2 #2
From this angle the tattoo looked even larger.
Sweat had begun to bead again along the valley of his spine despite the lotion.
A single drop traced the edge of the design and disappeared into the waistband of his shorts.
I looked away and reached for my shirt.
“Leaving already?” he asked without opening his eyes.
“Sun’s a lot.”
“It’s going to be worse tomorrow.” He still didn’t move. “You should stay long enough to get used to it.”
I didn’t answer. I pulled the shirt on, stood, and brushed sand off the backs of my legs. The flip-flops felt flimsy under my feet. I left the second towel where it was and walked back toward the access path without waiting to see if he would follow.
The three blocks to the apartment felt longer in the reverse direction.
Heat shimmered off the sidewalk. My shirt was damp again by the time I climbed the stairs.
Inside, the air was still thick but at least it was shade.
I went straight to the bathroom, locked the door, and turned the shower on cold.
The water hit my shoulders and ran down. I braced both hands on the tile and let it. My reflection in the narrow mirror above the sink was flushed, eyes too dark. I looked like someone who had been caught doing something he shouldn’t have.
I stayed under the water until the cold started to sting.
When I came out, the living room was empty. Ryder’s gym bag was gone from its usual spot by the door. The black sketchbook sat closed on the table. I stood in the middle of the room for a long minute, listening to the quiet. Then I went to the bedroom and shut the door.
I sat on the edge of the bed in a clean pair of shorts and nothing else.
The ceiling fan turned. Outside, a car stereo thumped past and faded.
My skin still carried the faint chemical scent of the sunscreen I had put on him.
I could smell it on my own hands no matter how thoroughly I had washed them.
I lay back and stared at the ceiling.
The physical reaction had faded under the cold water, but the knowledge of it hadn’t. I had gotten hard from touching my stepbrother’s back. From the heat of his skin under my palms. From the quiet way he had said thanks afterward, like the contact had been ordinary.
It hadn’t been ordinary.
I turned onto my side and faced the wall.
The sheets were cool against my cheek for about thirty seconds before they warmed to match my temperature.
Somewhere in the apartment a door opened and closed.
Footsteps moved across the living room and stopped.
I pictured him settling onto the couch again with the sketchbook, pencil already moving, as if the afternoon on the beach had been nothing more than a practical solution to the heat.
Maybe for him it had been.
I stayed in the bedroom until the light outside shifted from white to gold.
When I finally opened the door, Ryder was exactly where I expected—couch, sketchbook, bare torso.
He glanced up once when I entered the kitchen for water.
His eyes tracked me for a second longer than necessary, then returned to the page.
I drank the water standing at the sink and tried not to notice that the lotion scent still clung faintly to the air around him.
I went back to the bedroom and left the door open a few inches. The fan turned. I lay on top of the sheets and listened to the pencil scratch in the other room until the light changed.
Outside, Miami kept baking under a sky that refused to give up any of its light. Inside, I lay on top of the sheets and listened to the quiet scratch of pencil on paper from the other room, and tried to convince myself that the tight, restless feeling under my skin was only about the temperature.
It was getting harder to believe.
The apartment felt smaller after the beach.
Not in square footage. In pressure. The heat that had driven us outside followed us back in and settled into the walls, the furniture, the narrow spaces between doorways.
By early evening the air conditioning unit in the living room window rattled like it was considering retirement.
It pushed out a thin stream of cooler air that died three feet from the vent.
Everything beyond that stayed thick and close.
I stayed in the bedroom with the door half-open and my laptop balanced on my knees.
The blank document from the morning was still blank.
I typed a sentence about relevant coursework, deleted it, typed another about availability to relocate, deleted that too.
Every few minutes I heard Ryder move through the living room.
The soft sound of bare feet on tile. The refrigerator opening. The low scrape of a chair.
He didn’t put a shirt on.
I knew because the third time he passed the doorway I saw the edge of the tattoo again, dark against skin that still carried the faint sheen of sunscreen and salt. He was carrying a glass of water. He didn’t glance in. He just walked past, close enough that the air shifted.
I closed the laptop harder than necessary.
When I came out for water of my own he was at the sink, filling the same glass again.
He didn’t step aside. I had to reach past him for a second glass.
My forearm brushed the side of his ribs.
The contact lasted less than a second. I pulled back like the skin had been hot in a way that had nothing to do with temperature.
He turned his head slightly. Not enough to face me fully. Just enough that I could see the corner of his mouth.
“You good?”
“Fine.”