Lengths (25 page)

Her voice is steady and clearer. “Yes. Sorry if my text freaked you out. I’ll…I’ll explain everything when we’re at the beach. Okay?”

As soon as I know she’s alright, it’s all calm breathing, slowed driving speeds, and this instant, perfect relief, like the rest of the world could be facing a hostile zombie takeover, but if Whit is cool, it’s all gonna be okay.

“Okay. I’ll see you there.” The last thing I want to do is disconnect, but I can’t exactly heavy breathe into the phone til we get to the beach, so I just let her go and trust that she’ll be there when I pull in.

I park in the lot and wait for her LeBaron to pull in. When it does, I’m already out of my Jeep and to her driver-side door, too fucking happy to see her to care about the fact that I look like a total pathetic pushover. I don’t trust that everything’s alright until she steps out of the car and into my arms. Because, even if we’re officially over after this meeting, I want to hold her one more time.

Her hair smells fantastic, grapefruit sweet. I press my lips to the waves and wrap my arms tight around her shoulders and love the way she rubs her face against my chest. I inhale, and the two best smells in my world get trapped in my lungs: the salty, cool sting of the ocean in the morning and sweet, morning-sweaty smell of Whit. I get to pretend, for a minute, that we’re in my bed and I just woke up to that combination smell because she’s settled down with me.

I drag the hug out for a little longer than is probably strictly kosher. How long is normal for someone you’re worried enough to speed like a maniac at dawn to rescue, but aren’t dating anymore, though you’d totally be fuck-buddies with her, except that you’d complicate things by secretly wanting to be exclusive because you’re a jealous bastard? Yeah, it’s kind of complicated.

Whit looks up at me, and I wonder if I’m transferring all my gooey missing-her-so-bad nonsense, because, under any other circumstances, I’d swear she was looking at me with lovey eyes. But this is Whit. My hardcore girl. She didn’t do lovey eyes much when we were all mad in love. So, I’m either sliding into delusions, or the Everclear is still bending my brain.

“Um. Should we go sit? Like on the beach? If you want?” It’s not like Whit to sound so unsure of herself. She’s usually a bossy little brute leading me around by the nose.

I wonder what’s making her so damn nervous, but I’m glad she wants to chill with me. I take her hand in mine and we head down to the cool sand. We sit side by side, and when she pulls her hood up to combat the chill of the still-grey dawn, I put my arm around her shoulders and rub a hand along the side of her to warm her up.

“Why are you doing this?” she asks, her eyes trained on the lightening horizon.

“Because you look cold. I thought Pennsylvania was, like, almost in Canada. Aren’t you used to being cold?” I rub harder, purposefully misinterpreting her question.

She turns and looks at me, her eyes wide and totally serious. “No jokes. Not now. Why are you here?”

“Because you told me you needed me.” It’s more elaborate and a fucking million times simpler than that. I want to tell her that no matter where I am or what I’m doing, I’m always waiting for her. I’m always going to be there when she needs me, even if I know she doesn’t want anything that’s going to last long.

She swivels her entire body, and I redirect mine, so we’re facing each other instead of the choppy waves. “I’m…I shouldn’t have walked out on you, that day at my place. When we…”

“Had marathon sex? And you found the ring?” Her eyes go perfectly round and I take both her hands in mine. “No jokes, right? I felt like you stabbed me in the fucking heart, Whit. But I love that about you. That you’re fierce as hell. And fearless. And strong. So I know why you had to kick me to the curb. I get it. Because I’m a shit-ton better than I was, but I’m still nowhere near good enough for you.”

Her mouth opens and shuts and she swallows hard enough that I hear the gulping sound. She breaks my hold on her hands and wipes her eyes with the ragged cuff of her sleeve. “Every single thing you just said is so wrong.”

I go still. Stone still. Ice statue still. Han Solo in carbonite still. And my rational adult heart gives a little thrum of hope.

She licks her lips and sniffles. “You, um, you totally over-estimate me, Deo. I’m not even remotely any of what you said. I’m a coward. I run away when things get hard. I push people out of my life like a stupid maniac. And, that day? I came home to make things right with you. And when you weren’t there, I wanted to go find you, but I didn’t. Because I’m gutless. I’m completely gutless.”

I want to correct all the stupid bullshit she’s yammering about, like how not awesome she is, but one part of her speech races in front of all the other parts and gives me a crazy rush Everclear couldn’t begin to compete with. “Wait. Slow down, doll. You wanted to find me?”

She nods and bites her lips, first the top, then the bottom. “Yes. And apologize. And tell you…that…tell you that I…”

The wind whips wildly, blowing her hair in her face. She lifts her hand to tuck the dark strands behind her ear, and I catch her wrist, looking at the tattoo on the left side, under her pinkie.

“What’s this?” I’m looking at the delicate anchor, still healing, and meet her eyes. “What’s it for? What’s it mean?”

She shakes her head, and I interrupt before she can brush it off.

I rip my hoodie off and point to the words on my ribs. Her words. “
This is part of me now.
You know how many times this goes through my head? But, you know what? I don’t know if I should have gotten it.” I’m half-disappointed, because the look of naked lust that slackened her features when I ripped my shirt off suddenly disappears and is replaced by guilt. “I should have tweaked it, because I knew what I wanted it to say that day. I wanted it to say,
You’re a part of me now.
”

She puts her ice-cold fingers on my skin, and my teeth chatter. “Deo—”

“Don’t.” I grab her fingers and squeeze them. “If there’s someone else, tell me. If this is some kind of symbolic thing because you’re moving on, tell me. What you and I had was the most intense thing I’ve ever felt, but if it’s over for you, just kick me hard enough so I’ll remember the pain and stay out of your way.” The hope that had picked up a few minutes before crashes down with a weight that buckles me. She’ll tell me, it will be closure, and I’ll do my thing and try to fill the hollow I know she’ll leave behind with something else. Probably a lot of Everclear and karaoke.

All jokes aside, I feel like she really did kick me. In the junk and the kidneys. Like a heart-break ninja. Fuck my life.

She pulls her hands from mine and holds my face hard, forcing me to look her in the eye. “Shut up. Shut the fuck up for a single second, Deo! Stop interrupting me. Stop and listen.” I do. I stare at her gorgeous, sweet face and hold my damn breath. “I love you.”

“What?” Confusion takes my brain in two beefy hands and shakes it like a rattle. “You what?”

Suddenly, surreally, her lips are hot and sweet on mine. “You. You, Deo. I love you.” She crawls onto my lap, her body pressed hot and eager against mine, her hands running from my shoulder-blades down my back.

The words out of her mouth, her kisses, her body grinding hot and sweet and frantic against mine, all make my brain gun it and then stall. I pull back and her mouth runs along my jaw in wet, sloppy-sweet kisses that roam to my neck and leave me hard.

My fingers run back into her hair. “You love me?”

“You,” she repeats dazedly, before her mouth finds that spot behind my ear that has me squeezing her ass and pulling her closer against me.

“The tattoo?” My question seems like it snaps her back to reality for a second. “It’s cool if it was about someone else, Whit.” It’s not, but I’m ready to keep running with this whole making amends, being in love thing.

“You. You, you, you, Deo!” Her voice catches in the gusts of wind that toss her hair and competes with the waves for volume. “You made me want to sink.”

I turn her hand and trace my fingers lightly over the still-tender flesh. “Sink? Is that a good thing?”

She hooks her hands around my neck and presses her forehead to mine. “Yes. I’m going to sink into what I feel for you. I’m going to sink into the good times and the scary shit. I’m going to sink with you, because I’m tired of drifting and treading, never committing to anything. I want to sink with you.” Her fingers trace the lines on my ribs while mine cover her anchor.

“I love you, Whit.” The words feel good ripped raw and free from my heart and throat. I crush her to my chest and kiss her hair and forehead, and the only thought that’s clear in my brain is
mine.
She’s mine. All mine. She’s part of me now.

Or not really now.

She’s been part of me for a long time.

And I want to have hot, crazy, nasty sex with her right on the beach. But the sun is an orange sliver over the dark, choppy waves, and it’s getting fatter ever second, which means that people will start driving by and maybe even coming for their morning jogs and shell combing expeditions. Also, I want her in my bed, because that’s one of the benefits of this whole responsible thing: pleasuring your lady on a big ole mattress with sheets that would make sheiks weep with their silky smoothness. And we have matters of the heart to round off before I can take care of the need in my pants.

So I scoop her up, tromp across the sand, and drop her in my Jeep. She looks disappointed, which figures, since she has no clue what kind of sexual deviance is in her near future, and she starts to protest about the Lebaron, but I shush her, because this day is only going to become exponentially cooler, beginning with a stop by the reason I decided to trade my long-collected booty for the clapboard eyesore of a 70s dump I bought.

We drive along the road that leads to a small private beach and pull outside what’s basically a biggish shed. Her look is pure, gorgeous confusion. So gorgeous, I let my Deo New World Order plans take a backseat while I maul her for a few passionate minutes. When she’s good and breathless, I get my hard-on under control and lead her to my headquarters.

“What is this?” she asks, trying her best to not look totally underwhelmed since, I guess, that stupid happiness is radiating off my face.

“Behold.” I swing the doors open and she smiles like she just recognized an old friend. “I officially got my business license in the mail yesterday. Beckett Boards.”

“Deo. You can make surfboards?” She runs a hand over a few that line the walls.

“I shaped boards for a few years with some of my father’s friends. I’ve been doing them for my friends for years, and I started coming up with some custom stuff that earned me a little punk cult following. So I figured I’d get my shit in order and get my business license. So, here I am.” Now that I flung the doors open on my place for Whit to see, it looks a hell of a lot more like a shed with a couple of okay boards than a business.

Until she turns to look at me, her eyes shiny with a pride that makes me feel like the biggest badass in the world.

“I cannot believe you’re doing this.” She throws her arms around me and crushes the air out of my lungs. “Deo. How do you always wind up being even more freaking amazing than I remembered?”

“It’s the Deo effect.” I keep my voice cool, but I’m feeling every kind of choked up. I’m also probably on the cusp of some very hot action, but it gets railroaded by the little clipping tacked to my corkboard.

“What’s that?” She walks over and tears the clipping from its tack with shaky hands, and I feel the clammy uncertainty that accompanies the dread of realizing you fucked up.

The awesome promise of the day starts to crumble fast under my feet. “I, uh, maybe I should have, uh, asked you—”

“You did this for Wakefield?” Whit is not a crier, but those big brown eyes are filling fast. “You did this for my brother?”

“Well, yeah. I owe him, you know.” I take the clipping out of her hand and tack it back up, and she turns her head to look at it.

“How do you owe it to Wakefield?” Her eyebrows net together as she puzzles this problem.

I slide my hands under her elbows and pull her close. “Because he led you here. And I found you. And I started to think about how he made you live large, because he couldn’t. And it bummed me out. All you told me about him, you know? He never got to meet that girl, the one who changed everything for him. And he never got to surf. And here I am, sitting around like a fucking lump, able to do all the shit Wakefield couldn’t. And I thought, fuck that, you know? He
can
do shit. And I can help. So, every time a kid gets a custom board, it’s because of him. That way he’s still changing shit. He’s still part of all this.”

She looks over my shoulder at the clipping. “The boy? Who is he?”

“Some punk.” I look back at the kid with a mop of dark hair, his black eyes squinted because of his gap-toothed smile. “His name is Hudson Alma, and he’s a little prick. The kid kissed the reporter’s ass because she was hot, then he didn’t even thank me for the board, and made me change five hundred details. He was bossing my ass around like he owned the joint. To top it all off, I paddled out with him to do a test run, and the fucker showed my ass up. Bad. That little shit will probably become a surfing god someday. He’s arrogant enough. You know, and good enough.” When I look at Whit, she’s shaking her head.

Her laugh is half a sob. “There’s something wrong with you.” She wraps her arms around my waist with an anaconda grip. “And I love it. I love every damn thing about you. Wakefield would have flipped out over this. Thank you. So much.” Her voice gets sandpaper rough, and she puts her head on my chest. “Thank you for everything.”

“Wait! This isn’t it.” I lead her out of the shop, and we walk past the Jeep, along the sandy path clotted with beach grass and noisy with the beat of the waves. The house looks sadder now that I’m trying to imagine it through Whit’s eyes, with a dilapidated fence half-falling down around the weed-clogged yard and its loose shingles and faded paint. I lead her to the chipped, peeling door and slide my key in. The house smells like mildew, new paint, and the slightest whiff of vomit. Cohen must have woken up and dragged himself to the couch, where he’s snoring so loud, the cherry-red walls vibrate.