5. Elora
5
ELORA
45°52′55″N 123°57′34″W
L ying in the sand with my eyes on the stars above me and my hand wrapped around a bottle of Rosé, I listen to a song playing through the stereo someone brought with them to the beach. Country music is not normally my thing, but the lyrics about a guy’s obsession with no one touching his truck are catchy enough to remember after one round of the chorus. I lean up on my elbow and lift the bottle to take a sip of wine, spilling some down my chin and chest when a figure appears like a shadow, startling me.
“How drunk are you?” Roman asks, looking at me, seemingly upside down from this position. It’s not too difficult to make out his handsome features. Even though the bonfires littering the beach are all far away, the moon is so bright it casts a glow on everything it touches.
“Not as drunk as you were the other night.” I sit up and hear him either scoff or laugh as I twist and turn the bottle of wine in the sand. When I know it won’t tip over, I wrap my arms around my bent knees.
I let out a long sigh when he sits in the sand next to me. Earlier today, he vanished after telling me the story of the Star Thrower, something I’m starting to see is a habit of his. Popping up, boggling my mind, then disappearing into thin air like he was nothing more than a figment of my imagination.
“Why are you drinking?” he asks quietly, and I glance over at him.
“Do I need a reason?”
“You have a whole bottle of wine.”
“I live in a hotel room. I don’t exactly have a place to keep my crystal glasses, fine china, or silver.” When he laughs heartily, the sound buzzes through my system, making me dizzier than the wine I’ve drank. “Why are you out here?”
“I needed some fresh air.”
“There is a lot of beach available for your use.” I wave my arm out before us.
“You don’t want my company?”
“I just don’t see the point.” I shrug, reaching for the bottle. Putting it to my lips, I tip it back and gulp down a mouthful.
“What does that mean?” he asks.
Placing the bottle back in the sand, I look over at him. “You’ve been all too willing to ask me questions but haven’t told me anything about yourself except that you’re from New York. Things with you are lopsided, and I don’t like how that feels.”
“You know my brother died.” His voice cuts through the silence after a long moment, and my heart skydives into my stomach as he locks his eyes on mine. “Right?” He knows somehow. He knows I saw his brother’s obituary. Was he awake?
“I know,” I confirm in a whisper, and he nods.
“He overdosed. He went from being the life of the party to being on life support.” The pain in his voice causes my rib cage to clench tight around my heart. “I fought my family for months to have him taken off it. He wasn’t there, and if he had been, he would have fucking hated being stuck in that bed, hooked up to those machines.” I squeeze my eyes closed. “The day after his funeral, I got in my car and started driving. I didn’t stop until I hit the opposite coast.” His voice drops to a quiet whisper. “Val would have hated it here.” His laugh is hollow.
“Why?”
“It’s too quiet, and with nothing to do, it would have given him too much time to think.”
“Is that how you feel?”
“I got drunk my first night here to fill the white noise. I’m still not used to it.” His eyes move to the ocean as he asks quietly, “How do you deal with the pain?”
“My mom was diagnosed with cancer when I was young, so the loss of her was always on the horizon. Even when the treatments were working and things were looking good, she was never in the clear. I knew I’d eventually lose her. I just didn’t know when, so I had a lot of time to get used to the idea.” I shake my head. “You’d think I’d be used to the heavy weight by now, that it and I would be old friends, but there are some things there is no getting used to.” I draw in a breath. “So I guess my answer is I don’t know if I’ve dealt with the pain or just tucked it away and distracted myself.”
“Yeah,” he says softly, and he’s probably one of the very few people who really understands what I mean, even though I’m sure I explained it horribly.
Picking up my bottle of wine, I take another drink and watch him stand. I expect him to say goodbye and disappear like he’s done all the other times, so I frown when he holds out his hand.
“What?”
“Come on. I need to walk.”
“You don’t need me to do that with you.”
“You’re right, but for some reason, I like your company.” He reaches down for me, and without thinking, I take his hand. I rarely drink, so even though the bottle I brought with me is still mostly full, I sway when he pulls me up to stand.
“You’re not drunk, huh?”
“It’s the sand.” I dust off my bottom while he laughs.
“I’ve got you.” He links his arm through mine and takes the bottle. Using him to stay steady, I let him lead me down to the shoreline, where the waves have flattened the sand so it’s firmer under my feet. Letting him go, I take off my sneakers and then walk toward the water. I look over at him when he comes to stand next to me, then laugh when a wave washes up higher than the last few and covers his shoe-clad feet. “Fucking hell.” He jumps back to get out of the cold water.
“It’s not that bad.” I laugh again, watching him back up three more steps to avoid another wave.
“Get out of there before you catch pneumonia.”
“I’m not going to catch pneumonia.” I roll my eyes and walk out until the waves brush my knees and thighs. The water is freezing, but mixed with the warmth of the alcohol flowing through my system, it feels bearable. When another wave rolls in, the sand beneath my feet gives way, making me laugh as I attempt to stay upright.
Just when I think I’m safe, another wave comes in, bigger than the last, making me stumble and tip to the side. Before it can take me under, arms wrap around me from behind, and I’m lifted off my feet.
“Do you have a death wish?” Roman bites out, rotating my body back toward the shore, causing my head to spin. My eyes open as my feet sink into sand that feels warm only because my skin is so cold. “What would you do if you went under and got pulled out to sea?” He lets me go, and I shiver at the loss of his body heat and the chill from the water soaking one sleeve of my sweater and the hem of my shorts.
“You’re very dramatic.” I wring out the sleeve of my sweater while he watches with his jaw clenched. When no more water comes out, I push the sleeve up my arm and walk toward my bottle of wine, still sitting upright in the sand. He gets to it before I do and picks it up. I hold my hand out to him in a silent request to pass it over, and his gaze locks on mine.
“You’ve had enough.”
I’ve had enough?
I stare at him in disbelief, then whisper-hiss so I don’t scream, “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“I don’t think I did.” I reach for the bottle, and he pulls it back. “Seriously?” He doesn’t answer. Instead, he turns the bottle upside down and dumps the liquid out, where it instantly disappears into the sand. “You did not just do that.”
“You’re drunk.”
“I’m not drunk, but even if I were, I’m an adult.”
“You’re acting like a child.”
“A child. Really?” I laugh.
“Yes, a child.”
“And you’re, what, the pillar of responsible and smart choices?” I scoff, grabbing my shoes. “Save the holier-than-thou BS for someone who hasn’t seen you so drunk you couldn’t even make it back to your room without help.”
I glare at him, and he glares back before turning his head to look out at the water.
Shaking my head, I drag in a breath, then start to walk off, saying over my shoulder, “You owe me nine dollars.”
“Elora!” he calls out, but I ignore him. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”
My steps falter when the quiet apology reaches my ears.
Licking my lips, I stop, and my feet sink into the sand as I look behind me to where he’s still standing with the bottle in his hand. Studying him in the moonlight, casting shadows across his beautiful face, I want to hold on to my anger, but I can’t. Not when I see the sadness etched into his features. He looks tormented, and I know that amount of pain has absolutely nothing to do with me.
He said he fought his family to take his brother off life support, then got in his car and started driving right after his brother’s funeral. Has he even taken a moment to grieve? To talk to anyone? I doubt it, and even though his burden is not my own, I can’t help but feel an overwhelming amount of empathy for him.
With a deep breath, I turn and walk back to him while he watches with a weary look. Then, without thinking, just going on instinct, I wrap my arms around him and rest the side of my head against his chest. His muscles are tight as I hug him, and he stands solid like he’s never had someone hug him before, but he doesn’t pull away, so I don’t let go. After what seems like forever, his muscles begin to slowly relax, then his chest expands with a deep breath, and his arms circle me, his chin coming to rest on the top of my head.
I squeeze my eyes closed as his pain and mine swirl together around us. The sadness is so tangible I half expect the ground to shake or the sky to open up in some kind of outward release, but nothing changes. The people gathered around bonfires continue laughing, and life goes on like it always does.
I don’t let him go and put space between us, even when I know I should. The hug started out for him, but at some point, I started crying and realized that maybe I needed this more than he did. The last person to hug me was Tyler, and that hug was filled with a different kind of pain. After a long time, so long my legs have started to feel tired from holding me up, I loosen my hold on him and use the sleeve of my sweater that is still damp to wipe my face.
“I can be a dick,” he whispers, and I tip my head back to look up at him.
“Yeah,” I agree, watching his lips lift ever so slightly in the corners.
“I didn’t mean to make you cry.” He lifts his hand, cupping my cheek softly and using his thumb to wipe under my eyes.
“You didn’t.” I swallow and take a step away from him, even as he seems reluctant to let me go. Once again, I miss his warmth. “I just needed to cry.”
With a nod, he takes a step toward me as I shiver from the cool air on my damp clothes, the buzz from the alcohol gone along with my tears. “Let’s get you back to your room before you catch a cold.”
“You can’t catch a cold from being cold,” I mumble as he wraps his arm around me, and we begin to walk toward the hotel.
“It’s scientifically proven that you can,” he mumbles back, and I sigh but don’t argue.
When we reach the second-floor balcony leading to both our rooms, I take my key out of my pocket and stop at my door. He stops with me as I open the lock and step into my room. Turning to look up at him, I fight the urge to bite my lip. Things feel awkward now. I feel more twisted up and confused than I did the first time I ever had sex, when I didn’t know how to act or what I was supposed to say. Or if I should say anything.
“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?” It’s a question because he hasn’t said when he’ll be leaving. I could wake up tomorrow and find he’s checked out.
That thought should not bother me as much as it does.
“Are you working?”
“Yeah.”
“Just the bar or both jobs?”
“Both.” He nods and lifts his hand toward my face but then drops it to his side while taking a step back and clearing his throat.
“Night, Elora.”
“Night, Roman.” I close the door and stand there for a long moment before turning the lock. A few seconds later, I hear the door to the room next to mine close, and I look at the wall between his room and mine like I can see through it.
I can’t, but if I could, I would see him staring right back at me.