I turn back to the bar just in time to catch the delivery of my fourth (and likely last, at this juncture) drink, but there's a shifting in my periphery that I can't figure out, and for a moment I can swear I feel eyes on me. There's the feeling I get when I know I'm being watched, a tingling that starts at the base of my spine and ripples upward, but this time it doesn't leave me with a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach and I wonder if it should.
"Really?" I finally look over, choosing not to take that first sip right off the bat. I need to pace myself through this last one. Besides, I can already feel the blush creeping over my skin, blood pooling in my cheeks and chest even though only the former is visible.
"Thank you," I tell him, softly and sincerely. I can tell it isn't a line; I know he's being just as sincere. Years of practice against Patty have taught me that much, at least. And that sincerity, in itself, makes all the difference. My hand leaves my drink and comes down to rest over his, giving it a brief, grateful squeeze before I move to pull it away.
I never understand how a girl like her can't know it. I mean, not that I've really known anyone like her, but she's gorgeous. Dark hair and dark eyes, an incredible body. She's probably brilliant and successful, too, coming from a world completely apart from my own, even if it's in the same universe. She probably went to college somewhere impressive and usually walks around in those heels like they're her bare feet. It's a simple compliment, but she means that thank you, and I don't know why guys aren't falling all over themselves to tell her the same thing all the time.
Her hand touches mine and then it's pulling away, and without thinking, without meaning to, I turn mine to catch hers, fingers curling lightly around her wrist, heat running sharp through my veins. I may not get it, but there's something about the way she doesn't know that that makes her more beautiful. The girls who know it tend to be bitches anyway.
"Really," I say. "You are." I don't want to let go of her, unless it's to do more than touch her wrist, her hand, but I draw carefully back even so. I don't want to scare her off or push or anything, not here and now, and I reach for my beer instead. "The dress just helps."
I might be the younger sister, but somehow I turned out to be the responsible one in the family. That being said, you'd never guess it by the way my life managed to take such an abrupt turn from Carrie's. She was the one who married first, who got pregnant first. Then again, I would've probably been married by now if it hadn't been for my involvement in the Frobisher case. Sometimes I think I'm turning more into Patty with every day that passes, each time I choose my career over anything else. I could've had Carrie's life, her marriage. But I wouldn't have any of this now. It doesn't stop me from weighing my choices when I allow myself to stop and think about it.
I'm not thinking now.
His fingertips are chilled from the beer bottle when they graze my wrist, curling into a tighter grip, and for a second I'm convinced my pulse manages to skip a beat, but the moment passes and instead I'm simply offering him another slow smile. "Well, the dress is supposed to help if only a little," I reply, my chuckle muffled in the next sip I take. There's something about him I can't quite place, that constant enigmatic quality that I'm trying to zero in on. Drinking doesn't really help with that, but it is helping with something else. "Take it off and there's not much left."
I swallow hard to get the sip of beer down and wind up almost choking anyway, setting the beer down as I try to school my face, but now all I can think about is taking it off her and all the bare skin underneath. Like I wasn't already imagining that. I couldn't look more ridiculous if I tried, I'm pretty sure, and then I realize that she might not even mean that literally, because it's not like she could walk around in public like that, but I'm pretty sure there being not much left could only help.
"I'm sorry," I say, realizing I've been spluttering, passing the back of my hand over my mouth. I'm pretty sure honesty about things like this only gets a guy slapped, but I've got a decent buzz going and the way she smiles makes me feel like I'm gonna lose my mind. "I thought for a second you were talking literally and I - uh. But I'm sure that's not true." She's a lot more than a dress, but I'm afraid if I try to find out how much more, I'll lose the nerve I've been working up.
I know I'm probably supposed to be embarrassed about my unintended double entendre, but all I can do is laugh at the accidental gaffe - if I could even call it that at all. His face is completely devoid of any color at this point, and for a moment I do experience a flash of guilt over having unintentionally startled him that way. But then the guilt is replaced by concern when he starts coughing, trying to recover, and I lean towards him, resting a hand on his forearm.
"You're okay?" I ask him, hoping he remembers to start breathing again. Seeing him that pale isn't proving to do anything but dredge up some memories, and I'm just grateful that neither one of us has started bleeding at any point thus far tonight. "You're white as a sheet." He isn't cold, though; I can feel that much under my hand, my thumb rounding over the outer bone of his wrist.
I don't know, I think, remembering Thalia like a flash, the edge of concern in her expression before it ran, the brush of her fingertips over my cheek. Ellen's touch is gentle, but more definite. I'm not imagining it, couldn't be, the way I still feel I imagined Thalia's hand like a ghost against my skin. For whatever reason, maybe because we're both edging past tipsy or because we don't know each other and I'm not giving anything up, Ellen's not scared of me or bothered. I wonder what it means that Thalia might be, that I can spook something under that iron exterior. But I know what it means. There's something dangerous about giving a damn about someone and, I don't know how, but she does.
I'm running hot and cold, and I wish I had the jacket, but mostly I don't want to think about any of that right now, so I take a sip of my beer, almost gone now, and nod. "You almost killed me with that one," I say, managing a smile, because I don't mean it. It's not the words that drive me crazy now, not with her hand on my wrist, the careful curl of her fingers. I try to keep still because the urge to move is relentless. "Yeah, I'm okay."
I withdraw my hand with a curl of my fingers, tucking them in against my palm until I have a loosely closed fist resting on top of the bar for a few seconds, and then my hand drops back down into my lap as I reach for my drink with the other. It only takes a sip and a half to down the rest and my head is swimming for a myriad of reasons as I nudge the empty glass across the bar, away from myself. He says he's fine, but I'm starting to feel a little cramped, the way I do when I'm cooped-up and need the sensation of a breeze on my face, need the open spaces to feel less confined, so really, my next suggestion is as much for me as it is an extended invitation to him. Maybe even moreso.
"Come on," I say, jerking my head towards the door in a slow nod. I'm already swiveling around to plant my feet on the floor, making sure I have my bearings in these heels before I start walking, my hands smoothing over the front of the dress to ease it back down so it isn't riding up any further. "I think I need that walk now, and I might also need an arm to hold onto." I've got my back turned to him, and I glance over one shoulder to make sure he's heard, smiling hopefully.
I wait a moment more as she stands, partly to watch her, partly to make sure she doesn't wind up toppling over. If I haven't fucked this up, if she still wants me to come with her, then nothing's going to keep me from following along. Leaving what little's left of my beer, I get to my feet. There's always more of that, but girls like this don't come along often, not even here.
"Sure," I say, hoping I don't sound too eager. I can't remember ever actually letting a girl take my arm, but I hold mine out to her, elbow crooked, the way people do in movies and shit. I'm not like my sisters, I can't spend the whole day parked in front of a TV, but I've picked up enough. "Can you walk okay in those?"
I link my arm through his, my fingers reflexively curling around his forearm. The warmth of his skin is palpable, though I know that also has something to do with the part where I can feel my own body temperature rising, a byproduct of all the alcohol. There's something so innocent in the gesture, this chivalry that's enough to make me tempted to blush like some kind of naive girl all over again.
"We'll see once I start, right?" I murmur, taking a step or two on slightly shaky footing. I stop. Probably not the best idea on the whole, and I turn, bracing one hand against his shoulder as I step in against him, bending one leg at the knee and leaning back until I can pry one heel off, then switching to do the same with the other. "I'm just going to avoid potential injury altogether," I add. Without the heels, he's much taller than me, and I have to glance up, my fingertips resting lightly against his chest.
With the shoes off, she comes up about to my chin. It's almost a relief. It takes some of the pressure off the effort required not to just lean in and kiss her as she rests against me. I don't possess the ease and smoothness something like that would require without the both of us participating. A shared idea. I don't know if it's the beer or her, the light weight of her hand, but I'm starting to feel a little more confident that it could be at some point.
"We'll see about that," I answer, speaking half into her hair. "Careful." I don't yet move. I don't want to risk being the one to hurt her. Out in the jungle in her barefoot, probably drunk, there are all kinds of other ways for her to get hurt. I'd rather stay still until she indicates she's ready. "You're tiny."
Sitting, we're just about the same height. Standing is slightly more jarring, especially now that I've ditched the heels. It's difficult to see him as anything but young in the face, but he carries that height so nonchalantly that it ages him almost instantly. Even David was never this tall, and I'm pretty sure I beat him out in the height department with certain pairs of shoes.
I tip my head back to meet his eyes and nod once, encouragingly. "I'm good. The paths are there, and we'll just have to find the closest route to the beach, right?" His other comment, murmured against the crown of my head, earns him a laugh. "You're taller than I thought you were. C'mon, I'm ready. Nothing to worry about."
I've had enough to feel slightly flushed, warm, in the humid tropical evening, but not to be on unsteady on my feet. I figure that's a point in my favor for the moment, although she's alright, I think, with her shoes off. Arm out for her again, I lead the way out of the Hub and down to the path. Once you hit the boardwalk, it's all wooden planks worn smooth, whether by the builders or so many pairs of wandering feet. I still wonder if she's going to be okay. It makes me think of Callie, crossing all the rough gravel and rocks that made up her driveway, barefooted and fine.
Make up. Make up her driveway. She's still there, they're all still there, in some unknown present tense. I'm the one who's somewhere else, some other time.
"Alright," I answer, squinting into the half-dark. The moon's growing bigger, not yet full but bright, and there are lights on the path. I'm still figuring out my way around, though. "How's your plan of having fun going?"
I've walked these paths barefoot before, usually on my way back to the Compound after a walk down the beach and back, and there's something about the sand and sea salt on my feet that makes me feel alive, too good to want to spoil the feeling by slipping shoes back on. I've felt disconnected from my life for so long that it feels good to just be carefree again, to not be thinking about the job or a case or anything involving home right now. It's a little hard for me to dwell on the past when I'm caught up in the present, with him, the fingers of one hand curling into his arm as I clutch onto my shoes with the other.
"Going well so far," I promise, wondering if he's questioning my ability to do so with him as company. The path that stretches out ahead of us will lead to the water eventually, especially if the warm breeze is any indication, the sensation of sand underneath my feet on the path, tread here by others who have walked its length. I can feel more and more of it grinding against my skin as we continue.
"What about you? Not getting bored of me already, are you?" I tease lightly, tilting my head back in order to find his face in the near-darkness. In this light, it's even more difficult to read him, but that just raises my curiosity even more.
Her eyes catch the flare of light from one of the lamps strewn up and down the path and I shake my head. "No," I tell her. The boardwalk needs more lamps like that, but I still think it's kind of amazing there are any at all. Nothing about this place makes sense, nothing. I almost tell her so. "Not even close."
In those patches between lights with only a bit of moonlight peering through the trees, I can see the line of her profile in shadow, the tiny curve of her nose, the slight pout of her full mouth, the slope of her neck. She's outlined in shadow and light, and she's beautiful. That makes sense, maybe. The part where she's here with me doesn't, I don't know if she does, but some things are simple.
"Good," I quickly reply, tipping my chin down and turning my gaze ahead of us to the boardwalk that continues on. The sound of the beach only grows louder the farther we walk, and pretty soon the wood gives way to yielding sand underneath the soles of my feet, a soft and cool contrast to what we were walking only a few seconds earlier. It's a feeling combined with the alcohol in my bloodstream that contributes towards giving me something of a giddy headrush.
My heels fall from my grip and I pull my arm away to start walking faster until I nearly break out into a run, moving carefree over the sand towards the water, splashing up in tiny bursts when my feet finally hit the ocean. It's cold, almost a shock to the system against heated skin, and I shriek and laugh, a sound that sounds foreign and girlish to my own ears. When I turn my head to find him again, brushing small pieces of hair away from my face, I run back to where he stands, catching myself before I run into him by bracing my hands against his arms. "I'm glad you're here," I say, and I mean every word.
I break into a trot after her, stopping some distance from the waves to watch her. Part of me is gripped by the fear I'll fail her, that one minute she'll be there and the next the water will pull her under and there'll be nothing I can do to stop it. It's as clear as fact in my head, the way she disappears like she never existed at all. It's only her laughter that pierces through, keeps me here, my hands in my pockets.
The ocean is a novelty to me. It's not like we couldn't have gone to the beach if we'd made the drive, and there were lakes around, but it wasn't anything like close and we never went. We barely went anywhere outside of a fifty, sixty mile radius. I've already been out here a couple times, and as I wait that minute or so, I kick off my shoes, too, to feel the sand underfoot, still startled by it. It's rough and cool against my skin. I don't know how to feel about it all. It's like the sky. Sometimes there's comfort in feeling this small and sometimes it's just lonely.
But she comes running back, breathless and beautiful, holding onto me and speaking what sounds like nonsense to me. Tentative, then firmer, my hands settle at her waist, and when I answer, it surprises me probably more than her. "Me, too."
"Really?" I finally look over, choosing not to take that first sip right off the bat. I need to pace myself through this last one. Besides, I can already feel the blush creeping over my skin, blood pooling in my cheeks and chest even though only the former is visible.
"Thank you," I tell him, softly and sincerely. I can tell it isn't a line; I know he's being just as sincere. Years of practice against Patty have taught me that much, at least. And that sincerity, in itself, makes all the difference. My hand leaves my drink and comes down to rest over his, giving it a brief, grateful squeeze before I move to pull it away.
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Her hand touches mine and then it's pulling away, and without thinking, without meaning to, I turn mine to catch hers, fingers curling lightly around her wrist, heat running sharp through my veins. I may not get it, but there's something about the way she doesn't know that that makes her more beautiful. The girls who know it tend to be bitches anyway.
"Really," I say. "You are." I don't want to let go of her, unless it's to do more than touch her wrist, her hand, but I draw carefully back even so. I don't want to scare her off or push or anything, not here and now, and I reach for my beer instead. "The dress just helps."
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I'm not thinking now.
His fingertips are chilled from the beer bottle when they graze my wrist, curling into a tighter grip, and for a second I'm convinced my pulse manages to skip a beat, but the moment passes and instead I'm simply offering him another slow smile. "Well, the dress is supposed to help if only a little," I reply, my chuckle muffled in the next sip I take. There's something about him I can't quite place, that constant enigmatic quality that I'm trying to zero in on. Drinking doesn't really help with that, but it is helping with something else. "Take it off and there's not much left."
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"I'm sorry," I say, realizing I've been spluttering, passing the back of my hand over my mouth. I'm pretty sure honesty about things like this only gets a guy slapped, but I've got a decent buzz going and the way she smiles makes me feel like I'm gonna lose my mind. "I thought for a second you were talking literally and I - uh. But I'm sure that's not true." She's a lot more than a dress, but I'm afraid if I try to find out how much more, I'll lose the nerve I've been working up.
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"You're okay?" I ask him, hoping he remembers to start breathing again. Seeing him that pale isn't proving to do anything but dredge up some memories, and I'm just grateful that neither one of us has started bleeding at any point thus far tonight. "You're white as a sheet." He isn't cold, though; I can feel that much under my hand, my thumb rounding over the outer bone of his wrist.
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I'm running hot and cold, and I wish I had the jacket, but mostly I don't want to think about any of that right now, so I take a sip of my beer, almost gone now, and nod. "You almost killed me with that one," I say, managing a smile, because I don't mean it. It's not the words that drive me crazy now, not with her hand on my wrist, the careful curl of her fingers. I try to keep still because the urge to move is relentless. "Yeah, I'm okay."
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"Come on," I say, jerking my head towards the door in a slow nod. I'm already swiveling around to plant my feet on the floor, making sure I have my bearings in these heels before I start walking, my hands smoothing over the front of the dress to ease it back down so it isn't riding up any further. "I think I need that walk now, and I might also need an arm to hold onto." I've got my back turned to him, and I glance over one shoulder to make sure he's heard, smiling hopefully.
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"Sure," I say, hoping I don't sound too eager. I can't remember ever actually letting a girl take my arm, but I hold mine out to her, elbow crooked, the way people do in movies and shit. I'm not like my sisters, I can't spend the whole day parked in front of a TV, but I've picked up enough. "Can you walk okay in those?"
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"We'll see once I start, right?" I murmur, taking a step or two on slightly shaky footing. I stop. Probably not the best idea on the whole, and I turn, bracing one hand against his shoulder as I step in against him, bending one leg at the knee and leaning back until I can pry one heel off, then switching to do the same with the other. "I'm just going to avoid potential injury altogether," I add. Without the heels, he's much taller than me, and I have to glance up, my fingertips resting lightly against his chest.
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"We'll see about that," I answer, speaking half into her hair. "Careful." I don't yet move. I don't want to risk being the one to hurt her. Out in the jungle in her barefoot, probably drunk, there are all kinds of other ways for her to get hurt. I'd rather stay still until she indicates she's ready. "You're tiny."
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I tip my head back to meet his eyes and nod once, encouragingly. "I'm good. The paths are there, and we'll just have to find the closest route to the beach, right?" His other comment, murmured against the crown of my head, earns him a laugh. "You're taller than I thought you were. C'mon, I'm ready. Nothing to worry about."
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Make up. Make up her driveway. She's still there, they're all still there, in some unknown present tense. I'm the one who's somewhere else, some other time.
"Alright," I answer, squinting into the half-dark. The moon's growing bigger, not yet full but bright, and there are lights on the path. I'm still figuring out my way around, though. "How's your plan of having fun going?"
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"Going well so far," I promise, wondering if he's questioning my ability to do so with him as company. The path that stretches out ahead of us will lead to the water eventually, especially if the warm breeze is any indication, the sensation of sand underneath my feet on the path, tread here by others who have walked its length. I can feel more and more of it grinding against my skin as we continue.
"What about you? Not getting bored of me already, are you?" I tease lightly, tilting my head back in order to find his face in the near-darkness. In this light, it's even more difficult to read him, but that just raises my curiosity even more.
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In those patches between lights with only a bit of moonlight peering through the trees, I can see the line of her profile in shadow, the tiny curve of her nose, the slight pout of her full mouth, the slope of her neck. She's outlined in shadow and light, and she's beautiful. That makes sense, maybe. The part where she's here with me doesn't, I don't know if she does, but some things are simple.
Reply
My heels fall from my grip and I pull my arm away to start walking faster until I nearly break out into a run, moving carefree over the sand towards the water, splashing up in tiny bursts when my feet finally hit the ocean. It's cold, almost a shock to the system against heated skin, and I shriek and laugh, a sound that sounds foreign and girlish to my own ears. When I turn my head to find him again, brushing small pieces of hair away from my face, I run back to where he stands, catching myself before I run into him by bracing my hands against his arms. "I'm glad you're here," I say, and I mean every word.
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The ocean is a novelty to me. It's not like we couldn't have gone to the beach if we'd made the drive, and there were lakes around, but it wasn't anything like close and we never went. We barely went anywhere outside of a fifty, sixty mile radius. I've already been out here a couple times, and as I wait that minute or so, I kick off my shoes, too, to feel the sand underfoot, still startled by it. It's rough and cool against my skin. I don't know how to feel about it all. It's like the sky. Sometimes there's comfort in feeling this small and sometimes it's just lonely.
But she comes running back, breathless and beautiful, holding onto me and speaking what sounds like nonsense to me. Tentative, then firmer, my hands settle at her waist, and when I answer, it surprises me probably more than her. "Me, too."
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