Chapter 21
Twenty-One
Beach time. I’m pretty sure those are the buzzwords that have Hannah practically vibrating. Carson’s barely finished slicking sunscreen onto her, and she’s already halfway out the door, every one of her stuffed animals in tow.
We’re trailing after her when my name hooks me mid-step.
“Brielle.”
Carson tips his chin toward the open sunlight. “You go ahead, Han. I’ll be right there.” His next words are for Reese, but his eyes come to me, “I’m just gonna check Brielle’s foot.”
“Oh, no. It’s fine.” It’s not, my foot’s burning, but I’d rather that than be alone with Carson and the weight of everything unsaid between us. Whatever interrogation he’s got locked and loaded will sting more than any wound.
I know it‘s game over when his whole frame angles toward me. “You were limping.”
He saw that? Between the cold shoulder and the deliberate distance, I thought he hadn’t noticed anything.
A small motion to the others. “Go. We’ll catch up.”
Twenty seconds later, and it’s just us. My pulse is loud enough to set off alarms, and the silence between us is heavy enough to crush them. His eyes lock on mine, mine on his, and I brace for it—the questions, the digging.
But all that comes is a stern, “Sit.”
I sink onto the couch, and he drops into a crouch before me. Same posture as yesterday, same hands bracing my ankle, but the mood’s different today.
“You should be staying off this.”
“Sorry.”
His mouth presses into a hard line and he stands. “Don’t apologise.” A beat. “You need a soak.”
“Oh.” It’s a rush of surrender and dread all at once. I don’t want to go to the beach-house, but what choice do I have? “Okay, I’ll just…” It’s a prompt for him to step aside, but he doesn’t.
“I’ll get the things.”
What? “No. It’s okay. I’ll just go, I really don’t want to waste your—”
“I’ll get the things.” A firm repeat, like a door closing on the conversation.
It’s pointless arguing; only when I nod does he move.
“Wait here.” He gets a few steps in before his voice comes again, quieter, almost like an afterthought. “Please.”
Even if I wanted to move, after that, I can’t. I’m frozen in place until he returns, arms full. He sets everything up in a methodical rhythm, then gestures for my foot.
The sting when I lower it into the water is immediate, and still I sit here waiting for something bigger to hurt. Like the other shoe dangles overhead, ready to drop.
I can’t stop wondering what he’s thinking. He retreats to the kitchen and I search for some give in the way his shoulders move, but nothing. There’s the whisper of a knife slipping free from its block. The sound of fruit slicing follows.
“Do you cook?” I almost wince once it’s out. Why am I trying to make small talk?
He nods, once.
I should leave it there, but my mouth is wired to run. “Makes sense. Swimmers need to eat a lot. Not that it—” I gesture vaguely at him— “shows.”
Only the rhythm of knife against board answers me. I figure that’s all I’ll get, but then—
“Had to learn if I wanted Hannah and me to eat.”
It lands like a sucker punch. My tongue trips over all the things I don’t know how to say. Before I can even try, he’s back, a bowl of fruit in hand.
For me? The question doesn’t make it past my lips, but I know it’s written all over my face when I blink up at him.
“Have you eaten?”
A small shake of my head.
He presses the bowl into my hands like it’s non-negotiable. “Eat.”
I stare at it, then at him. Why is he being like this? Is it pity? Oh God—is that why he’s acting so… careful? Does he pity me now? The girl he never used to like, and now he doesn’t know what to do with the mess sitting in front of him?
Like he can hear every thought, his eyes narrow. “This is something I would’ve done even days ago, Jameson. Stop reading into it.”
Relief barrels in. He’s right. He would have. I let the tension drain just enough to sink my teeth into a strawberry.
“You know, it makes so much sense,” I say as he turns back toward the counter. He doesn’t ask, but I can tell he’s listening. “You being an older brother.”
That earns me a faint crease in his brow. “Like what?”
“Your instinctive nature. I’ve never met someone who does so much for others without even thinking twice.
We’ve barely known each other, and for most of that you didn’t even like me—” I lift a hand.
“Not saying you like me now. But you’ve helped me more times than I can count already. It’s… refreshing.”
Something passes over his face, too quick to name. “You’re giving me too much credit,” he says finally. “I haven’t done anything any other person wouldn’t.”
I twist as much as I can in his direction.
“That’s not true.” It’s not. “Not many people would dig urchin spines out of someone they barely tolerate. Or grab bruising cream without being asked. Or do all the small, quiet things you do without realising.” My lips press together, my stare steady.
“You’ve got a heart made of gold, Carson. Don’t shy away from it.”
The muscles in his neck tighten, and his gaze ticks restlessly between mine. I bite my lips under the intensity of it all, and he catches the motion before looking back up. There’s a set to his jaw that wasn’t there a moment ago.
“I like you just fine, Jameson.”
Glass-coated words, probably tossed out without much meaning, but… something in me flickers to life.
Dylan’s a good friend. Reese, an even better one to me. And Aspen, she’s lovely. But Carson… Carson’s different
Maybe it’s because he’s seen me in a dozen different lights, none of them flattering. Maybe it’s because we started at rock bottom, and every step up feels like it deserves to be marked.
Whatever it is, the smile I give him, small, almost shy, is probably the most honest one I’ve handed anyone in weeks.
“I like you too, Carson.”
It lingers in the space between us for maybe three heartbeats. On the fourth, he’s about to reply, but a ringtone stops him.
My phone.
I fumble for it, and my hand stutters when I see the caller ID. “Hello?”
A pop of static, then, “Hi, honey.” The sugar-threaded tone has my muscles unclenching just enough to breathe.
“Hi, Mom.” I turn away from Carson’s stare. “What’s up?”
“Nothing. I just wanted to let you know your father and I might not be in tonight, so don’t stay up waiting.”
“Oh. Okay. That’s fine.” More than fine. It’s one more night to figure out what I’m going to say about my hair.
A pause stretches, long enough for me to wonder if she can hear the relief.
“Good girl, sweetie. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
The line goes dead before I can answer. No goodbye. No love you. Just the hollow in my ear. I stare at the screen for half a beat before tucking it away.
“My mom,” I offer into Carson’s silence. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. I fill in the space for him, and I’m not even sure why it comes out. “She’s gonna flip her shit when she sees my hair.”
Sharp eyes zero in on me, and I could swear he stands a little straighter.
“You think?”
“Definitely.” I twirl a strand, letting it slip through my fingers. “I’ve never touched it before this. Not once.”
I’m about to say more, but it fades when I catch his gaze tracking my hand. When his eyes lift back to mine, there’s something behind them.
“Do you like it?”
Do I like it? “I do. Maybe I’ll have a different opinion later, but right now? I really like it. It’s strange to see—like I’m looking at someone else—but that’s probably why I like it so much.”
He pauses, barely enough for me to notice, then says, “That’s all that matters then. Anyone else’s opinion is just background noise.”
He’s right. Still, as we leave, he stops me in the doorway, gaze dipping once—face, hair, back again, and gives me his. “It’s pretty.” The roughest scratch in his tone when he amends, “You’re pretty.”
Sand sticks to me, my foot pulses, and still, I feel lighter. With the breeze threading through my hair, chatter drifting around me, and somewhere in the mix, that word—pretty—continuously slipping through.
Aspen’s feeling the opposite. She’s star fished on her towel beside me, a cold bottle pressed to her forehead.
“Need me to grab you anything?”
“Yeah,” she mutters. “A brand-new head.”
I brush her arm. “I’ll check the lost and found.”
She sighs, drifting again, and something catches in my peripheral—Hannah’s headband, gemstones flashing as she crouches over what I know was a sandcastle.
Now, one wall’s collapsed entirely, and the other tilts inward like it’s bracing for the same fate.
She presses her palms to patch the break, but the sand just falls through her fingers again.
I hesitate, then go for it. “Hey, Hannah?” Carson’s only a few paces down the beach, talking to Reese, so it’s not like he won’t notice me talking to her.
“You know why it’s crumbling? You’re stacking it straight like a wall. You have to lean it in a little, make it hug itself. Like this.” I take a corner between my hands and press until it holds shape. Her brows pinch, and she’s focuses on the fix. “Do you want me to help?”
She pauses mid-scoop, and then, so faintly, nods. Even fainter comes the “please” tacked on. Exactly like her brother.
We fall into a rhythm, carving trenches and packing the walls firm.
“Why are you hitting the top?” Curiosity shades her tone.
“To keep it from crumbling.” I pat it once more, then add with a shrug, “And also so it knows I’m proud of it.”
Her mouth quirks, and it’s like I’ve earned a rare badge of victory. Then an even better one when one of our towers withstands her tap and she giggles.
I do too, and suddenly ten whole minutes vanish under our back-and-forth, the rush of the tide nearby, and the scrape of sand shifting under our hands.
Every so often, she glances off to the side and grins. Carson. Even mid-conversation with Reese, I can feel his attention glued to this spot.
When every tower passes Hannah’s poke test, her eyes go wide. She claps, genuinely elated, and I bask in it, clapping with her.
“See? Patting the top works. We’re basically castle builders now.”
Her smile lingers for a moment, then softens as her gaze drifts. I don’t realise what catches her attention until her hand lands on my wrist.
“So pretty.”
I freeze. Tiny fingers brush my bracelet stack. The touch is fleeting, but my arm doesn’t get the memo, locking up like steel.
I don’t know why she’s looking at them like that. They’re nothing special—frayed, sun-faded, the kind of thing you can buy in bulk for next to nothing. But the way she said so pretty makes them seem rare. Precious.
Before I can overthink it, I tug one loose and hold it out. “Here. You can have this one.” It’s the brightest of the bunch, threads of every colour woven together. “It matches the gems in your headband.”
“Really?”
I answer by slipping it onto her wrist and tying the knot with careful fingers.
“There,” I whisper.
She turns her arm this way, and that, admiring the way it catches the light. “Thank you, Brielle.” Only it isn’t quite Brielle. The lilt makes it sweeter. Bwielle.
My heart tugs.
“You’re very welcome, Hannah.”
It nearly stumbles, though, when I glance up. Carson’s in my line of sight now. He isn’t looking at Reese, who’s still talking—he’s looking at the bracelet on Hannah’s wrist, at Hannah herself, and then… at me.
Heat curls up my neck. I don’t know why it feels like he’s caught me doing something I shouldn’t, but I smile anyway.
Except, for the first time ever, he smiles back. Soft, small, small, but there.