Earthbound (7 page)

And then we stand.

And stare.

At each other.

This isn’t
me
; tongue-twisted over some guy, drooling over a granite physique. It makes me feel right and wrong at once and by turns until I want to walk out of my skin to get away from the contradiction.

“I’m Tavia,” I say, thrusting my hand out. I have to do
something
. The tension is killing me and I can’t figure out what I want. What I don’t want.

They seem to be the same thing.

He looks at my hand but ignores it. “I know who you are.”

Of course he does.
I wait.

And wait.

Is he going to make me ask?

“We should talk,” he says as he stoops to grab a coat from the sand, then slips his lean arms into it. “I have things to show you and our time is short.”

“I don’t know your name,” I blurt.

He smiles all the way now, showing broad teeth and tiny crinkles on each side of his eyes. “You’re beautiful, you know that?” My legs shake as he lifts his hand to my face, his fingers just a hair’s breadth from my cheek. “I like you this way,” he whispers. I close my eyes, waiting for the touch to land.

It doesn’t.

After a few seconds I open my eyes, embarrassed. But he’s not looking at me. He’s turned half away and his eyebrows are folded low.

“Why are you doing this?” I choke. “I don’t understand any of it.”

“I wish I could explain everything right now, but it will take time. You must trust me. I know I’ve done nothing to deserve it,” he adds before I can argue. “But please, please trust me.”

My head is nodding even as I bite my lip, letting go when my teeth touch the sore, cracked skin. Stupid ocean air. It gives me a moment of clarity and I fight the woozy, agreeable feeling that fills my head. “No offense, but why should I trust you?” I snap. “You won’t tell me anything and you keep running off. I need you to talk to me.”

“Next time,” he says, a touch of promise in his voice. “You know I cannot linger tonight. A promise,” he adds. “I shall bring something to help you understand next we meet. Agreed?”

“You can’t come
here
again,” I warn. “Not like this. You’ll get us both in trouble.”

He nods soberly, almost as if he expected that. “Don’t look for me. I’ll find you.”

It appears that’s the best I’m going to get. He’s right—he can’t stay. Not now. “Okay,” I concede. My whole body trembles as I say it. I’m afraid of what I’ve just agreed to.

He turns and his long coat billows out for just a second, falling back around his legs with a whisper. “Be safe,” he says. I
think
he says it. But it’s so quiet I might have imagined it.

“Wait!” I say, jumping after him.

“Soon,” he calls without turning. “Soon.”

“But—” I don’t even know what to say; I’m completely out of control here. Of the situation. Of him. Of myself.

A light laugh escapes him and I start to feel angry, but he spins to walk backward and his eyes meet mine with an innocent playfulness. “Since names matter so much to you, it’s Quinn,” he says with a smile. “Quinn Avery.”

Quinn Avery.

Two simple words, but they mean everything.

W
here are you?
My fingers shake as I text Benson.

Library. About to leave
, he replies about a minute later.

We need to talk.
I feel weird texting Benson, the guy I liked last week, about Quinn, the guy I apparently like
this
week.

The
other
guy I like this week. It’s so weird, when Quinn is around, it’s like I can’t focus on anything else. He overwhelms my senses and I float in a cloud as blissful as it is terrifying. But when he’s gone, reality creeps back in and I don’t know what to think.

I know I should give Benson up as a lost cause, but he’s like a forest fire—everything started off with a spark too small to even notice until it blazed into something more. I couldn’t simply douse those feelings even if I wanted to.

And now I’m going to tell him about Quinn? What am I doing?

But I’m bursting with this new revelation—he has a name and he wants to see me again! And who else can I tell? I’m not about to call my therapist—again—at almost eight o’clock at night.

I try not to think about his other words.
I am not the one whom you should fear.
I’ve spent the entire day being afraid. Right now I want a few minutes, an hour maybe, to just be happy.

After pleading a forgotten homework assignment to Reese, I get her to let me borrow her car to run to the library. I’ve got less than half an hour before it closes. When I get there, I park and walk through the front doors as fast as my sore leg will let me, looking for Benson. I don’t care if he doesn’t understand. I’ve listened to him practically compose sonnets about Dana McCraven for the last two months and dealt with it; he can listen to
me
now.

It’s better this way
, I tell myself.
Now we’ll both have someone.
But the thought makes me feel strangely hollow.

He’s leaning over the counter, talking softly with Marie. My heart gives a funny leap as my eyes skim him from head to toe—taking advantage of the moment before he realizes I’m there. He’s still wearing the soft gray sweater-vest over a light green button-up shirt from earlier, but now the sleeves are rolled up, emphasizing the definition of his forearms. As I watch, he pushes his glasses up his nose a little and makes a face at Marie.

He looks totally at home among the stacks of books.

And totally charming.

I swallow, remembering the reason I’m here.

As soon as Benson sees me, his mouth closes and I catch a strange, melancholy look in his eyes before his lopsided smile erases it. I need to remember that he’s worried about me. That I’m giving him even
more
reasons to worry about me. Benson is so constant, so mellow, it’s hard to remember that he’s one of those guys whose emotional river runs deep.

I walk over, trying to avoid eye contact with Marie before she can give me a chirrupy greeting and start asking about my day. I don’t have time for her tonight.

“Hi, Marie,” I toss off quickly without looking directly at her, then turn to Benson. “I
really
need to find that book before the library closes. It’s in the back, right?” I add meaningfully.

“Yeah, I’ll show you,” Benson says, eyeing me quizzically. He puts one hand on my shoulder and steers me toward the far end of the library, where no one hangs out—not that there’s more than a handful of people here now anyway. And most of them are preteens crowded around the computers.

I head to the middle of a shadowy aisle—after checking that no one is browsing—and run my fingers along a variety of spines—newish paperbacks, crumbly ancient hardcovers. I don’t think this library ever gets rid of their books. Any of them. There’s a single-bulb light fixture above us and it illuminates dust motes swirling in a tiny breeze from the heater.

I feel fluttery now that the nerves are starting to wear off, and I attempt to cover up my awkwardness by pulling a tube of ChapStick from my pocket and reapplying it.

“Oh, hey, that reminds me,” Benson says, digging into his own pocket. “I remembered to bring your other one.”

I look up into Benson’s face. “What?”

“Your ChapStick. I found it in my car after I took you home the other day. I brought it for you. Now you’ll have two.” He holds out a tube of cherry-flavored ChapStick, identical to the one in my hand, and grins. “Double your pleasure, double your fun.”

“Not mine. I need to get a new one, but I haven’t yet.” I look up at him with one eyebrow raised. “Must belong to one of your girlfriends,” I add, trying to sound cheerful while wondering if Dana finally succumbed to Benson’s many charms.

Not that it matters.

I don’t care.

I
don’t
care.

“No, it was on the seat after you left,” he insists, still holding it out. “It must have fallen out of your pocket.”

I don’t know why he’s pushing this. “Benson, I’m not going to take some other girl’s ChapStick; that’s gross.
This
one’s mine.”

He’s looking at me funny. “But—”

“It really doesn’t matter, Benson. Just throw it away; I have to talk to you
now
.”

“Your loss,” he says, and tosses it in the air. It spins several times before he catches it. “You should switch to a new brand anyway. You’ve been complaining this stuff doesn’t work anymore.”

“It’s just the salt in the air,” I say, putting the cap back on my ChapStick. The one from my pocket. The one I
know
hasn’t touched anyone’s lips but mine.

Technically, if he made out with her before she put some on, Benson’s germs could be on there too. It makes my stomach feel funny, and I don’t like the simmering feeling. I twist the ChapStick in my fingers just to have something to do.

And maybe so I don’t have to look at Benson.

My fingers clench around the plastic tube for an instant, then the space where it had been is empty and my fingers touch together. “Holy crap!” I jerk my hand back.

“What?” Benson asks without looking at me, tossing the ChapStick again.

“It’s gone!”

“What’s gone?”

“The ChapStick!”

There’s a slight hesitation before he shrugs. “Look on the floor.”

“Benson!”

“What?”

I wait for him to look at me. “I was holding the ChapStick, and then it was gone.”

His face is a mask of confusion and he opens his mouth to speak, then closes it and just stares at me. Looking for something in my eyes.

“It
disappeared
, Benson,” I say, struggling to keep my breaths from turning into ragged gasps. “I was holding it and it literally disappeared.”

Another few seconds of silence pass before Benson swallows and holds the other tube out to me with a half grin. “Well, now you have another one.”

“Benson—”

“Jeez, Tave,” he snaps. “It’s just ChapStick. Take it or don’t, but it’s not mine.”

His sudden flare of temper shocks my thoughts and a second later I realize my cheeks are wet. It’s not crying exactly, but the tears are pouring from my eyes as though my emotions are leaking out. Good, bad, terrifying, exhilarating. I’ve just had too much today and now I’m overflowing.

And embarrassed. I’m completely out of whack.

I snatch the stupid ChapStick from Benson—I’ll throw it away later—then open my purse, looking for one of the many packs of tissues I keep in there. Since my parents died, I cry randomly in public on a pitifully frequent basis.

When I sniff, Benson looks up and his whole face crumples in regret. He reaches out, hands finding my shoulders. “Aw, Tave, I’m so sorry. I’m a total jerk. I—”

But I cut his words off with a sharp wave of my hand. I reach into my purse and pull out a tube of ChapStick. Then, just to make sure, I lift my hand and uncurl my fingers to reveal the one Benson just gave me.

Two. Three, if you count the one that disappeared.

I feel myself losing control and have to force a few breaths into my lungs as an awful thought occurs to me. With my hands almost numb in fear, I reach into my pocket again.

At first I feel nothing. But I dig deeper, into the bottom corner where the pocket lint tends to accumulate.

And pull out another tube.

Benson was right; it’s
always
in my pocket when I can’t find it.

I hold the three tubes out to Benson and he instinctively lifts his hands to take them.

I drop them into his palm. Benson has to see.

If Benson sees them, I’m not crazy.

Or at least I’m not hallucinating.

I reach into my pocket again and meet Benson’s eyes as I pull out another tube of ChapStick and place it with the other three already cradled in his hands.

Four. I reach again.

Five.

Six.

I don’t want them to cut open my brain again.

“You’re weirding me out,” Benson says, his eyes boring into mine.

“Ssh!” I hold my finger up to my lips. “Watch.”

“Tave—”

“Just. Watch,” I insist.

The seriousness in my voice finally gets through to him and he keeps his eyes on my half-dozen lip balms with a skeptical look like he’s waiting for me to pounce on him and yell
“Gotcha!”

I wish.

I wish it were that simple.

A few minutes have passed, and my eyes are already weary from glaring at the tubes. Benson takes a breath and I can practically feel him getting ready to say something when the middle tube pops out of sight.

Benson gasps as he drops the rest of the ChapSticks. He scrambles out of the way—almost knocking me over—and they scatter across the carpet. “Holy mother of Max!”

“Ssssshhh!” I whisper-command, putting my hand over his mouth and stepping right up close to him.

Right against him.

I look up, our faces only a few inches apart, and my chest freezes. My hand lowers slowly, his lips soft against my fingertips, until only one finger rests on his bottom lip. A distant part of me hears Benson’s breath, unsteady as it speeds up, his eyes burning into mine.

I’m not sure who reaches out first or how it happens amid everything going on, but in an instant my fingers are grasping at his hair, pulling his face down to me, his hand behind my neck, pulling me up, tilting my mouth to his. His lips are desperate on mine, seeking, demanding, taking.

But how can they take what I’m savagely giving?

His whole body trembles as he steps forward, pressing against me, trapping me between the bookshelf and the warmth of him. The corners of books dig into my back as our bodies meet, push, wrap. I grasp at the soft fabric of Benson’s sweater-vest, and my fingers dig into his ribs just beneath. His hands are still behind my neck, my head—fingers weaving through my hair as he brings my mouth harder against his—but the length of his body rocked snugly against mine feels like its own kind of embrace.

I rip my mouth away to gulp for air but return immediately to his lips, needing more of him. Tiny groans vibrate in his throat and they make me want to hold him tighter, kiss him deeper. I don’t know how long it lasts—forever and yet not nearly long enough—before Benson throws his head back and lets out a long sigh. His hands frame my face and he lets his forehead rest against mine as we both struggle for air. His breath is hot on my lips and when I breathe, it smells like him.