Chapter 38 Rhea
The morning air feels good on my face as I run the path down and back up through the park. It’s eerily quiet out, and my headphones are broken, leaving me alone with thoughts of Brighton’s face inches from mine.
“Rhea?” I can hear him in my head, the way his voice dropped—the intention.
“He was going to kiss you,” I pant, narrowly avoiding a stray root on the path with my sneaker.
“Brighton Black was going to kiss you.” My breathing is heavy against the quiet backdrop of the forest, and I’m stomping so loudly after mile three that the birds are rustling around in the tree above me in protest. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
” I lift my hands and cry out to them. “But I’m having an existential crisis here, and I have no cell phone service to call my friends! ” I yell out in a frustrated whisper.
Brighton Black was going to kiss you.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I swear and push my legs faster into the run. Maybe if I run fast enough, I can forget the way he smells after sweating his ass off setting up camp.
“Probably not, though—ow!” A branch catches my cheek and leaves a stinging impression as I carry on through the forest. It’s like everything that’s been happening over the last months is sticking to my skin and demanding attention.
“Did I want him to kiss me?” The question comes out confused and stress-laden. I almost hit another tree thinking about the answer, but I hop to the left and manage to keep my pace.
“Do I want him to kiss me?” Kinda. I shake off the quick thought to focus on my run, curving back toward the campsite—and the lake.
“Oh...shit.” I skid to a stop, nearly tumbling down the hill, when I spot Brighton sitting by the lake alone, watching the sun rise over the horizon. “Go back to camp, Rhea,” I hiss, as a squirrel yips overhead. “Yeah fuck you,” I groan quietly.
Brighton sighs, his entire body shifting on the rock in the most gentle way.
I’ve never seen him so still and quiet before, which is a wonder because that’s basically who he is as a man.
Listening to him talk to Daisy about Auggie reminded me of my conversation with Sunday, and now everything is tangled up in the most confusing way. Are we still friends?
“Don’t be a coward,” I whisper to myself.
After Daisy interrupted the tense moment between the two of us, we spent the rest of the night listening to her rank her favorite musicians in order.
It’s like without her phone, she was a completely different kid; she talked and talked.
Thankfully, filling the silence and leaving no room for either of us to be awkward about what had almost happened.
But now you’re alone.
I shake out my body, look around at the path that leads back to the campsite, and consider my options carefully.
“Alright. Definitively: you’re friends. It’s not weird to join him for the sunrise.
” The birds above my head start singing a funny song that sounds like laughter. “Stop mocking me,” I mutter.
“Who are you talking to?” Brighton’s voice comes from ahead of me, and he’s still staring at the lake, but I’ve definitely ruined any escape plan.
“The stupid birds,” I grumble.
“You’re fighting the wildlife?” He asks, confused. “That’s a new low.”
“Don’t start, you’ll ruin the sunrise.” I roll my eyes.
“You’re the one running around here like a bull in a china shop,” he teases.
“Are you calling me fat, Brighton Black? Because we’re alone in the woods, I listen to a lot of crime podcasts, and there are no witnesses.” I warn him, and his shoulders shake with laughter.
He looks at me over his shoulder, with his dumb messy bedhead, in his dumb weather-worn hoodie, and a smile on his dumb handsome face.
My breath catches uncomfortably at the base of my throat.
I wish the birds were more helpful.
“What did you do to your cheek?” he asks, and I lift my fingers to the small scratch with a grumble.
“I was assaulted by nature, what else is new?” I groan, and he laughs, the sound almost startling against the serene backdrop.
“And why are you still standing back there?” he asks, and I don't know how to explain to him that being around him is confusing right now. And I don’t want it to be confusing. I just want my friend.
“I’m sweaty. Didn’t want to ruin your morning with my stench.” He eyes me, unsatisfied with the answer, as his lips press into a thin line.
“Rhea,” he scowls, and I think, that's the Brighton I know.
“Yeah,” I huff. “Okay,” I whisper, looking around, and do the next thing I can think of.
I kick off my shoes, stripping from my socks.
His face tenses in confusion as I leave them on the path to take off in a sprint.
I whip past him, just hoping that the lake is decently deep before throwing myself off the rocky ledge, three feet down into the frigid water.
The water splashes up around me, and I can feel the wet, muddy earth beneath my toes and hold my breath for as long as I can just to avoid the look on his face.
Drowning feels like a more dignified option.
When my lungs start to burn uncomfortably, I push back up to the surface, and Brighton is cleaning his face with the bottom of his sweater.
A habit he seems to have, and one that causes my temperature to rise.
His stomach is tight and bare as he dries off his face.
Just let me die. I sink back beneath the water as he drops the fabric from his hands, and his eyes narrow in on my face.
Be normal. For the love of God.
I break the surface and tread water out from the shore as Brighton takes another sip of coffee. “You’re insane, you know that?” He says after a few minutes of welcoming, calming silence.
“Feels nice,” I admit, the chilly water nips at my skin and refreshes me better than a cup of coffee would. “You should get in.”
Why did I say that? Please just shut up.
“No thanks.” He shakes his head.
“What, afraid you’ll shrivel?” I tease.
Brighton glares at me, finding no humor in the joke. “I don’t shrivel.”
Cool, now that I know that…
“Fine, you’re just a chicken then.” I splash water up at him.
“Just not a fan of leeches.”
“Did you say leeches?” My brows furrow.
“The black bugs that stick to your skin, suck your blood?” He raises an eyebrow. The words come off his lips, and it takes a second to register what he’s said, but I’m moving faster than I ever have toward the shore. Brighton is laughing, but he offers his hand to me and pulls me up from the water.
As soon as I’m on flat ground, I’m checking myself over and spinning in a circle to try to get a view of my back I’ll never get. “Are there any on me?” I ask, my voice panicked as he continues to laugh quietly. “Brighton!” I hiss at him.
“Turn around,” he says softly, wagging his finger in a circle as his eyes trace down me. “Nothing,” he confirms after a minute or two.
“That’s good.” I breathe out in relief.
“Not surprising considering there are no leeches in this lake,” he says with a smug look.
“Are you fucking serious? You’re such a—” I step forward, but he doesn’t move, with his back to the lake, it makes revenge for his little joke easy.
Before he even realizes what I’m doing, I lay both hands flat to his chest and shove him backwards.
He hits the water like a ton of bricks, and when he rights himself and breaks the surface, his expression is deadly.
“How fast can you run?” he snaps.
“Faster than you, I think we proved that.” I cross my arms over my chest to control the way my entire body goosebumps in the cool air.
“You think you’re so smooth,” he groans, kicking to the shore. He hauls himself up on a few rocks and stalks toward me as I back away, still laughing and trying not to trip over anything.
"Don't you dare!" I yell as Brighton grabs the loose, wet fabric of my tank top at my stomach, pulling me closer to him as he shakes his head, sending water spraying all over my face. “Hey!” I cry out as the droplets hit me.
I shove against his chest and escape the unexpected shower with a loud gasp of laughter. When I clean the water from my eyes and face, he’s stripping from his sweater, and I’ve realized the massive miscalculation. Brighton’s naked again.
The water seems to stick to the tattoos and makes his skin shine under the warm light from the rising sun.
And he’s right, my eyes widen as they hit the dark fabric of his wet sweats, he doesn’t shrivel…
He inhales sharply as the cool morning air hits his damp muscles, and he throws his wet sweater over a nearby rock.
“I’m going to get swimmers' itch.” He turns back to me and points to his wet sweatpants, and I can’t help but snort at his concern.
“You can take them off,” I say before I can think about the consequences of what that means.
“No,” he sighs, “I actually can’t.”
He’s not wearing anything under them. This just got so much worse.
“Right.” I pull my bottom lip between my teeth and try to stifle the next laugh that follows at his misfortune. “At least we’re even now…”
“And before six a.m.,” he laughs. “Look at us go.” The air around us is finally breathable, like all the tension from the night before had lightened just enough for us to enjoy the morning. He wanders around me back to his rock, before he pats the ground beneath his legs.
I stare at him for a second, confused by his actions.
“Your hair,” he says, and I reach up to find my ponytail is barely hanging on and soaking wet.
An accurate representation of my mental state right now.
“I can fix it…” I say quickly. Trying to avoid contact with him.
“I need the practice,” he says without breaking eye contact. I swallow my nerves and walk over. Once I find a comfy position between his legs, he gently pulls the hair from the elastic and tugs it over his wrist, even though I offer to hold it.
The feeling of his fingers in my hair is therapeutic, and I hate that it’s becoming a habit. I feel myself lean back into his touch as my eyes close, and he gently brushes out any knots before starting the braid.
“You’re getting really good at this,” I mumble as his fingers loop around the next strand, tugging it just enough to make the braid tight, but not hurt me.
“I have a really patient teacher,” he says, and I’m not sure if he means it to be as soft as it comes out, but it makes my cheeks warm. “Stop wiggling.” The demand is laced with concentration.
“You’re bossy this morning,” I scowl, and he tugs a piece of my hair harder on purpose, causing me to laugh and turn my head up at him. It rests against his thigh as I stare at him upside down with a soft scowl on my face. “Ow.”
He freezes, and that tense air rushes back in around us, only this time it feels encouraging.
The breeze whispers through his damp, dark hair as all the birds go quiet and the world completely slows to a stop.
Brighton’s eyes watch me intently, his fingers still tangled in my hair.
Last night was confusing, and it made me unsure about everything, but this morning?
I can feel his intention; it radiates from him like sunbeams. His hand loosens its grip and dances across my throat until it’s cupped gently beneath my chin, with his thumb caressing my jawline with the softest of touches.
I could die happy here.
When his lips part, I inhale, preparing myself for him to tell me that this is a bad idea. And it is, it’s a terrible fucking idea. But he smells like the trees, and the fading apple and spice of his cologne, and my mind is dizzy with it, stumbling around, tripping on air, over him.
Brighton’s lips meet mine in a kiss so gentle my whole body melts back against him.
His fingers tighten at my throat just enough to expose his lack of control, and my eyes flutter closed as he deepens the connection.
His body leans over mine, and a small, wondrous rumble leaves his chest as my hand cups the back of his head and tangles into the wet curls at the base of his neck.
He pulls away just as slow, almost begrudgingly, with a soft curse off his reddened lips, and his intense gaze meets mine as I finally open my eyes. What the fuck was that? His fingers loosen around my throat, but he doesn’t remove them as I catch my breath.
Oh, we are so fucked.