Chapter 11 Then Fourteen Years Ago
Then
Fourteen Years Ago
When I opened my eyes, my first thought was that my room smelled weird, almost like a hospital. I blinked a few times to clear my vision, revealing rows of white ceiling tiles. Strange, I thought. My bedroom didn’t have ceiling tiles.
I propped myself up on my elbows. As my surroundings came into focus, I realized this wasn’t my room at all. Instead of my bed, I was on a cot, facing an open door to a hallway. A woman in scrubs hurried past the doorway.
I was in a hospital. An emergency room, to be more specific.
Then I felt the pain.
I reached for my left leg where the jolt of fire had come from, then immediately clasped both hands over my mouth at the sight of the stitches that started halfway up the side of my thigh and disappeared into the bottom of my hospital gown.
Was I in an accident? Had I gashed myself on a piece of equipment at work? I shifted to my right, expecting to find my mom or dad so I could ask one of them.
Instead, I found Sebastian. He was slumped in the lone visitor’s chair, asleep.
What. The. Heck?
I’d spent all of June following Maren’s advice to the letter.
The first two weeks were my training period for the main dining room, which involved shadowing a more experienced server.
I let out a sigh of relief when Bubba assigned me to shadow Tina; Sebastian would be training a rising senior from the city named Ravi whose parents had a Shore house for the summer.
I signed up for as many shifts as possible that didn’t overlap with Sebastian’s, and when we did work together, I kept a safe distance.
He continued to joke around with all of the staff, but whereas last summer I acknowledged everything he said within earshot in hopes of extending our interactions, I now offered no more than a tight smile in response.
We developed an unspoken rhythm, navigating around the restaurant and each other while exchanging no more than a brief word or gesture.
Last summer, working at Bubba’s had been the heartbeat of my social life, but this year Maren and I were attending parties multiple nights a week.
Work, as far as I was concerned, was just for the paycheck.
Maren and I eliminated the S word from all conversations, instead shifting our focus to Aaron (who had officially asked Maren to be his girlfriend a week after their first kiss) and various prospects for me.
I’d wound up having my first kiss in mid-June during a game of spin the bottle, which Maren insisted didn’t really count.
It had been with a boy named Josh from the all-boys private school a couple of towns over.
It was brief, but I remember thinking his lips were soft, his breath minty fresh, like he’d just popped a Tic Tac.
I decided that I agreed with Maren—it didn’t count—but at the very least, maybe it would take some of the pressure off of my real first kiss. I was familiar with the motions now.
It wasn’t a Sebastian-free summer—but it was pretty damn close.
Which begged the question: Why was he the one here with me now?
I took in his sleeping form, searching for any details that might clue me in to how we ended up here.
His curls were windswept and flecked with sand.
His face was deeply tanned, his nose peeling a little, probably from a previous sunburn.
He wore a brANTLEY BEACH CLASS OF 2011 T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, exposing equally tan shoulders and long, ropey muscles.
Faded red board shorts. Dirty white Vans.
He was sitting close enough for me to reach over and touch his forearm. So I did.
“Sebastian.”
He stirred, squinting open those green eyes. At the sight of me he jolted upright.
I wasn’t sure what question to ask first, but for some reason I landed on, “Did I pass out?”
Sebastian nodded. “When you first saw the blood.” The concerned expression on his face shifted to one of mild amusement.
“And then again on the way to the emergency room. And one more time while you were getting stitches. But just now you were sleeping—I asked the nurse, like, three times to be sure. Apparently fainting is exhausting.”
I cringed with embarrassment, and then I remembered that I was wearing a flimsy hospital gown after getting stitches from my thigh to my ass, possibly while Sebastian Nikolaou watched. My proclivity for fainting was the least of my worries. In fact, I wouldn’t have minded passing out right then.
At the same time, I felt a bit of relief. If Sebastian was calm enough to make jokes, then I figured I was going to be okay.
“Do you remember what happened?” he asked.
I shook my head slowly.
“Does the word jetty ring any bells?” he asked, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. He was close enough for me to smell the salt on his skin, either from the ocean or sweat or some combination of both, and I thought it was this, more than anything, that jogged my memory.
Maren and I had both had the day off and decided to spend it at the beach.
She was into designing her own handbags that summer and had a vision for one studded with seashells and sea glass.
We’d spent hours walking up and down the shore, stopping every few feet so she could examine ones that caught her eye.
My parents were in Boston for the weekend visiting my aunt and uncle, so I truly had no schedule, nowhere to be but the beach.
At one point when we reached the surfing beach, Maren hopped up onto one of the huge black rocks that formed the jetty.
“C’mon.” She gestured for me to follow, a hint of mischief in her expression. “We’ll find some good stuff up here.” I rolled my eyes, because I knew she wasn’t really talking about shells anymore; she was hoping for a glimpse of the surfers. Not that I really minded that idea.
I climbed up on the first rock and stood, following her. She was already a few rocks ahead of me when she called over her shoulder, “Careful, Leens. There’s algae—”
The next thing I felt wasn’t pain—it was the cold, slick surface of the rock against my hands. I saw a flash of blood, and a wave of nausea pulled me under. Then, darkness.
So I’d slipped on the jetty, cut my leg and … hit my head? Or maybe I had passed out at the sight of the blood alone, like Sebastian said. That seemed more likely; I’d always had a weak stomach for anything medical.
Another memory flashed—a combination of feelings and sounds without images. Maren calling for help. Strong arms cradling me. Half my face pressed against warm, salty skin, the taste transferring to my lips with each step.
A bumpy car ride, my head cradled in Maren’s lap, her hands shakily stroking my hair while shouting directions for the shortest route to the hospital to whoever was driving.
Sebastian.
He’d carried me off the beach. Driven me here.
Stayed.
“I should call my parents,” I said, searching the cot for my phone. Sebastian reached over the rail and handed it to me.
“Already did,” he said. “They’re driving back from Boston now. Should be pretty close, actually. And Maren’s in the waiting room. We’ve been taking turns,” he said, answering my next question.
“I’m surprised they let you guys back here with me.”
“The nurse is my mom’s friend,” he said, shrugging. “She says rest and don’t worry about your shifts this week, by the way—my mom.”
I smiled weakly, thinking of the gnarly scar I’d likely have for the rest of my life thanks to a moment of carelessness.
“Thank you,” I said, turning to him. “Not just for getting me here. For staying.”
I forced my eyes to meet his, so clear and green they put the sea glass Maren and I had found to shame.
“I had to make sure you were okay,” he said, his tone soft but serious. He looked at me for a beat longer and then straightened up, clearing his throat. “My mom would kill me if I didn’t,” he added.
With that amendment, all my temporarily forgotten doubts resurfaced. Did he stay because it was me, or because it was what his mom would want him to do?
A nurse appeared in the doorway, clipboard in hand.
“Angelina Mariano?”
I nodded.
“Your parents are checking in now,” she said, smiling gently. “They just have to sign some paperwork and then we can discharge you.”
The nurse handed me a stapled packet of papers with my discharge instructions. Just in case I wasn’t feeling embarrassed enough, Sebastian listened while she summarized the steps—which included thorough instructions on how I should shower to avoid getting my stitches wet.
My cheeks turned redder than my wound.
“We’ll see you again to remove the stitches in ten days. No biking for at least a week after that,” the nurse added helpfully.
Crap. I hadn’t thought about that. Mom had taken a curriculum-writing job that summer, so neither of my parents would be able to give me a ride to work once I was ready to go back.
After I thanked the nurse and she left, Sebastian put a hand on the rail.
“I’ll drive you to work when you’re ready to come back,” he said.
“You don’t have to do that,” I said, my eyes on the hallway straight ahead. “We aren’t even on the same schedule.”
“Why is that, by the way?”
I turned to look at him and found something surprising in his eyes: a hint of genuine hurt.
I racked my brain for an explanation other than the truth but was saved by a knock on the doorframe.
“Oh, honey,” my dad said.
And then my parents were flanking me on either side, a flurry of hugs and questions and fuss. I noticed Maren in the doorway behind them, still in her beach cover-up. She offered me an apologetic wave.
I filled my parents in on what happened (Sebastian’s rescue mission becoming decidedly less Baywatch in my retelling—though I could tell by the look on Maren’s face that it definitely was extremely Baywatch) and my care instructions.
By the time they were satisfied with the level of information I’d provided, I looked over and found Sebastian’s chair empty.
“Thank God Maren was with you,” my mom said, turning to squeeze her hand.
“And Sebastian,” my dad added. “That’s a great kid right there.” Coming from my soft-spoken father, it was the highest of compliments.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m pretty lucky.”