Authors: Anna Banks
9
WE PULL into his cobblestoned driveway, and I have to lean back in the seat to take in the whole thing. The beach house of my dreams. Four stories, maybe fi ve— depending if that square on top is a room or not. All wood, painted sea green with white shutters. A huge front porch complete with white rocking chairs and matching wooden planters overfl owing with red pansies. A wrought- iron gate leads to the back, which must overlook the beach— we drove so deep into the woods I thought we would hit water before we found his house.
“Nice shack,” I tell him.
“Trade you.”
“Any day.”
“Really? You like it?” He seems genuinely pleased.
“What’s not to like?”
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He stands back and studies it as if for the fi rst time. He nods. “Huh. Good to know.”
We climb the three steps on the porch, but I grab his arm as he reaches for the door handle. The contact sends heat through my body, toasting me to the core. “Wait.”
He pauses mid- motion and stares at my hand. “What? Is something wrong? You’re not changing your mind are you?”
“No. I just . . . have to tell you something.”
“What?”
I force a ner vous laugh. “Well, the good news is, you don’t have to worry about me rejecting you anymore.” He shakes his head. “That is good news. But you say it like it’s not.”
I take a deep breath.
Where is a good lightning bolt when you need
one?
Because even if I take a hundred deep breaths, this will still be humiliating. . . .
“Emma?”
“I told my mom we were dating,” I blurt. There. Doesn’t that feel better? Nope. Nope, it doesn’t.
While his smile surprises me, it mostly mesmerizes me beyond rational thought. “Are you kidding?” he says.
I shake my head. “It’s the only thing she would believe. So now . . . now you have to pretend that we’re dating if you come to my house. But don’t worry, you don’t ever have to go over there again. And in a few days, I’ll pretend that we broke up.” He laughs. “No, you won’t. I told her the same thing.”
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“Shut. Up.”
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“Why? What’d I say?”
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“No, I mean, did you really tell her that? Why would you do that?”
He shrugs. “Same reason you did. She wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
The realization that we could have had the same conversation with my mother makes this pretty porch spin. Then this pretty porch gets black spots all over it. When we were little, Chloe and I used to spin each other around and around in my father’s offi
ce chair. One time, she whirled me so fast and for so long that when I stood up, I walked in the exact opposite direction I meant to. As kids, we found that hilarious, like inhal-ing helium to talk like a chipmunk. Now though, it’s just not as entertaining. Especially since Galen’s face just disappeared behind a black spot. “Oh, no.”
“Emma? What’s wrong?”
The rest of the porch is sucked into the black hole of my vision. The welcome mat beneath me pitches like a rowboat during a hurricane. I reach for the door or the wall or Galen, but somehow I miss all three. Suddenly, my feet are swept out from under me, and my face smacks into his chest for the second time in my life. This time, my only option is to cling to him. I hear the door open and shut. The inferno of his touch is the only thing I’m sure of. Everything else— like up, down, left and right— all seem to run together. “I . . . I might pass out. Sorry.” He squeezes me. “I’m laying you on the couch. Is that okay?” I nod that it is, but I won’t let go of his neck.
“Tell me what you need. You’re scaring me.”
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I bury my face in his chest. “I can’t see anything. I don’t
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want to lie down because . . . because I won’t know where I am.” Already, the world has stopped spinning. I decide his arms are the healthiest place to be right now.
Until I start to fall. I scream.
“Shhh. It’s okay, Emma. I just sat down. You’re on my lap.” He strokes my hair and rocks me back and forth. “Is it your head? Tell me what I can do.”
When I nod into his chest, the tears on my cheeks bleed onto his shirt. “It’s got to be my head. This never happens to me.”
“Please don’t cry, Emma.”
He stiff ens when I snicker into his shirt. As punishment, my head throbs. “Bet you’re regretting bringing me over here,” I say.
He relaxes. “I wouldn’t say that.”
His tone is like a balm. Within the confi nes of his capable arms, my body relaxes beyond my control. The panic fl ows away from me like water from a shattered vase. My eyes refuse to open. “I’m kind of tired.”
“Should you sleep, though? Everything I read about head injuries said you shouldn’t go to sleep.” Even as he says this, he allows me to pull my legs closer, to nestle my shoulder into his armpit and scoot higher on his lap. He secures my new position with tight arms. The heat simmers between us and wraps around me like a winter coat. Snuggling up to a sculpted block of gran-ite just shouldn’t be this comfortable.
“I think that’s right after you hurt it. I’m pretty sure I’m
-1—
okay to sleep now. I mean, I slept last night, right? Actually, I’m 0—
not sure I can even
stay
awake right now.”
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“But . . . you’re not passing out, you’re just sleeping? There’s a diff erence.”
I yawn again. “Just sleep. Maybe I just need a nap.” He nods into my hair. “You did look tired today after school.”
“You can put me on the couch now.”
He doesn’t move, just keeps rocking me. Staying alert is a slippery slope right now.
“Galen?”
“Hmm?”
“You can put me down now.”
“I’m not ready yet.” He tightens his hold.
“You don’t have to hold—”
“Emma? Can you hear me?”
“Uh, yes. I can hear fi ne. I just can’t see—”
“That’s a relief. Because for a minute there, I thought maybe you didn’t hear me when I said I’m not ready yet.”
“Jackass.”
He chuckles into my hair. “Go to sleep.”
It’s the last thing I remember.
The bad thing is, he’s not holding me anymore. The good thing is, I can see. I glance around the room but don’t try to sit up yet.
If I had to guess, I’d say I’m still at Galen’s house. Everything about this room screams luxury. Art that you know is expensive because it’s so ugly. Odd- shaped furniture made for looks instead of comfort. A huge fl at- screen TV mounted on the wall
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over the fi replace. The cashmere blanket draped over me, so soft
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it wouldn’t bother the worst sunburn. And yep, it overlooks the beach. The entire back wall of the house is a glass window. No dunes block the view. Even lying down, I see the waves rolling in, a storm percolating in the distance.
Sitting up is a big mistake for two reasons. First, it makes my head throb and my vision spotty. Second, it makes someone yell, “Gaaaaaa- len!”
Groaning, I cover my ears and retreat into a cave of cashmere.
“Triton’s trident, Rayna, you’re going to wake her up!”
Rayna?
Fan- fl ipping- tastic. Galen’s rude sister. But that voice wasn’t Galen’s. Does he have a brother, too?
“She’s already awake, squid breath. Why else would I call for him?”
“Well he’s not here, princess.”
I hear shuffl ing and am almost curious enough to peek out from the blanket. Instead, the blanket is ripped from my face.
Rayna stares down at me and points. “See? I told you she’s awake.”
The boy next to her shakes his head and leans toward me.
“Emma?” I’m shocked to see yet another pair of violet eyes. And, of course, this boy is good- looking too— not as gorgeous as Galen, but really, who is?— with the same thick black hair and olive skin as Rayna and her brother.
In response to his question, I nod.
“Emma, I’m Toraf. I guess you already know Rayna?”
Toraf? His parents really named him
Toraf
?
But I don’t ask, just
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nod.
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“Listen, you don’t have to get up or anything. Galen just . . .
uh . . . went for a swim. He’ll be back real soon.” I look between them and past the beach. I shake my head.
“What? What’s wrong, Emma?” he asks. I like Toraf. He seems genuinely concerned about me, without ever having met me. Rayna looks as if she might want to stomp on my head and fi nish the job I started with the cafeteria door.
“Storm,” I say. The one syllable word polka- dots my vision.
Toraf smiles. “He’ll be back before the storm. Can I get you anything? Something to eat? Something to drink?”
“A taxi?” Rayna pitches in.
“Go to the kitchen, Rayna,” he says. “Unless you’re ready to go fi nd an island?”
I’m not sure how far away the kitchen is, but it seems like she stomps for a good fi ve minutes. Finding an island doesn’t really seem like a fi tting punishment for being rude, but since I do have a head injury, I give them the benefi t of the doubt.
Plus, there’s always the possibility that I imagined the whole thing.
“Do you mind if I sit?” Toraf says.
I shake my head. He eases onto the edge of the couch and pulls the blanket back over me. I hope he takes my nod for
“Thanks.”
He crouches down and whispers, “Listen, Emma. Before Galen gets back. There’s something I want to ask you. Oh, don’t worry, it’s a yes or no question. No talking involved.” I hope he takes my nod for “Sure, why not? You’re nice.”
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He glances around, as if he’s about to rob me instead of ask a question. “Do you feel . . . uh . . .
tingly
. . . when you’re around Galen?”
This time, I hope he takes my wide-
eyed nod for
“Ohymysweetgoodness, how did you know that?”
“I knew it!” he hisses. “Listen, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention it to Galen. You’ll both be better off if he fi gures it out on his own. Promise?”
I hope he takes my nod for “This is the strangest dream I’ve ever had.”
Everything goes black.
I don’t have to open my eyes to know the storm is here. Rain slaps the glass in waves and a constant rumble of thunder groans all around.
Or is that my stomach?
As I gravitate toward consciousness, fl ashes of lightning penetrate my eyelids like strobe lights. Peeking through tiny pores in the cashmere, I open my eyes. The lights in the living room are off , which makes my view of the storm like watching fi reworks. I’d appreciate it more if the tantalizing smell of food weren’t poking fun at my empty stomach.
When I sit up, the cashmere slithers to the fl oor. I hold still and clutch the couch, waiting for the room to pirouette around me or for my vision to evaporate. I turn my head side to side, up and down, all around. Nothing. No spinning, no blackouts, no throbbing. A fl ash of lightning ghosts into the room, and when
-1—
it leaves again, my eyes follow it back out to sea. In the window’s 0—
refl ection, I glimpse a fi gure standing behind me. I don’t need to
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turn around to see who creates such a big outline— or who makes my whole body turn into a goose- bump farm.
“How do you feel?” he says.
“Better,” I say to his refl ection.
He hops over the back of the couch and grabs my chin, turning my head side to side, up and down, all around, watching for my reaction. “I just did that,” I tell him. “Nothing.” He nods and unhands me. “Rach— Uh, my
mom
called your mom and told her what happened. I guess your mom called your doctor, and he said it’s pretty common, but that you should rest a few more days. My mom insisted you stay the night since no one needs to be driving in this weather.”
“And my mother
agreed
to that?”
Even in the dark, I don’t miss his little grin. “My mom can be pretty persuasive,” he says. “By the end of the conversation, your mom even suggested we both stay home from school tomorrow and hang out here so you can relax— since my mom will be home supervising, of course. Your mom said you wouldn’t stay home if
I
went to school.”
A fl ash from the storm illuminates my blush. “Because we both told her we’re dating.”
He nods. “She said you should have stayed home today, but you threw a fi t to go anyway. Honestly, I didn’t realize you were so obsessed— ouch!”
I try to pinch him again, but he catches my wrist and pulls me over his lap like a child getting a spanking. “I was going to say, ‘with history.’ ” He laughs.
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“No you weren’t. Let me up.”
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“I will.” He doesn’t.
“Galen, you let me up right now—”
“Sorry, not ready yet.”
I gasp. “Oh, no! The room is spinning again.” I hold still, tense up.
Then the room
does
spin when he snatches me up and grabs my chin again. The look of concern etched on his face makes me feel a little guilty, but not guilty enough to keep my mouth shut.
“Works every time,” I tell him, giving my best ha- ha- you’re-a-sucker smirk.
A snicker from the entryway cuts off what I can tell is about to be a good scolding. I’ve never heard Galen curse, but his glower just looks like a four- letter word waiting to come out. We both turn to see Toraf watching us with crossed arms. He is also wearing a ha- ha- you’re- a-sucker smirk. “Dinner’s ready, children,” he says.