Chapter 15
C ollege of Charleston wasn’t what my parents wanted for me.
They’d paraded me through a dozen northeastern schools with stone courtyards and legacy-soaked admissions brochures, half-expecting I’d wear pearls to class and marry into someone’s private equity fund by graduation.
But I wanted palm trees. I wanted breeze.
I wanted a life that smelled like coconut sunscreen and salt—not mahogany and Tom Ford.
I wanted to disappear for a while.
So I went where the air was thick with heat and the boys wore hemp necklaces and flip-flops year-round, where I could eat shrimp and grits at one in the morning with someone who wasn’t trying to edit my grammar or dissect my lineage.
That’s where I met Tyler. He was from Colorado.
Tall, tanned, broad-shouldered with shaggy hair and a snowboarder’s tan line that never quite faded.
His vibe was all chill, a walking REI catalog, all breathable fabrics and bare feet in the quad.
He studied environmental science and played acoustic guitar at open mic nights—with a somewhat limited range, but with heart.
And I thought I loved him.
He was fun. He smiled at everyone, said things like “rad” without irony, and made me feel like I could be wild and barefoot and not the girl who’d been raised with sterling flatware and firm handshakes.
When I had invited him to the beach house for a week, I told myself it was about showing him where I came from.
It was about walking up the dock hand-in-hand with a boy who kissed me in public.
About leaning into his chest comfortably as we sat on the beach, letting him stroke my thigh under the table.
About introducing him to my parents and my brother.
We pulled up in the golf cart. Tyler’s arm slung casually over my shoulder, reggae spilling from the mini stereo he always had on stand-by. I wore cutoff shorts and a bikini top under an open button-down—cool girl chic, deliberately low-key.
Fitz and Jack were already on the porch when we arrived.
Fitz stood leaning against the column, arms crossed, Ray-Bans perched low on his nose.
His hair was shorter than I remembered—more cleaned up.
His shoulders were broader. The teenager I used to follow like a shadow was gone, replaced by something harder , quieter.
A man who knew how to look without revealing what he was seeing.
Tyler honked once and waved. Fitz didn’t wave back. Jack bounded down the steps to greet us.
“Hey,” I said as we stepped onto the porch, fingers still laced with Tyler’s. I leaned in to give Jack a quick kiss on the cheek and then turned to nod at Fitz. “Long time no see.”
Fitz gave a brief nod of his chin and said “Winslow,” as if that were a greeting.
His eyes flicked to Tyler’s hand. To mine. His mouth didn’t move.
“This is Tyler,” I said. “My boyfriend.”
Tyler stuck his hand out, grinning. “Sup, dude.”
Fitz shook it once. “Fitz.”
And that was it. No smirk, no teasing, no cutting remark—just that unreadable face and eyes that slid over me like I was smoke in the room.
Jack, of course, gave Tyler the full golden retriever welcome.
He clasped him on the back and grinned like they’d been teammates in another life, already asking where he surfed, what he majored in, whether he wanted a beer or a tour or both.
Within five minutes, Jack had him on the porch, talking about his freshman-year wipeout that broke his collarbone, offering him a cold one and a place in the annual cornhole tournament like it was a formal initiation.
Tyler lapped it up—of course he did. He was effortless that way. Always said the right thing, never overthought a sentence, charming in that sunburned, Colorado way that made everyone want to hand him something: a second drink, a guitar, a sister.
I stood a few feet back, arms folded, watching the way Tyler eased into the scene like he’d belonged there for years. My mom gave me a wink, a look that said you did good . And maybe I had.
L ater, Tyler wrapped himself around me in the hammock while we watched the sunset.
He kissed me under the stars on the deck.
He told my dad over dinner how he wanted to start a sustainability nonprofit.
He played guitar one night by the firepit—“Banana Pancakes,” of course.
And I laughed full volume at his silly flirty jokes, the kind of laugh that was meant to be overheard.
Fitz never joined us. He stayed upstairs or disappeared on long runs, came back shirtless and dripping, nodding at me once before vanishing into the outdoor shower. The air changed when he was near—went still, electric. And I hated that I felt it. Hated that Tyler noticed.
“Is he your ex or something?” he asked one night in bed, hand resting on my hip.
“No,” I said too fast. “He’s just...my brother’s best friend.”
“Dude looks at you like he wants to kill me,” he said, chuckling, then leaned down to kiss me. “Oh well, not my problem.”
But it was. Because every time Tyler kissed me, I wished I didn’t notice when Fitz walked into the room.
I wished I didn’t laugh too loud and that I didn’t wear the skimpiest bikinis I owned, the ones that made my mother raise an eyebrow.
I wished I didn’t let Tyler lift me onto the kitchen counter just to see if Fitz would look up from his book.
Because even though I wanted Tyler, I wanted Fitz to want me more.
But he never said a word.
I t was late afternoon, the kind where the sun started to go gold and the ocean glimmered like something alive. We were sandy and sun-stung, our towels slung over our shoulders as we walked back up the beach path barefoot, Tyler’s hand warm against the small of my back.
“Wanna rinse off before dinner?” he asked, nodding toward the outdoor shower tucked into the side of the house.
I hesitated, only for a second. “Sure.”
The shower was semi-private—half-walls of cedar, aged silver by the salt and sun, open at the top so light could pour through. We slipped inside, hanging our towels on the hooks, toes curling against damp wood.
He turned the handle. Cool water burst from the spout, and I shrieked, laughing as he pulled me under with him, arms circling my waist. We rinsed off the salt, the sand, the sun lotion, the hours we’d spent tangled in the tide.
And then—he looked at me. Really looked at me. My hair was slicked back, my skin flushed, water beading down my bare stomach.
His dick was hard, pointing out at me as directly as he was staring. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he said, voice rougher than usual. “Do you wanna—” He wiggled his eyebrows, a boyish grin cutting through the steam.
I didn’t answer. I pushed him gently down onto the wooden bench, water still streaming off both of us. He sat with his legs spread, the muscles in his thighs flexing as his cock bobbed upward, eager and flushed.
“I want to taste you,” I whispered, and knelt between his legs.
My head leveled with his dick, my breath warm against damp skin, I gripped the base, and licked him once—slow, from root to tip—before slipping his crown between my lips.
He groaned, his hand finding the back of my neck as I took him deeper, worked him with tongue and pressure, letting him fall apart inch by inch.
A creak. A burst of cooler air. A flicker of shadow. The shower door had swung open.
I froze, knowing there were absolutely no good options for who could be on the other side of that door. I peaked over my shoulder and there he was.
Fitz.
He stood frozen in the doorway, one hand still on the latch.
The sunlight hit behind his shoulders, casting his face in shadow—jaw tight, eyes wide, lips parted like he’d just forgotten how to breathe.
He flushed immediately—color rising in his cheeks like a tide, like heat under the surface. His gaze dropped. Caught. Froze.
“Shit—I’m—Jesus, sorry, ” he muttered, voice hoarse, shocked.
He stumbled back like he’d been punched. Like the sight of me—naked, on my knees between another man’s legs—had paralyzed him.
Tyler barely noticed. Just grunted, “Dude, close the door,” and cupped the back of my head again.
But I couldn’t move—because Fitz had looked at me—not with judgment, not with disgust. With devastation.
And I hated that it mattered. I hated that I could still feel the exact shape of his eyes on me, that my chest was tight and my throat was burning and I suddenly felt ashamed .
Not of what I was doing. But of who I wanted to be doing it with.
Of what I wanted him to say. Of what I wanted it to mean to him.
But he hadn’t said a word. He never did.
And I stayed on my knees. Because I didn’t know how to stand up.