Chapter 10
H is name was Logan Lassiter, and he was exactly the kind of boy you let take you to a bonfire party when you’d just turned seventeen and wanted to feel more like a woman than someone’s kid sister.
He was tall, tan, and easy with a compliment—his voice laced with that local Bellwater southern drawl that made even “lemonade” sound sexy.
I met him on the beach the week after we’d arrived for the summer.
It was close to the boardwalk near Salty’s, when I’d wandered farther than usual from Lemondrop Lane.
He was there with a friend, tossing a football, and he jogged over and asked if I wanted to come out the next night.
“A few people are having a bonfire near the dunes tomorrow night,” he’d said, tugging his hair back and grinning. “You free?”
I’d said yes before I thought twice.
He picked me up at the house in a rusty golf cart.
He even rang the doorbell and introduced himself to my family like someone from a John Hughes movie.
Jack clapped a hand on his shoulder and exchanged bro-ish pleasantries.
My dad made a light joke about curfews. And Fitz—Fitz stood back behind the kitchen island, arms crossed like he was a secret service agent doing a background check in real time.
Jack made a wisecrack about “our little cupcake growing up” which tickled my dad, but Fitz didn’t crack a smile.
I hated that nickname then. I hated the way it made me feel like a bumbling kid when I was trying so hard to feel sophisticated. Feminine. Desirable.
The bonfire was farther down the island, tucked against the high dunes, and the scene felt like it had been pulled right out of one of the teen shows on the WB.
Logan introduced me to a few people—locals, beach kids who all seemed to know each other—and someone handed me a Solo cup before I even sat down.
The fire crackled. Music thumped low from a speaker half-buried in the sand. Someone passed a bottle of cinnamon whiskey, and I drank it because I wanted to say yes. I was tired of being the good kid, the safe bet, the one who stayed inside the lines.
Logan stayed close—too close. At first it was flattering. His hand at my back. His mouth by my ear when he made a joke. He asked me to dance, and I let him. I felt pretty. Buzzed. Brave.
But somewhere between “Tennessee Whiskey” and “Thinkin’ Bout You , ” the vibe shifted.
At first, the dancing was sweet. Logan spun me under his arm like he actually knew what he was doing, hands light at my hips, voice close to my ear when he sang along off-key.
I was warm from the fire, warm from the whiskey, warm from the way it felt to be admired.
And when he leaned in the first time, I let him kiss me.
His mouth was soft, a little too wet, but not aggressive.
I kissed back, exploring his mouth with my tongue.
I was trying not to overthink it. It wasn’t my first kiss, but I hadn’t had many, so I could chalk this up to research – a learning experience so I might actually know what the hell I was doing with guys next school year.
But then he dropped into the sand and pulled me down with him, tugging me into his lap like we were already a thing.
“C’mere, you,” he said with a low laugh, pressing a kiss to the side of my neck.
His hands settled on my thighs, then started to drift.
Up and up, until his fingers skimmed the edge of my short cut-offs and then slid underneath, his calloused thumb grazing the delicate skin up past the frayed edges of my shorts.
I stiffened. I grabbed his hand and guided it lower, back down my thigh. He didn’t seem to notice—or didn’t care.
He brought his other hand up to my neck, curling his fingers around the base and tugging me close like he was posing us for a photograph no one had asked for. His mouth found mine again, and I kissed back for a second—but something was wrong.
The whiskey was rising in my throat. My stomach turned sour.
I couldn’t catch my breath. His other hand was already moving—slipping beneath the knot of my bikini top where it poked out from my tank, rough fingers grazing the side of my breast like he was testing how far he could go without permission.
“I don’t feel good,” I mumbled, trying to shift away.
“Shh,” he said, pressing his palm flat against my chest like that would calm me. Like he could massage the nausea out of me. “You’re just buzzed. Relax.” He rubbed slow circles over my breast, thumb catching under the edge of fabric, and I flinched.
“I said I don’t feel good,” I repeated—louder this time.
He didn’t stop right away. It was like he was trying to soothe me, like my protest was a symptom and not the whole damn point. I pushed against him, panic scraping the back of my throat, and finally stood too fast, stumbling in the sand .
“I’m gonna be sick,” I said, voice thin. “I need—just?—”
I didn’t finish. I just ran.
I didn’t even know where I was running. I crashed behind a thick patch of seagrass, barefoot, breath heaving. I bent over, palms braced on my knees, and gagged once—but nothing came up. Just spit and regret and the worst feeling of being trapped in your own body.
I grabbed my phone from my back pocket and scrolled. Fingers trembling. There were a dozen names I could’ve called. But I only wanted one.
Fitz.
My thumb hovered. Then tapped. One ring. Two. “Charlie?” His voice was low, alert. No background noise.
“I…uh, I’m kinda stuck and,” I stumbled, “Uhh, I just didn’t want to call Jack and have it be a whole family ordeal. Could you maybe…come get me?” I didn’t recognize my own voice.
“Where are you?”
I told him.
“I’m leaving now. Stay where you are.”
And I did. I sank to the sand, still shaking, arms wrapped tight around my knees. I could still feel Logan’s hands on my skin, could still taste whiskey and salt and everything I thought I was ready for, and wasn’t.
But Fitz would be here. And even if he didn’t understand, even if he judged me, at least I’d be safe.
I was still crying when I saw our golf cart blink into view.
Fitz pulled up fast, the tires crunching over the shell-lined path as he slammed it into park and jumped out. He didn’t say my name. He didn’t ask if I was okay. He just stalked toward me like a storm in a navy tee and white linen pants, jaw tight, hands clenched.
“What the fuck happened?”
I flinched. “I—I just didn’t feel good.”
His eyes scanned me. Wild curls, puffy face, my tank askew where Logan had tugged on it. “What the hell did he do?” he barked. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know. Back at the bonfire, probably?—”
“You want me to go back and beat the shit out of him?”
“No!” My voice cracked. “Please don’t—Fitz, just—I just wanted to get out of there.”
He exhaled hard, then turned away for a second like he was trying to contain it. When he looked back, his voice was lower but no less sharp. “How much did you drink?”
I wiped my face on the back of my hand. “I don’t know. Not a lot. It was whiskey. Fireball, I think.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Charlie. You weigh what, a hundred and fifteen pounds? You didn’t think that was going to hit you like a freight train?”
“I—I don’t usually drink?—”
“Exactly! So what the hell were you thinking?” He raked a hand through his hair. “Goddamn it.”
And for a second, I thought he might be mad at me. I crossed my arms tight across my chest. “You don’t have to yell at me. I already feel like shit.”
Fitz’s jaw flexed. “I’m not yelling at you, I’m yelling at the situation. You called me, but what if you hadn’t? What if I hadn’t picked up?”
“I didn’t want to call Jack and ruin the night for the whole family. I know his boy scout self would surely tell Mom and Dad. ”
His eyes flashed. “You think you ruined the night?”
I opened my mouth but couldn’t speak. I just shook my head and got in the passenger seat of the golf cart, curling my knees up to my chest. He climbed in next to me and pulled back onto the path, steering without another word.
I couldn’t stop crying.
It wasn’t the scary kind of crying. Not anymore. It was the drunk, messy kind. The kind where your chest hiccups and you’re so embarrassed and overwhelmed you don’t even know what hurts. I kept wiping my face with the hem of my shirt, but it didn’t help.
“I really liked that song,” I said suddenly, voice warbling.
“What song?”
“‘Thinkin’ Bout You.’ And now it’s ruined. Now I won’t be able to listen to it without thinking about him. ” I hiccuped. “Now it’ll just be gross.”
Fitz pulled the golf cart over onto the side of the road suddenly, and I turned and looked at him.
“Damn, Fitz, I’m already a mess. I’m an emotional wreck and I feel a little sloshy from the alcohol and Frank Ocean is now tainted and here you go swerving the golf cart. I don’t need any more reasons to gag.”
He opened the center console and pulled something out, then thrust it at me.
Chex Mix. I blinked. “What the?—?”
“Eat,” he said, like it was obvious. “You need something in your stomach. This was all I could grab on my way out the door.”
“You grabbed snacks?”
“I thought you might need them.” He shook the bag open. “This was the fastest thing in the pantry.”
I let out a half-sob, half-snort. “You are so weird. Thank you.”
“Eat,” he said again, this time softer.
So I did. Slowly picking through the bag he gave me, I pulled out the almonds and passed them to him. He looked at me sideways. “You hate the almonds?”
“Yeah, they’re hard and bland. But I like the M&Ms.”
He blinked. “So we’re just dividing this by personality now?”
“Yeah. You’re crunchy and difficult. I’m sweet and colorful, duh.”
Fitz smiled—really smiled—and shook his head. “Fine. I’ll be the almonds.”
I leaned my head on the seat back, still chewing, still miserable. “I wish you could un-ruin a memory.”
He was quiet for a second. Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and thumbed at the screen. Frank’s sultry chords floated through the night.
I froze. “What are you doing?” I whispered.
“Rewriting it,” he said, standing.
He offered me his hand, and I stared at it. “Are you seriously asking me to slow dance to Frank Ocean on the side of the road after I just ugly cried?”
“Only if you want to.”
I hesitated. And then I stood.
The sand was cool beneath our feet. The sky was velvet-black, stars smeared like glitter above us. The breeze had picked up, soft and briny, and the song played on like it had always belonged to us.
Fitz wrapped one arm around my waist, the other hand laced with mine. He held me like I was made of something he didn’t want to break. And for the next three minutes, we just barely moved. I rested my head on his solid chest, his tall frame dwarfing my own as he held me .
When the song was over, he turned off the music, we got back in the golf cart and headed home, and we never, not ever, spoke of it again.