Jocelyn
Being alone doesn’t make you stronger.
—My Therapist
Why did Asher say that?
What is he doing?
I stumble through the crowded room, bumping wedding guests and murmuring apologies until I reach the hallway beyond. My feet
don’t stop. They take me out to the pool, glowing blue in the fading evening light. At this time of day, the lounge chairs
are mostly empty, but a cabana on the opposite side boasts several patrons. The palm trees above are black against the clear
azure sky, shadowed and distant.
Past all that, a gate opens toward the beach, and my rope sandals fill with sand as I trudge along the seashell-strewn pathway.
The scent of the ocean permeates everything. Sand and salt and something elusive. Indescribable. It whips down the beach with the wind, curls over the sand with each wave.
I kind of think you know I’d take more if you’d give it.
My eyes close and I fight the sink of each footstep, drawing ever closer to the receding tide. Closer to my greatest fear.
Why would he say that? I’m not capable of more, even if I wanted to give it. I’m like the small shells on this beach—pretty
on the outside, fun to play with, but ultimately a fading vestige of something whole and alive. These shells were living creatures
once, just like I was, and they succumbed to the inevitable, just like I have.
Death is inescapable, and the fewer people I love, the less I hurt.
If love is dangerous, then Asher Foley is lethal, just like this deceptively calm water. I can’t do it. I can’t be more than
his friend. If I submit to this roiling storm inside me, I’ll drown. I’ll agonize over every missed phone call. Every traffic
jam that keeps him late. Every unanswered text.
The logical side of me knows this is stupid. Some things are impossible to control, and Asher—he’s one of them. He already
lives deep in my heart, behind the walls. He’s a life raft, yes, but I need him to stop dragging me into the deep end just
to prove it.
I can’t—
I just can’t.
So what do I say to him? How do I go back into that wedding and unwalk the path he paved for us?
Reliving the conversation, I cover my face with my hands. I’m such a bitch. I ran out of that room like it was on fire. He’s
probably sitting alone at our table while I try to convince myself I can’t love him.
Nothing is more believable than the lie you tell yourself.
Heart pounding, skin tingling, my feet carry me closer to the water, right to the edge. The gentle evening waves lap at the sand inches from my toes. Deceptive tranquility.
I’m close. So close. But I can’t take the last step. Fear has me frozen at the precipice, at the ocean’s edge.
But it doesn’t matter that I’m not brave. I won’t let this ruin us. I’m just wish fulfillment for him. Easy and comfortable.
This rift between us is nothing that can’t be fixed with a little liquor and a frank conversation. We’ve talked through harder
things than this. We’ll come out stronger.
It’ll be easy. A small slipup can’t undo the steel bonds between us.
One step away. Then another. The last hints of daylight fade from the horizon, and the ocean dims to black. I turn my back
on it and return to the hotel.
When I reenter the reception, Asher is on the dance floor, laughing with Maxwell, and the Gordian knot inside me releases.
See? He’s fine. He’s too much of a glass-half-full person to let someone like me shake his foundation.
I edge the perimeter of the room so I can watch without him noticing. The two of them slip into some cheesy, practiced dance,
like the choreography from a boy band music video. A crowd forms around them, cheering them on, but I stay silent, watching
Asher.
He’s a smooth dancer. I already knew that, of course, but the easy smile on his face now, the looseness of his limbs—they
make me see how tense he’d been before.
Did I do that to him?
When they finish, the crowd explodes with applause, and Asher and Maxwell do that bro-hug thing. They make their way to Cat’s table, chatting, and Asher pecks a kiss on Cat’s cheek before sitting.
I watch a while longer, then decide I’m a creepy coward and head that way.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper into his ear.
He startles and turns toward me, smile fading. “Oh. Hey.” His gaze travels over my face. “Thought I’d lost you there.”
“Nah.” I slip into the empty chair at his side. “I’m here. Always.”
I wave at Cat and admire her dress. She brushes it off humbly, but her cheeks pink up.
Asher rubs his neck before returning his attention to Maxwell. “Anyway, she—um . . . What was I saying?”
Maxwell glances at me, then back to Asher. “You said she was refusing meds?”
“Oh, right.” Asher chuckles. “She was okay with being induced, but didn’t want Pitocin, so she was asking me all the natural
ways to induce.”
Maxwell smirks and sips his beer, like he knows where this story is going. No way does he know. I nearly peed myself when
Asher first told me.
“I give her the spiel—that nothing really works, but I mention nipple stimulation.”
A little chuckle from Maxwell.
“In passing,” Asher says. “I barely touched on it. Like, a single mention. But she latches on to that idea like it’s her only chance.
Her Hail Mary.”
Maxwell’s wife leans her elbows on the table. “I’m guessing it doesn’t work?”
Asher has begun his giggle, the one where he’s telling a story he thinks is hilarious, so he can’t quite get the words out.
“I tell her husband, ‘All right, man. Go for it. Stimulate those nipples.’ And I come back an hour later—” giggle, giggle “—and the guy has a sheet up, blocking his view of his wife, but his hands are under the sheet, clearly going to town—” giggle, giggle “—so I’m like, ‘Why are you covering her up? You’ve never seen your wife’s nipples? ’ And the patient shrieks, ‘Ew! That’s
not my husband! That’s my brother!’ ”
Asher drops his face into his hand and titters. Maxwell’s eyes go wide, and his deep laugh fills the spaces between us all.
“Oh, my god,” says Maxwell’s wife. “What did you say?”
Asher’s voice has risen in pitch with his laughter. “I just— I said I had to check on something and—and I left. I mean—” he
looks up from his hand “—it was her brother! What the fuck? Just . . . why?”
Insides warm, I snicker. “That’s some family dedication.”
“Maxwell,” a bridesmaid says as she approaches the table, “it’s almost time for the speeches.”
He nods and rises. “I’ll see y’all after.”
Cat follows him, leaving Asher and me alone. He turns my way and volunteers a rueful smile, wiping the gleeful tears from
his eyes. “I made it awkward. Again. I can’t seem to stop doing that. I’m sorry.”
“No.” I grip his forearm, thinly wrapped in soft, white cotton. “I’m the one who made it awkward. Can we start the night over?”
“Yeah.” He takes a breath. “Weirdness never happened.”
I grin. “Great. Yes. Exactly!”
His gaze drops to my mouth, then my neck, before bouncing back to my eyes. “So . . . how do we do that?”
“Um.” How indeed? “Why don’t we . . . dance?”
His eyes go utterly opaque. “Dance?”
I point at the DJ, currently spinning some high-energy pop tune. “Well, you’ll dance, and I’ll hop in place like usual.”
That finally brings a smile to his mouth. “You aren’t that bad.”
“I can’t even chicken dance.” I grab his hand and drag him toward the dance floor, packed with swaying elderly couples, moms
boogying with their adorable toddlers, and twentysomethings in a dance circle, drinks in hand.
Asher melts into the crowd like he belongs there. His moves are the same ones I’ve seen in bars back home, Oktoberfest tents,
Vegas nightclubs. I like those moves. They’re familiar. Easy to predict.
Mine, on the other hand, are erratic, and he immediately plunges into laughter at my expense. It’s fine, though. His laughter
is one of my favorite things in the world. Maybe I hurt him by walking away earlier, but I can fix it now by bringing him
joy. With that thought in mind, I put a little extra zeal into my legs.
He grabs my wrist to keep me from toppling into a flower girl. “Easy there, wild thing.”
I pat his shoulder. “We good?”
“We’re always good, Joss.”
We both slow after that, and he matches my smile with a soft one of his own. The pop music drifts into some smooth tune of
Michael Bublé, and my stomach knots once more. Without hesitation, his warm hand engulfs mine. He takes me into his arms like
I’m precious. His heated touch slides around my waist. “This okay?”
“Yeah.” I wish it weren’t, but it’s so, so okay. I can’t resist letting him closer. Wanting him closer.
“I didn’t mean to put you on the spot earlier,” he whispers. “It was impulsive. Can you forget it?”
I compel my face to smile. It feels awkward. “It’s forgotten.”
I’ll never forget it, though.
I kind of think you know I’d take more if you’d give it.
He’s opened a door, ripped it off its hinges, so I can’t close it.
We dance slower than the surrounding couples. His hand brings mine close to his chest, and his other settles low on my back,
heat bleeding through the thin satin, scalding my skin. My fingers slide up to rest on his shoulder and my temple nuzzles
against the bristle of his cheek.
And everything is right.
But so, so, so, so wrong.
His arms are like home. Like safety. Like a life jacket in a heavy swell.
Why am I still swimming so hard against this riptide? My throat closes. Illogical tears burn behind my eyes. What is wrong with me?
The song ends, and he releases me. At the edge of the dance floor, he points at the food. “You hungry?”
I take in the buffet tables, silver chafers gleaming in the light. The food smells delicious, but I’ve lost my appetite, so
I shake my head. Candles on each table lend the room a romantic glow, but the clinking of silverware on china, the gentle
hum of conversation and laughter—it’s suffocating.
The ding of silver on crystal alerts us to an impending toast, and I whirl toward Asher. “Let’s go for a walk.”
The room quiets, and an older gentleman takes the microphone stand near the DJ.