CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
C al
I collapse onto the sand.
“What are you doing?” Jason asks.
“Sunning myself,” I declare. “I’m in paradise.”
A shirt sails through the air and lands on my lap. “What’s this?”
“Use it to keep your head covered. I don’t want you getting sunburned.”
“Oh.” Something warms inside me. “But you need it.”
“Nope. I’ll be in the jungle,” Jason says. “Call if you need anything.”
“Sure.”
The words sound oddly domestic. Maybe that’s why his cheeks flush pink.
He stomps off, his footsteps crunching over leaves and gnarled roots.
I close my eyes, warmth sinking into my skin. And even though I shouldn’t feel content—not stranded, not with Jason—I am.
Jason isn’t as terrible as I imagined he would be.
In fact...
For the first time, I let myself remember our first meeting. It’s something I’ve tried to forget. Most people’s first kisses are wonderful, and though mine was too, the aftermath wasn’t.
The queasy feeling that always accompanies my memories hits me, and I squirm.
I thought he wanted it. I’d thought the way his eyes danced when he talked meant something. I thought the way he would gaze at my body for a fraction too long, his pale skin pink and delicious when he jerked his head away, meant something.
But I hadn’t asked explicitly before I kissed him.
And when his eyes had gone wide, when I’d pressed against him in an alley, so that he must have felt the outline of every brick against his thin shirt, I’d thought it had been because of attraction.
But had his eyes dilated out of pleasure? Or shock?
I try to remember, but shame gurgles through me.
Perhaps even the memory is something I’m supposed to lock away. Perhaps I’m not supposed to remember how his long limbs felt pressed against me. Perhaps I’m supposed to forget how his tongue had played with mine. Perhaps I’m supposed to forget how his arms had reached around my waist.
My mind had shouted this, this, this as I’d kissed him. All the questions that had swirled through my mind had been answered.
Because I’d kissed girls at that point. I had.
I’d told myself I hadn’t met the right one, that my late-night searches on X-rated websites, and the way my cock would sometimes harden in the locker room, so that I’d have to rush to cover myself merely meant I was young and healthy and nothing more.
I’d told myself all those things—sometimes frantically.
Because I didn’t want to announce I was... that way. I’d still wanted to play hockey professionally at that point, and I’d looked it up: there weren’t any out players in professional hockey.
Being gay was something great for the drama kids, and unconcerning for the nerdy professions. But in professional hockey? No. No way.
I didn’t want to announce something about myself that wasn’t true. I didn’t want to change my life for something that might have been wrong.
For all I knew, kissing men would have been as mechanical and awkward as kissing women.
Perhaps the whole concept of kissing and romance was something invented for the screen, something some people enjoyed, but not everyone.
Perhaps I was really asexual and more comfortable with guys than girls, because I was a guy.
All those questions were answered when I kissed Jason.
Because God, I had no idea lips together could feel so good. I had no idea the swirl of my tongue against another could send tingles through my body. I had no idea the most alive I would ever feel would be in a quiet alley.
I don’t want to think about that night. I don’t want to think that a moment that was so special for me, was clearly something he so despised.
Because the next day, it was clear he hated me. His eyes were hard, his lips that had felt so soft the night before were in a constant scowl.
And before I could figure out a time to talk to him in private, to apologize, he’d left camp early.
My mouth is dry, and I reach for water, but there’s none.
Because this isn’t where I’m supposed to be. This is not the fancy beach of some five-star property. There’s no waiter about to appear at any moment, armed with a cocktail menu and our choice of high-end water, the sort that comes in glass bottles.
This is a mistake.
One I might not get out of.
I sigh and rise from the beach. I look toward the jungle. Jason is somewhere there.
He doesn’t want to spend time with me, so I head for the ocean.
I move along the beach until the sand becomes more packed, and until water laps around my ankles, then my calves.
I can’t swim, so I hover at the edges. The sea surges around me, sending froth-trimmed waves toward me again and again and again.
The ocean and sky merge into a cerulean haze, one that would make postcard creators cheer, yet still, my pulse cannot calm.