Maybe some borderline h8 sex? Who's to say.
Me. I'll say it. Mature content warning. Let's make some more ~mistakes~
If you asked me if I love you... — "London" by Wrabel
Quil
I sleep like… maybe not the dead, but the undead. At the very least, that is how I feel when I wake up at seven in the evening, my phone blaring its alarm for dinner. I'm a zombie as I take a mediocre shower and text a picture of my view to Embry. In my crabby state, that is also mediocre. This beach looks just like the one I left at home.
Claire gave me strict instructions to come hungry to the restaurant for dinner. Honestly, there's too much anxiety taking up space in my stomach to consider food. Seeing her again was a mind fuck, and I hate my body for how it reacted when she touched me. I could tell she felt it too, that spark.
I have to tell her tonight, that the reason I came was to sever our connection. I don't want her to get her hopes any higher about what me being here means for us. We're walking a tightrope, and it's a long way down.
It's the end of monsoon season, so everything is springy and wet as I make my way down the street to the restaurant. The right side of the street—a generous word—is filled with more hotels like mine, with big glass windows and thatched roofs. To my left is the beach, shrouded by maybe twenty yards of trees and bright green foliage.
As I near the restaurant, the sounds get louder. When I was here earlier it was a ghost town, but now there are clumps of people waiting in the street, patio sets spilling out from the sides, and a tiny old lady shouting in rapid Thai. Simply put, it is chaos.
I have to give it to Claire—Hannah would have loved this place.
"Quil," Claire yells, waving me over. She changed into a dress since I last saw her, and it sways around her hips as she moves. I look away, ducking around waiting patrons and avoiding their eye contact. I don't want any special treatment either, trust me.
I head to her through a maze of tables to a two-seater near the back. Something stirs in my stomach. This is a very intimate setting. As intimate as a table in an open-air restaurant with the kitchen ten steps away can be, but still.
"Claire, I don't know about this." I say, standing behind a chair.
She takes the other one and slides into it, rolling her eyes at my hesitation. "It's just food, Quil. Which we both need to survive, yeah?"
"Yeah," I say speculatively. "But isn't this a little…" I gesture to the flower in the vase on the table. "Romantic?"
She studies me, and there's something almost playful in her gaze. "And you think it would be less romantic to have a picnic on the beach? Or take this back to your hotel room?" Her pupils dilate, and I wonder if she's picturing what I am:
Tanned skin and "please" and heat and hushed voices. Kisses on curves. Moans and drags of teeth over sensitive skin. "Fuck me now" and fingers in hair and hands on hips and "perfect" and "again" and "always." Always and always and always.
I break the eye contact. "Fair point," I say, the chair scraping as I pull it out. I reach for a menu tucked behind the napkin dispenser.
"Oh no," she says, shaking her head. She plucks the menu from my grasp. "Panya's picking for us."
I nod, sitting back in my chair. It's humid here, and it makes my shirt stick to my chest uncomfortably. I cross my arms. "What's for dinner, then? Pad Thai? Drunken noodles?"
Her eyes light up. "Do you know how drunken noodles got their name?"
"Does anyone?" I say, but when she grins, I know I've fallen into her trap.
"It started in Bangkok. There were all these vendors who had set up food carts on the main stretch of road in the town center. As it became more industrialized, bars started popping up. The vendors started staying open later and later to accommodate them and get their business. When people would get kicked out or head home, they'd buy food from the vendors to try and sober up."
I actually love that. So much I find myself grinning at her. The very large man approaching us puts an end to that real quick.
"Panya," she says to him, and then something in Thai. I catch my name at the tail end.
He studies me like… well, how Jonathan used to study me after Claire went through puberty. Closely, and without reservation.
"Som tam," Claire says, ignoring the hulking man still at our side. He looks like he would not hesitate to use his meat cleaver on my neck. "It's spicy papaya salad."
It's only once Panya has reluctantly disappeared that I look at what's in front of me. "This is coleslaw," I say.
She grabs her fork. "This is spicy papaya salad," she says again. "And it's delicious, and I'm not waiting for you."
It's the noise she makes when she takes her first bite that forces me to pick up my own fork. I need to drown that out whatever way possible.
"Oh my God," I say through my food. "Claire."
Her cheeks round out with her smile and flush a dark berry color. "I know."
And on it goes, for several courses. First, in Thai, then English. Tom Kha Gai, which is a coconut curry soup I contemplate marrying. Guay teow, which looks like a distant cousin to ramen. Fat pink shrimp, even fatter noodles, long stalks of crisp greens. More curry—Panang this time—served over perfectly steamed white rice. Dumpling stuffed just to bursting, so soft my teeth slide right through the tender meats inside.
Claire points out foods she knows I haven't tried, things native only to this part of the earth. "Like a green bean," she'll say, "or a squash."
"Can you make all this stuff, too?" I say between bites of pork she just told me cooked overnight, underground. "I mean, besides the pig thing. I bet your dad would love his backyard to become a meat pit, though."
She laughs, the sound light and a little sloppy. Alongside our meal, we've each had several bottles of Thailand's most famous beer. When she'd started drinking hers, I gawked. "It's legal here," she said with a wink that did funny things to my heart. Or maybe that was still the jet lag.
"I could make them here—but probably not as well as Bussaba or Panya. Panya's been learning since he was old enough to hold a knife. His recipes have been passed down for something like four generations. And if I tried to do this back in Washington, I wouldn't have all the ingredients."
"Last dish," she tells me as Panya whisks away all my empty plates. There are several.
I blink down at my plate, then back up at Claire. "It's rice. For dessert."
"Try it," she laughs. "It's called Khao New Mamuang. Rice with mango. We also eat soup for breakfast. This part of the world is so poor, they learned how to make food stretch to feed a large family for several days. Rice is cheap because they grow it in abundance here, so they serve it with basically everything. And with soup, if you have enough of the stock it will last for as long as you keep adding water to it. Bussaba told me sometimes when she was a girl, they used to leave their soups simmering overnight. They'd take turns waking up to stir it and sneak tastes."
It, like everything else, is amazing. Rice with mango for the win. I'm going to request this for my birthday every year from here on out. I finish my serving and half of Claire's in less than five minutes, and I could make room for three more.
The alcohol, the warm spices filling my belly, the atmosphere—probably the fucking JET LAG—loosens my tongue beyond normal limits. "Why did you tell me to come here, Claire? Why am I in Thailand?"
"I didn't—"
"Bullshit," I say, and her cheeks darken. I am so tired of dancing around landmines I can't see, fighting on invisible battlefields.
She sets her fork down calmly, goes for her beer but thinks better of it. Instead, she takes to peeling at the label. When she meets my eyes, hers are flooded with tears.
The site goes straight to my gut, and God, I want to hold her. I'm so fucking sick of the imprint. My care for her overrides everything, first and foremost my sense of self-preservation. If we're on the same continent, in the same room, she will win over my best interest every time.
"It was your speech," she whispers. "I was—trying to read Mom's letter. And Bethany sent your speech."
This floors me. "You haven't read your letter yet? Jesus, Claire, what the hell are you waiting for?"
She shakes her head, blinking to stop her tears, but there's no use. She pushes back from the table and slips through the crowded restaurant with practiced motions. By the time I realize I need to follow her, finish this conversation, she's already almost out of sight.
"Damn," I say, bolting after her. I nearly knock over a small child—oops—and Paitoon, who's emerging from the kitchen—not oops. "Claire! Wait!"
I almost get hit with a tuk-tuk when I bolt out into the road after her. The driver starts screaming at me in rapid-fire Thai, and I say sorry about seventeen times before I realize he either can't understand me or doesn't care to. I keep running.
That dense green foliage from earlier is harsh now, whipping and grabbing at my ankles. When I break through to the beach, the sand immediately kicks up and sticks to everywhere that's wet with dew.
I see her, far down the beach already, not stopping any time soon. I follow her at a respectable pace; I could catch up to her easily, but I want to see where she goes when she's broken. Back home, she used to come to me.
She makes it farther than I expect, almost all the way around the cape before her knees give out with a wracking sob.
I'm there, to wrap her up, to help her down. I don't know if she deserves it or not. Maybe this isn't about her. I catch her around the waist, lower us both to the ground, and cradle her to my chest.
And maybe this was a mistake if I really wanted to break the imprint.
I forgot how it feels to touch her.
Claire
I forgot how it feels to touch him.
To have him hold me, stroke my back, his breath moving my hair enough to tickle my neck. To have him whisper words meant just for me.
"I've got you," he says, pulling me between his legs to lounge against his chest. "It's okay. I'm here. You can fall apart."
And I do. He said it's okay. Because even though I know he's mad, and we're broken, I trust him with my life. With my heart.
So I cry. On the beach in Thailand, I cry for my mother, and for my family, and for myself. Because every way I can think to fix this will only make it worse.
I cry so hard people stop to ask Quil if I'm okay, and he chuckles at them and says, "Jet lag." It is his fake laugh, though. He's convincing enough that they leave us alone.
"Do you want me to get Bussaba?" he says, still stroking my hair. "Or Panya or Paitoon?"
I love him more for that. "I just want you," I say. "Only you, Quil."
He's still so warm, warm enough that between him and my full belly and the sounds of the ocean and my absolute exhaustion, I fall asleep.
The sun is gone when I wake, but I can't tell how long it's been dark.
Quil is next to me, stretched out on the sand and staring up at the stars. We're far enough out from the major cities that there's no light pollution here.
He is also shirtless. When I shift, I understand why. His shirt is beneath my head, a makeshift pillow.
"What time is it?" I say softly. My eyes are itchy and swollen from my tears.
"A little after midnight," he says, not looking at me. "You ready to go home?"
I sit up, making sure my dress doesn't ride up when I do. "No."
The moonlight sharpens all his angles, darkens his shadows. There are a few more than I remember.
I'm expecting him to ask me why. Insist we pick this up tomorrow morning after we both sleep on it. Not that I think I'll be able to sleep tonight, knowing he's here.
He surprises me again. He sits up, and it's so quiet I can almost hear individual grains of sand slide off his back. "Okay."
"Okay?" I repeat, confused.
He shrugs, shifting closer. "Yeah. Okay. I fucking hate to admit it, but I missed you." He reaches for me. His fingers trail up my arms, over my collarbone. Up my neck.
My breath stutters.
I haven't been this warm in a long time. A year and a half, if I had to guess.
"I missed your shit in my house. Your smell in my truck." His index finger trails over my lips, and they part for him. He slips his finger just inside, and I learn the ridges with my tongue. "And I missed you in my shower, and your lips on my neck, and your back on the mattress."
I gasp so hard it sucks his finger in further. I am on fire.
He drags it out, trailing wetness down to my cleavage. "Tell me you missed me."
"I missed—" I gasp again when he suddenly pulls my breasts free from their cups, exposing them to the air and sea spray. My nipples tighten against the breeze and his gaze, and he pinches one between his thumb and finger. My eyes roll back. "I missed you in my arms. I missed you in my bed. I missed you in my body."
"Fuck," he groans, grabbing my hips. It takes me a second to comprehend what he's asking without words, but I finally understand his intentions as he moves me to my hands and knees.
I don't surrender to him. Not exactly. Surrendering requires putting up a fight in the first place.
As he pulls up my dress, fingers the damp fabric of my underwear to move it aside, he murmurs, "It didn't work without you. Nothing worked without you."
"What didn't?"
He doesn't answer, and when I catch his gaze over my shoulder, he's fumbling with his belt.
My pulse quickens. "Quil?"
He frees himself, and his pants are hardly at his knees before he's grabbing my hips and aligning us.
It doesn't matter. I forgot the question.
"I'm not on birth control anymore," I say.
If my words concern him, he doesn't let on. He thrusts forward without warning, to the hilt, and curses under his breath. I gasp at the sting of intrusion—it's been so long, and we didn't have much buildup. Or any buildup.
But truth be told, my body's been ready for him since he showed up outside the restaurant. Was that really this morning? Like it knew before I did, we'd find our way back here to this place, together.
"Tell me you missed me," he grunts again, hips meeting hips. "Tell me."
I can't tell him because I'm already spiraling. A moan catches on my tongue, and I bite down to stifle it for fear of being too loud. How am I already so close? "Quil."
"Haven't been able to come in a year and a half. A year and a goddamn half, you left me alone with just the thought of you, coming on my tongue and on my cock. And now you're here, with these pretty hips, and you feel so fucking good," he groans. His hips meet mine, furious and tender both.
"Yes," I whimper.
"I'm not gonna—" He shudders. "Not gonna last with you so tight like this."
He thrusts so hard my arms go shooting forward, sand digging underneath my fingernails.
"You know why you're so tight, Claire? Because—fuck—because this is my pussy. It belongs to me. You belong to me. Just—me."
My body tightens at the angle switch. Somehow the fact that I can't see his passion, only hear and feel it, makes it all the more compelling. We're on a public beach, for crying out loud. What are we doing?
Why don't I want to stop?
"It has to break, dammit." I'm so hot, I'm not hearing correctly. He thrusts harder, faster. I'll have bruises on my hips tomorrow from where he holds me. "Come, Claire. Break."
And break I do.
It's consuming, commanding. My legs almost give out, but he holds me up. This is a year and a half's worth of feelings: my love for him, my need for him. I haven't let myself miss him how he deserved. And now he's here, behind me, in me, and I miss him more than ever.
What have I done to him?
He roars, pulling out, and I drop my head to watch him spurt into the sand between my knees.
For the longest moment, the only sound is his heavy breathing, my tiny whimpers. One finger at a time to make sure I can support my own weight, he releases his hold on my hips. My skin throbs.
Shame flames across my face, and I reach down and fix my underwear, then my dress, not meeting his eyes.
"Claire," he murmurs, worry pinching his voice.
"I think I'm ready to go home now," I say, my body flooding with so many emotions at once, I might be sick.
"Claire," he says again. "Will you look at me?"
I shake my head, scooping my sandals up. I can probably get back in the restaurant—there's a window above the kitchen sink that doesn't lock well—and make a call on the landline. Bussaba will answer at the house, and she will probably send Paitoon. That will be awkward, but it can't be as bad as this.
I hear a jangle—Quil fixing his pants, maybe—and another, "Claire. Please. I need to—please look at me. I need to see your eyes."
He's never asked me for anything before, not that I can remember. Nothing that sounds as important as this does.
I look up at him, and our eyes lock. Something heavy passes between us, as we both accept what we just did. There's something else in his eyes, though. Surprise. Or disappointment.
"I still love you," he says.