. "I'm afraid they came with a no return policy."
"No," I tell him, "It's only fair that I get three wishes of my own."
Brad's smile shifts into a smirk of his own. "I may not be a genie, but maybe if you tell me your wish I can grant it."
My comeback falls down the back of my throat. Shitsters. He's flirting with me…and I was flirting with him. I suck at flirting. It occurs to me that I may not win this battle. And yet, who's to say that even if I don't win I can't still have a prize?
He steps closer to me. "It's okay to be afraid," he whispers.
I attempt a laugh. "I'm not afraid of you."
"That's not what I meant." His fingers twitch at his sides, as if he wants to reach out and touch me, but he stops himself.
"Fear is weakness," I tell him. My eyes flit to the still bag, tempted to throw another punch, "and I will not be weak."
"I'm afraid of heights."
"What?"
"I'm afraid of heights," he repeats. A guttural sound emits from his lips as he clears his throat. "My older brother died when he fell off a cliff and ever since then, I just kind of freeze whenever I'm up high." He reaches a hand up to scratch the back of his neck in a nervous way. "I was terrified on the roof of the prison that day."
I eye him like he's an entirely new person. Because, in a way, he is. The Brad I've seen never would have admitted to being afraid. That is something we have in common. But I've also seen some softer sides of him. Sides he doesn't show very many people. Sides he, like me, keeps hidden. Still, this was not one I expected him to reveal.
He takes another step closer to me. "And, while I'd like to say otherwise, heights still bother me. I'm still scared."
I turn my back to him, staring at the punching bag like it's my savior. Guard down, Fallon, remember? I punch the bag, putting the strength of the walls I built into it. "I can't swim," I say, focusing on the swinging bag in front of me and not the presence behind me. "And I don't want to learn because…because I'm petrified of the water."
He's right behind me again. Close enough for me to feel him without touching him.
"You should have told me."
I clench both my fists, preparing to take multiple swings. "Why? You finding out I'm not a shapeshifter was unavoidable. But my fear of water?" The volume of my voice is rising and I can't seem to stop it. "Why would I tell you something else I hate about myself?"
He's quiet for a few seconds. I listen to the almost inaudible thump of his heart, tempted to lean back into it—to feel it against my shoulder blades.
"You're right," he says finally. "That's none of my business. But you shouldn't hate the part of yourself that's afraid."
"And why's that?" I ask, sarcasm leaking back into my tone. I pull my arm back, ready to send it flying towards the punching bag. "Like I said, fear is weakness."
"No it isn't. When you're afraid you're more cautious, more aware of your surroundings. You're hyper-sensitive to danger. Fear isn't weakness," he says firmly. "Fear is survival."
The rubber band in my arm I am about to shoot forward snaps, falling apart completely. I never thought of it that way.
I quickly spin around to face him, but my toes snag against his planted feet and I stumble into him. He catches me. Firm arms grasping my own, my hands outstretched, my fingers spewed against the smooth fabric over his chest. Heat from his body rushes into me from our points of contact. It's this heat that warms my cheeks, reddening them. Or, at least, that's what I tell myself.
I also tell myself to move my hands. That I have to get them off his beautiful chest and stop rubbing small concentric circles with my index fingers. But they don't listen. His hands don't move either. I like that. I can feel that foreign giddiness returning.
His eyes pull me in, but his grip on me loosens. I can tell he's teetering, unsure what to do next. I put that uncertainty in his head. All because I wasn't strong enough to share my fears with him. I don't want to hold back anymore. I don't want to make him hold back.
I take my hands off his chest and let them fly to his face. Cupping his chin, feeling the small stubble beneath my thumbs, I tug his head down towards mine and place my lips on his. Surprise sparks currents from his mouth to mine, but it quickly turns to passion, running laps between us. Heat surrounds us, making me feel frenzied. His lips are moving all over my own while I move over his, soaking him in. It's like an adrenaline rush, but better. Because I'm not alone. I'm sharing this rush of energy—this crazy explosion of heated power—with someone.
With him.
We break apart with a gasp. I can't open my eyes. I've forgotten how to move my mouth. And then his kisses me again, long and slow, with the patience it takes to raise a garden.
This time, when his lips leave mine, my eyes open, finding his.
"So," I say, "time for date #2?"
His laugh echoes off the basement walls. "How 'bout I let you pick what we do?"
"Deal."
He wraps both his arms around my back and pulls me against him. And I let him. Neither of us care when my wet clothes soak through his clean shirt.
I'm not completely in control of this thing between us. Whatever it is. Brad has some control. I have some control. We share it. Our relationship is a lot like sailing. I can pull on the ropes as hard as I can, but that doesn't mean we'll go the way I want. We have to adapt. And I know I'm not the best at adapting. But that doesn't mean I can't learn.