Drift (Lengths) (12 page)

He gives me the courage to let go of that dream I’d been driving toward, a hundred miles an hour since I was barely twenty for a few seconds and really look at it.

“I...am. Now,” I say slowly. “Here. But I wasn’t. At my job.”

“Why stay at it, then?” he asks. “Why not move on, find a new passion?”

I move my head toward his shoulder. He smells delicious, like cologne and spice. I want to be nineteen, too. I want to make out, a beer at my feet, the waves ready for me when I’m done. I want that freedom again so badly.

So why not?

A long, slow sigh helps me pull my head out of the clouds and sink back to reality. “I’ve spent years building my career to where it is right now, Isaac. I can’t just shut it all down now. I can’t just walk away.”

“Why not?” He sits up straighter, turning me toward him, his eyes shining in the glow of the moon. “Why would you ever stay with something that made you unhappy, Lydia?”

“Because I’m not
—” I stop before I say what’s on the tip of my tongue:
Because I’m not nineteen anymore.

What does that even mean? Who am I to look down on the way Isaac lives just because of his age? He’s doing what he wants, following his passion. He’s not unhappy.

Is he?

“Are you happy?” I ask.

He looks up at the sky and smiles, shaking his head. “Happy? I am propelled to work by passion. I am surrounded by people I admire. I am stable and healthy. Those things should amount to happiness. But, I think, more than anything else, I’m lonely.” His laugh is sad and a little embarrassed. “Ridiculous, right? I feel like I’m always around more people than I can keep track of.”

I slide my hand down until our fingers tangle and our palms meet. My throat is closing up and my voice scratches out. “No. Not ridiculous at all.”

We sit, still and silent, until I shiver. Isaac stands without a word and leads me to his car. He opens my door, drives me to my place, walks me to my door in total quiet.

I’m about to duck in, about to run to my bed and replay every move and tiny piece of conversation when he dips his head so close, I know he’s going to kiss me.

He presses his mouth close to my ear, his breath moving my hair. “It breaks my heart to think of you lonely, Lydia. I don’t want that for you. Ever.”

I close my eyes and let his words wash over me. Before I can tell him that I understand, that I felt the same when I heard his confession, he’s moving back to his car, and I slide into my apartment, never having felt more alone.

11  ISAAC

She slides out of her car—a flashy Mercedes that fits her in some ways and seems completely unlike her in others—and walks toward me wearing a tight tank top and a pair of very short shorts. Her hair is pulled into a high ponytail, and my fingers itch to tug at the band that holds it up and let it fall down in waves around her shoulders.

“Hey.” She presses her lips together to stomp down the smile that pulls at them. “This is pretty idiotic now that we’re in the light of day. I want you to know that you can feel free to drop out of this whole thing if you’re having second thoughts.”

There’s an intensity crackling between us, remnants of last night’s conversation that lurk in this crisp morning, where they don’t quite belong. I want to revisit them, but I’ll take what I have right now.

“Absolutely not,” I say, taking her by the shoulders and moving her out of the way of a few wild teenagers who stampede over the sand. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be right now.”

And no one else I’d rather be with
.

But I can’t tell her that. Not yet, anyway.

“Something like this is for...someone like
them
.” She gestures at the group, giddy in that particular way that makes me willing to bet they’ve skipped out on class to catch these waves on this perfect, sun-filled day. “My brother just brings out this really immature, competitive side of me.”

“I think that side of you is amazing,” I say. She stares down at the sand, her fingers tugging at the end of her hair, as the gulls reel and scream in diving circles over our heads. I put my hand over hers. “You know,
you
can feel free to drop out of this whole stupid thing if
you’re
having second thoughts.”

She tilts her head up and smiles, but it wilts before it blooms full. “Isaac?”

“Lydia.” I pull her closer without waiting for a reason. Or maybe I just accept that the only reason is because I want to. Because I have a feeling she might want it too. And that’s a damn good reason as far as I’m concerned. “Just say whatever it is you’re thinking.”

“You’re...you’re nineteen.” Her voice rasps out in a whisper. Like it’s a secret.

“Lydia?” I whisper back. She darts a nervous look my way, her mouth pursed in a tiny, worried frown. “I know that.”

Her lips finally blossom into a full smile and a laugh shakes loose from her throat. “I’m twenty-six.” A blush edges along the bridge of her nose and over her cheekbones.

“Okay.” I know damn well where she’s going with this, but I want to play dumb until we get to the deeper root of this issue, whatever it is about my age or hers that’s held her back.

And then I plan to fix it.

“You don’t
seem
nineteen.” She tucks some loose hair behind her ears and studies me like I’m some rare species of reptile at a zoo.

“Thank you?” I draw my hand along her arm, experimenting with what she wants, what she responds to. If she wants to stop, I’ll gladly pull back, but she doesn’t seem bothered at all. It’s like my touch is natural to her.

Maybe, hopefully, even something she craves.

“How is that?” She shakes her head. “I mean, I was always pretty mature, and I wasn’t nearly as put together as you are, even when I graduated from college.”

“My mother says I was born an old man,” I offer, not bothering to explain the fact that she didn’t mean it as a compliment. What she really meant was that I lacked my father’s exuberance and daring right from birth. “Because my father travelled, I rarely attended formal school. I had a series of tutors, and they were able to keep pace with my interests. They were fantastic tutors, and I absorbed everything like a sponge.”

“So you skipped grades?” she asks, a gleam of admiration in her eyes. It’s difficult to impress Lydia, and I find that I very much enjoy when it does happen.

“Many grades, yes. I was accepted to university when I was fifteen. I did most of my senior thesis coursework by correspondence because we moved so often.”

I don’t mention that, when I received my diploma, my father sneered that it was the Ortiz name that got me accepted in the first place and my total lack of a social life that allowed me to do so well in my classes.

I keep explaining, telling her things I’ve never felt compelled to share with anyone else before. “I was given free rein in an adult world from a very young age. My parents allowed me to go where I pleased when I pleased. Most of my company was other artists and intellectuals my parents invited to our homes. My grandparents were also hugely involved in my life, and my uncles. I guess I grew up very quickly in some ways.”

“I get that.” She slides her foot out of her sandal and presses her toes deep into the sand. “I was always the
buzz kill in my family.” She nods and stares down at the place where the sand swallowed her feet. “Definitely not fun. Never fun. So that’s my version of being an old soul I guess.”

“Not fun?” I let my hand drop to her waist. She goes completely still, but doesn’t move back. A few seconds tick by, and she finally relaxes against my palm. I want to scoop her into my arms, but I know I need to navigate this slowly, let her know I respect her pace. “You arranged a surf contest. What’s more fun than that?” I watch her sheepish smile. “By the way, I know you did it in part to defend my honor. I decided to play hopscotch instead of football when I put down that beer.”

She cringes a little. “You noticed them? They can seriously be such judgmental assholes. I’m sorry.”

“Never apologize for anyone else.” I pull her closer. “You’re
not
a ‘buzz kill.’ You’re the most unexpected, exciting woman I’ve ever met. And I’m glad you put up with me, since you could be with an older, worldlier man.”

“Older I could do,” she says with a laugh, squinting her eyes at me. “Correction: older I
have
done. And am done with. I think…” She presses her hips close to mine, and our bodies take a burning second to adjust, heated skin to heated skin. “I think maybe all that music I listened to when I was in high school was right. Maybe age ain’t nothing but a number?”

“Didn’t the girl who sang that wind up getting married when she was, like, fifteen? To someone way older?” I drag my hands along her waist, pausing where her shirt creeps up, leaving a sliver of warm, silky skin exposed.

“Are you afraid to end up like her?” she asks, her voice low and hot.

Our laughs tangle and our foreheads press close until she pushes back from me, her hands still locked on my forearms.

“We need to get into the water. Trust me, you do
not
want to be involved in my sister’s crazy community theater crap. Yom Kippur is depressing enough without Cece’s spoken word insanity. You, me, water, now.” She starts walking, crossing her arms over her stomach and taking hold of the hem of her t-shirt.

I’m glued to
my place while she tugs the cloth over her head. Time slows down and all I can see is the slim arch of her back, the flimsy ties that keep her bikini top knotted, and then the fall of her hair down her back. She drops her shirt and gear and moves her hands forward.

To unbutton the tiny cutoffs that are already covering almost nothing.

They slide over the curve of her hips and land at her ankles. She steps out of them and turns.

“
Santa Madre de Dios
.” I’ve never had a clearer spiritual moment than I have the second she looks at me, reaches her hand out, and crooks a single finger.

Going to her isn’t really a thought. It’s an instinct. It’s my body answering an undeniable need. I follow her silent command across the sand and press too close, my body charged by the nearness of hers.

I stand in front of her, my hands loose and useless because they’re not touching her skin. Her bathing suit is navy and white striped, tied with complicated knots that call out for me to undo them. She’s hiding so little, but it’s everything
else
, everything else I want to know, and I’m greedy to see it all.

“Take off your clothes,” she orders me, and I don’t think any man has ever carried out any order faster than I carry out this one.

It’s quite anticlimactic, actually. I have to pull off my shirt, and I’m done. Lydia doesn’t seem remotely let down by what she sees, though. Until her eyes fall to my board shorts.

“Is that it?” She crosses her arms over her chest, holding herself tight.

Like maybe she’s shaking. Or trying to stop herself from reaching out and touching.

I wish she’d let her body shake. I wish she’d reach out for me. If she’d touch me once, I’d never stop touching her back.

“Were you expecting more?” I ask, then smile when I notice that her arms pull tighter. Tight enough that I know when they finally loosen—
if
she’ll just open them—she’ll grab onto me as hard as I need her to. “Or less?”

“Less. Don’t European men wear Speedos?” she asks, her gaze dipping below my waist.

“Surfers don’t wear Speedos. I may play hopscotch now and then, but I know the rules of football.” I raise my eyebrows at her. “Plus that, this is supposed to be a learning session for me. I need my instructor focused on my surfing form. Do you think you can keep your eyes up here?” I point at my eyes, and it’s a joke that gets too hot too fast.

It makes sense to assume that when her eyes rise, the temperature between us would drop. But her eyes, so full of sexy promise, make the opposite true, and the air between us sizzles and pops.

“We need to get into the water,” she says, brushing loose hair back off her forehead and fanning herself.

I agree. I definitely need to cool off. And focus on anything other than how tight and gorgeous her body is.

The thing I forget is that, standing here on the sand, we’re both dry. Once we wade past the waves and paddle out, we’re wet. She lets her hair loose after the first wave and it tangles, damp and dark at her shoulders. Droplets of salt water cling to her skin and run down her limbs. Her bathing suit has stripes of dark navy. But it also has many stripes of white, and those become translucent windows to the skin below. The skin I want to lick the salt off of...damn do I want to do so many things with her naked skin. 

The water has a chill to it. We could have opted for wetsuits, but the sun is strong enough that we stay warm. Fairly warm. Not quite warm enough that her skin is smooth; instead it’s peppered with
goose bumps. And her nipples bead up, pressed hard under her top.

Thinking about letting that top slide to the
ocean floor while I suck those hard nipples into my mouth makes me fall off my board more than once. Luckily, we have all day, and Lydia isn’t nearly as relentless an instructor as she warned me she’d be.

“I thought you said you had excellent balance!” she cries as I resurface after crashing under for the third time. Her bottoms dip low on the left side, showing off extra skin on one curvy hip.

I spit a mouthful of salt water and smile through the grit of sand in my teeth. “I usually do. I guess I’m distracted today.”

Her eyes follow my gaze, and she tugs her bottoms back into place. A ridiculous thump of disappointment hits me. “If Deo was impressed by you, I know we can beat them tomorrow. We just need to refine a few things. Can I see your board?”

I pass it to her, watching as she inspects it. I know her eyes see things I don’t even know to look for, and that is an extreme turn-on. I love how in-command she is. “How did you meet Deo, again?”

I pieced enough of the story together at dinner, but I want to hear it from her lips. I want to hear all her stories.

“Deo.” She laughs when she says his name, running her hands along the board’s edges with one eyebrow raised. Is she impressed or incredulous? I can’t wait until I know her every look without having to guess. “Deo has been my brother Cohen’s best friend since they were in diapers. His mom, who’s a total trip, went through a rough time when he was a kid. Really bad breakup with Deo’s father, I think. Anyway, he came over hungry one day, and my mother is a total softie when it comes to a boy with an appetite. Then…” She shrugs and looks up at me. “He just never went away. I swear he’s only half-joking when he talks about changing his last name to Beckett-Rodriguez.”

“Your family is very close.” It isn’t a question. I’ve heard the rumors and had the chance to see it for myself. The bonds she has with her siblings, messy as they may be, are incredible.

When I was a child and imagined gaining a sibling, I had a vague sense of despair. My parents barely had the time and patience to deal with me. I couldn’t imagine one more child, one more mouth to feed. Both my parents cringed when they heard babies cry and rolled their eyes at over-exuberant toddlers in restaurants.

I often felt like a fluke, a mistake my parents made once and never again.

“We are. It’s strange.” Her fingertips pet the board like it’s a furry animal. I want those fingertips to pet me. “I’m closer to them now than I have been since I was very young because I had enough time away to appreciate how much I love them. But I needed that time away first. I think, when you grow up in such a big family, there’s a ton of pressure. And I always felt a little suffocated. I’ve been independent since I was young, and my dream was always to have my own place. A quiet place!”