Eleven #2
Carefully, I thumb a photo of the five of them, huddled together on the beach, wet-haired and smiling.
In another, it looks like they’re in the stands at a swim meet; only Heath and Kai are wet, but they’re all smiling.
They smile at me from the bed of that baby blue Bronco too, their legs hanging over the edge, colorful surfboards stacked behind—
My perusal comes to a sudden end. Hand hovering an inch from the wall, I quickly glance over my shoulder. With Heath nowhere to be seen, I carefully unclip a photo with only one person in it.
Me.
Begrudging, frowning me.
I remember Imani taking it – more clearly, I remember how much I didn’t want Imani to take it.
It was at Barefoot Joe’s a few days back, and I was waiting for Heath to get off work so I could force some studying on him, and, instead, I had some socialization forced on me.
Like moths to a flame, his friends turned up one by one until the booth was full, I was surrounded, and that camera flashed in my face.
And now here I am. Hanging on Heath’s bedroom wall, nestled amongst his nearest and dearest.
God, what am I supposed to do with that?
‘I like that one.’
‘Jesus.’ Half-cursing, half-shrieking, I jerk away from the tall, hard body suddenly stationed right behind me. As heat creeps up my neck, I hurriedly clutch the knot of my towel, ensuring it’s secure. ‘What the hell?’
The picture of innocence, Heath smiles. ‘Making sure you didn’t drown.’
I snort, tightening my grip a little. ‘What if I’d been naked?’
Making a raspy, wistful noise, he pins me with wide, freaking starry eyes. ‘You mean what if dreams really do come true?’
My elbow aims for his ribs – a cupped, calloused hand prevents it from finding its target. Another curls around in front of me, a forefinger adorned with an inky dagger and a thumb marked with a tiny, wonky heart pinching the photo, stealing it back.
‘Mine,’ Heath grouses playfully as he returns it to its place.
Decidedly less playful, I practically shout, ‘I wasn’t snooping.’
Sure you weren’t, his face silently mocks – his mouth is a lot less subtle. ‘You get to my underwear drawer yet?’
‘Hm.’ I pull a face, feign disgust. ‘Had to take another shower.’
Naturally, Heath interprets that the exact opposite way I intended. ‘Dirty.’
‘That is not—’
‘Breakfast is waiting, darling,’ he interrupts, before I can set him straight, and strides out of the room before I can try again.
I let loose another curse, bury another shriek in the back of my hand, and quickly change.
Plucking at the stretched-out neckline of another borrowed t-shirt, I’m balancing the need to ask where the hell Heath bought such an exceptionally soft pair of sweats and why the hell I feature in that damn friendship shrine when I pad into the kitchen on bare feet, and promptly forget both at the first strong whiff of coffee, and the abrupt reminder that I’m a little hungover.
And starving. So starving that I’d probably eat an omelet, but that’s not what slides in front of me.
Deciding that I must be more than a little hungover if a plate of scrambled eggs, sourdough toast topped with avocado and pumpkin seeds, a handful of raspberries and a whole peeled orange is making my throat a little tight, I start stuffing my mouth before I do something heinous like cry.
Or ask the universe aloud why it gave me a real boyfriend who bitched and moaned whenever I didn’t abandon my eating habits in favor of adhering to his, but a fake one who might as well have crawled inside my brain to download my regular meal plan.
When that turns out to be a particularly hard question to deny myself, I replace it with a different one. ‘Is your sister here?’
Stealing a raspberry from my plate despite his own heaping portion, Heath shakes his head. ‘She took Lyla to the library already. The kid’s like you.’
I spend an entire minute trying to think of a descriptor for myself that’s also appropriate to apply to a five-year-old.
‘Smart,’ Heath fills in the blank, thwacking my wrist in a gentle reprimand. ‘She’s a little nerd.’
‘An academic,’ I correct.
‘A genius.’
I flush. Stuff my mouth some more to prevent anything embarrassing from coming out, avert my gaze in case that does anything funny – find a laptop covered in familiar artsy stickers sitting on the counter, and remember something. ‘Can I borrow that?’
He nods, calling out the password as I flip it open. Logging into my email account, I find the draft with that set of rewritten notes attached, and less than a minute later, Heath’s phone dings to announce incoming mail.
‘What’s this?’ he asks, but I get the feeling it’s rhetorical – I get the feeling he knows exactly what it is because his face does this thing, it morphs and softens and sweetens.
‘I printed a copy too,’ I tell him, the words coming out all croaky. ‘Is the font okay? I, uh, googled it, but if there’s a better one—’
‘It’s perfect.’ Throat bobbing with a deep swallow, Heath looks at the typed-up version of my notes like I’ve offered him something a million times more valuable. ‘Thank you.’
‘That’s okay.’
‘It’s more than okay.’
‘It’s notes, Heath. Not a kidney.’
‘It’s really fucking nice, Dani.’
‘Okay, well, you don’t have to sound so surprised.’
‘I’m not. I just . . .’ Heath sighs. Oddly exasperated, he drags a palm over his shorn, shaking head, his expression not quite pained, but something awfully close. ‘Thank you, Daniela.’
I try to remember the last time someone thanked me so genuinely. I try to remember the last time I did anything to earn it. I come up empty on both fronts. ‘You already said that.’
‘I really mean it.’ He means it so much, he says it again. Mutters it against my temple after hauling my stool closer and throwing an arm around my shoulder. Leaving it there as we eat.
I try to remember ever enjoying a meal so much.
Again, I come up empty.
‘I heard she bit him.’
A round of incensed gasps echo around the parking lot. If my hackles weren’t already raised, the barely whispered suggestion that I attempted to rip out my ex’s jugular with my fucking teeth would do it.
‘Ignore them,’ Heath murmurs against my hairline, but that’s easier said than done.
Them is a vast entity. Them is almost every member of my team.
Them is circling me like fucking vultures, killing time as we wait for an unusually late Coach to show up for early morning practice by squawking about my little brawl.
He was minding his own business, and I attacked him.
I was belligerent and yelling, yet somehow also meek and weepy.
The words vicious and jealous and fit are repeat offenders – I’m about to be a repeat offender. Jesus, I’ve never punched anyone in my life before last night, but, right now, I’m seconds from morphing into Katie fucking Taylor.
‘Everyone’s staring at me.’
‘Well, that’s what happens when you’re so damn beautiful.’
It doesn’t occur to me that, in a matter of twenty-four hours, I’ve been casually tossed more compliments than I have in my entire life so much as it slams into me like a runaway train. ‘You’re not funny.’
‘I’m not joking.’ The bastard is smiling. I can hear it; can feel it against my temple too. ‘They don’t matter, Dani.’
‘Whatever Ben’s telling everyone matters.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it does.’
‘For a genius, you’re not all that eloquent.’
I pinch the back of the hand cupping my shoulder and Heath chuffs, digging his chin into the top of my head. ‘Just know that for every HCU drone spitting at you right now, there are, like, five Cove College students throwing a party in your name.’
‘Maybe I should transfer.’
‘Again with my dreams coming true.’
I snort a laugh. His own skates across my neck when he drops his face to the slope, breathes in deeply, nudges the neckline of the borrowed hoodie aside like he’s trying to crawl beneath it.
His other arm locks across my chest too, his whole body wrapped around me like a weighted blanket.
It would be so easy to slump against him, to let him swallow me whole, to protect me. I almost do.
And then I hear my name and psychopath in the same hushed sentence, and my entire body locks up tight, any comfort I might feel dies a quick death.
Sighing, I twist until my mouth finds the curve of pierced cartilage. ‘Where the hell even is he?’
Heath shivers. ‘Scouring the drugstore for a perfect foundation match. Heard he has quite the bruise.’
My spine straightens – with intrigue, not gratification. Obviously. ‘Really?’
Heath nods. Definitely not at all gratified either.
I don’t revel in violence, and I’m not proud of myself, but .
. . well. It certainly perks me up. At least a little bit.
For the single second the universe deems it fitting to spare me, and then it knocks me down once more – it conjures up my ex-boyfriend, strutting across the parking lot, wearing a bruise, sure, but also a smile.
A big, shit-eating smirk, fixed right on me.
‘Daniela,’ I hear, but it doesn’t come from Ben – it’s our coach who summons me with a jerk of his head. ‘A word, please.’
‘Ominous,’ Heath voices my silent concern. ‘Need back-up?’
Inside, I nod nervously. Externally, however, I shake my head as I detangle myself from my human straightjacket, and force myself out of his magnetic orbit, much to the chagrin of my entire fucking body, right down to my damn molecules.
Nevertheless, I stride toward Coach, chin up, arms wrapped around myself – a poor substitute for stronger ones.
I skip a step, a breath, and a heartbeat all at once when, before I even reach him, Coach commands me to ‘Go home.’
I come to a stop so abrupt, it’s as if an invisible wall has suddenly stopped me in my tracks. It feels a bit like it too, like I’ve slammed into something hard enough to knock the breath out of me. I practically wheeze, ‘Excuse me?’
‘You’re not joining us for practice today.’
I blink. I repeat myself with a quiet laugh, a tentative frown, sure I’ve misheard.
‘We have a zero tolerance for violence, Daniela.’