CHAPTER 20
It’s almost completely pitch black out here.
You’d think with all the stars you would be able to see clearly, but the moon is such a thin slither that anything outside the light of fire may as well be a mystery.
The beach is like a slow metronome in the background, the waves breaking every few seconds with a soft hiss into the rocks.
Every now and then there is a rustle through the branches, reminding us of how close we are to the tree line we can’t see.
I’m wearing two pairs of socks, a full sweat suit, and a ski jacket. I’m not cold this close to the fire, but I warm my hands against the flames anyway.
The ocean air has already started to tighten my skin, and every time I lick my lips they taste like salt—like exactly how I imagine Carey tastes.
On the other side of the fire Carey’s crouched down toasting a marshmallow, wrapped up in one of those vintage surf brand hoodies with the repeating patterns on a black polar fleece background, with his brother's plaid jacket over it. It’s hard to think about him separate from that damn jacket.
I hated it, at first, how much it reminded me of Eden and the constant guilt that came along with it.
But now, every time I see it hanging up in the break room I have to resist the urge to smell it, or to put it on myself and imagine Carey with his arms around me.
We’ve been drinking for a few hours now. Ever since the sun set, really. But even so, neither of us are drunk. He’s just smiling more than usual, which is a lot.
Actually, he’s fucking glowing.
He positions himself so he's holding the marshmallow stick between his knees, and grabs another two cans. “Shotgun race?”
I take the can from him. “I don’t do party tricks.”
He rolls his eyes and pulls a face that my comment deserves, because why is shutting down everyone else’s fun my default setting?
Grabbing the stick again, he cracks his can with one hand and only gets a single sip down before the marshmallow starts melting off the end. Without thinking, he pulls it close and opens his mouth only to drop the stick and flap his hand like an idiot because he burnt his tongue.
I sigh. “You’re ridiculous.”
He gives me a sticky smile. “And you’re no fun.”
“I guess I've just got more class.”
“God, you’re full of shit,” he laughs, his eyes reflecting the fire. “You love this. You haven’t complained in hours.”
“That’s cause you told me I wasn’t allowed to."
“You laughed all through dinner, so I call bullcrap on that too.”
He’s right, but I won’t give him the satisfaction. So I drink, and let the silence pile up.
Carey tries to roast a new marshmallow, but it catches fire almost instantly. He lets it burn a little, then blows it out and eats it anyway. “Mmm, char,” he mumbles with a full mouth.
“You’re gonna crash from all that sugar.”
He snorts and points the stick at me. “You know what I think? I think you used to be fun, but now you’re all repressed and think brooding is sexy—or some shit.
Your emotions only really come out when you’re angry, and that’s such toxic masculine fuckery.
You won’t allow yourself to be happy, and if it sneaks in you deny it after the fact.
” His eyes pierce as he reads me like a book, then he changes his voice to mock me.
“I don’t need friends. I’ve already got enough, even though I don’t know why they put up with my moody horse shit.
I’ve got so much responsibility I can’t have any fun, and—”
With my free hand I flip him off. “No one’s stopping you from talking to the trees, if you’d prefer deeper conversation.”
He looks in the direction of the trees, then back at me. “Any conversation that feels genuine, would be fine.”
His words sound innocent but they slice right through me.
I don’t want to be like this.
I want to make him happy.
I’m obsessed with seeing him smile. Yet none of that negates how challenging something between us would actually be.
I’ve never been with a guy before. And sure, I might get some weird looks around Broadrock, but I really don’t care about that. The big, heavy, searing problem is that I feel like I’ve got a dagger in each hand and I’m stabbing Eden in the back with one, and my parents in the chest with the other.
The only serious relationship I’ve ever had my mother didn’t approve of: She wasn’t from a good family. Her parents didn’t have respectable jobs.
And Eden?
He’s my fucking brother, how could I betray him like that? We're closer to each other than to our own actual siblings, but in spite of that, if I found out someone thirteen years older than Jintae wanted to fuck him, I know I’d hunt them down until their head was rolling in the dirt…
Carey and I continue on for another ten minutes—banter, burn marshmallows, drink beer, repeat.
And even though I try to not show it, I’m content with him picking at me because it makes him happy in a way that’s both infuriating and contagious.
Every time he smiles at me something tightens in my chest. A few times I break and start laughing when he comes up with another ridiculous insult, and the look of pride on his face makes it all worth it.
In spite of the battle of morals I'm fighting with myself, I think this might be the most relaxed I've been in months… Maybe years.
Tired of eating marshmallows alone, Carey rips open the packet of graham crackers and breaks off a square of chocolate from the block.
He makes a show of building the s’more with careful precision only to squeeze down on the finished product until white goo runs onto his fingers.
Quickly jamming the whole thing in his mouth in one go, he chews slowly, making noises like he’s about to cum in his pants because of how good it tastes.
“You’re disgusting,” I tell him, but I can’t look away.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a thin line of marshmallow across his cheekbone. It glows in the fire light, all shiny and tempting. I don’t even realize I’m staring until he asks, “What?” and I feel my face twitch.
I’m not the kind of person who acts on impulse.
Really I’m not. I’ve spent years working on how I present myself.
Well over a decade on how to keep everything—including my urges—inside, neat and tidy, wrapped up in a safe little bow so nobody else gets hurt.
It’s why my Tinder is set to 'out of town'. After the worst night of my life it took years before I came crashing back down to earth. With Eden by my side we partied so recklessly I’m surprised I lived to tell the tale. But that was the point, I was trying to end it all because, even now, I still blame myself for what happened. If it wasn’t for Anaise pulling us out I don’t know where I’d be.
And that’s why I don’t say much. It’s why people think I’m a jerk, and why women like Brooklyn think I’m a conquest they can change.
But she could never change me. There’s only ever been one person in my life worth changing for.
That made me want to be better. That I opened up to.
That I let hold me, kiss me… Until now, and I’m fucking terrified.
Because the urge to get up, walk around the fire, and wipe that damn marshmallow off Carey's face, is so violent and absolute, that I have to dig my fingernails into my palms just to keep my hands down.
And to make matters worse, he's just sitting there, refusing to break eye contact. One eyebrow is cocked, his smirk is growing, and I know he’s waiting for me to say something.
I have to break this.
I have to kill it before it gets worse.
“I’m going to bed.” I stand so abruptly that some of the beer in my hand sloshes out of the can and onto my shoe.
Carey glances down at his phone then back to me. “You sure? It’s only ten.”
“I have a headache,” I lie, and pour the rest of my beer onto the fire.
I take one step, and it’s agonizingly slow.
He keeps watching me, his head slightly tilted. The marshmallow is still there, and my entire body is at war with itself.
“Sure thing, boss,” he says, and it’s gentle. Like he knows exactly how much it’s hurting me to walk away from him.
I want to say good night. The words are perched on the tip of my tongue but I bite it instead because it feels too sentimental.
I make my way to the van, kick off my shoes, and climb inside where it’s dead and quiet, except for the faint crackle of the fire.
I tear off my jacket and throw it over the kitchenette to the back of the driver's seat.
The thin line of blue light coming from the dashboard clock doesn’t help, so I blindly fumble in the top drawer by the sink until I find the portable dome light. I put it on the bench and flick it on, but now it’s too bright, so I switch it back off.
I sit there in the dark on the edge of the mattress, waiting for my pulse to chill the fuck out.
My head feels so full of concrete that I can’t push any thoughts aside.
I wonder if Carey will keep drinking on his own or if he’ll be stupid enough to go walking in the dark.
Whatever it is, I just hope I can get to sleep before he decides to turn in.
A thud at the side of the van answers my questions.
Carey slides open the door, but I can see none of his features.
“Was the light just on?” he asks, and I tell him it’s in front of him.
Brightness floods the van again, and as I squint, he taps at my calf for me to move my legs out of the way so he can grab what he’s reaching for.
“The fuck is that?” I ask when he pulls out a long bottle-green sack.
“A tent.” He rests one end on the van's door tracks and undoes the toggle string on the other. “I wish I’d set it up earlier.”
“Are you serious?”
With one hand on the roof Carey leans into the van. “Yeah. I figured you'd… want your space.”
I look away from him and start arranging the bedding. There's already a quilt laid out, but I unfold the two throw blankets as well. “Just get in. I don’t want to have to wait for you to bring the light back after you figure out which of the rocks are the softest.”