He takes a deep breath, and a short laugh escapes his mouth. “It was you.”
I
don’t remember that. At all. As a kid, I swam better than I walked. I saved things all the time from the ocean, kids who got knocked over because the waves were too powerful, a golden retriever that had gone after a tennis ball, some guy’s envelope of money (yeah, that one was weird). Sometimes I even tried to save people who didn’t need any help. I was sort of on a mission.
But one of those times, I saved Ben. I saved him from drowning. If I hadn’t…
The enormity of that twists in my chest. By saving me from the truck, he was returning the favor.
“So if I saw that?” I ask.
“You saw, ah, my memories of you. Things I was thinking about when I was, you know.”
“Healing me?” I say.
He nods and looks away. I know he’s embarrassed because we both know I don’t have substantial memories of him—at least not before the crash—and I’m not going to insult him by pretending I do. I mean, I do remember that day. I remember that bathing suit, that morning and afternoon, and I remember grabbing a kid who looked like he’d just given up. I even remember how he coughed up water and almost threw up on me.
But I don’t remember it being
Ben
.
He remembers everything about me—details I wouldn’t have even remembered about those moments—and the way I looked through his eyes…
“And the way it felt?” I whisper, as if that might soften the blow of embarrassment I’m about to deal. “Is that how you were feeling—how you
feel
—about me?”
A breeze comes off the ocean, and my skin feels strangely empty and open as he gives an almost imperceptible nod. Then he backs away from me like he’s going to put an end to this discussion, and I feel like the most manipulative bitch in the world. Why couldn’t I have just said thank you?
“Ben,” I say, a little too loudly and a little too panicky. He pauses, and the look on his face is just so tortured—so James Dean in
Rebel Without a Cause
—that I want to hug him. Desperately. I want to hold on to him and feel those things I felt when I woke up in his arms. Because it’s intoxicating to feel like I matter for
me
—and not for the mundane things I do like cleaning the house or making dinner.
But he’s uncomfortable, and despite the fact that we shared this intimate connection—for lack of a better term—I don’t actually
know
him.
Even though now I want to.
This guy who dresses like a stoner and tries to fade into the background, even though he’s intelligent and full of opinions. Even though he knows how to debate for the fun of it. This guy who steals a password to hack into the school’s mainframe and change schedules, but has an honor code about it and hasn’t ever changed his grades. This guy who I saved from drowning in the ocean and has never let go of that. I want to know who Ben Michaels really is.
And I want to do something that doesn’t cheapen my gratitude. You can’t just shake hands with someone who saved your life and then trusted you with a secret their life could potentially depend on.
Reaching out, I grab his hand and intertwine my fingers with his. And I move into his space until we’re not even an inch from each other. Laying my forehead on his chest, I take a deep breath and feel his whole body relax, as if tension is rolling off his body in waves.
I was always that kid who loved the smell of gasoline.
His free hand comes up, and his fingers slip through my hair before his hand settles between my shoulder blades.
“Ben,” I say into his shirt.
“Janelle,” he whispers back, and I can feel his mouth against my hair. I can feel him smile.
I tilt my face up to look at him, to take in the strong lines of his face, the deep-set darkness of his eyes, the way his brown hair flops into his face. And wonder how I didn’t see that he was right in front of me this whole time.
But as I take him in, my gaze falls on his lips, and I’m hyperaware of how close they are to mine. The air between us has a tactile quality, like it’s been magnetized. And we’re frozen in this spot, surrounded by the audible sounds of our breathing and the inaudible pounding of my heart.
“I’m alive,” I whisper, because without him I’d be dead, but even more than that, I feel more alive in this moment than I have in a long time. I lift my gaze up to his eyes, and he’s looking at me.
For a second, I think he’ll kiss me—or I’ll kiss him.
Instead he takes a step back and shoves his hands in his pockets. “I have to get home,” he says.
Face flushed and trying to ignore the heavy disappointment in my chest, I nod. “Yeah, me too.” And I almost ask what Wave Function Collapse is, but I can’t bring myself to do it.
Because if Ben
is
involved in something, I’m smart enough to know that I shouldn’t tip my hand without having some kind of leverage.
W
hen I get home, I have another missed call from Nick and a couple of random texts asking what I’m up to and could I make it to another party tonight, really just for an hour this time. And I’m not sure what to say, other than no.
But I can’t ignore him—or the fact that I just almost kissed another guy in the street in front of Kon-Tiki Motorcycles in Pacific Beach—forever. So I text back.
not tonight. talk to you tomorrow.
Now I just have to figure out what I’m going to
say
to him tomorrow, since I’m not sure about that.
Only not right now, because when I get inside, I hear voices coming from my dad’s office.
“We’ve only got fourteen days before this thing goes off, and you’re telling me we’re no closer to knowing what it will do than we were over a month ago when PD found it?” It’s my dad asking.
“What about the suspect?” says a female voice—Deirdre.
“No one’s had any luck tracking down the guy,” a male voice says.
“It’s like all traces of him vanished.” That’s Struz.
“He could be one of the unidentified bodies, for all we know.” It’s the guy’s voice, and this time I recognize it.
Without thinking, I start walking toward them. And they must hear me, because as soon as they come into view, I have a split second where I recognize Deirdre, my dad, and my good old friend Taylor Barclay standing around my dad’s desk, and then I see Struz shutting the door in my face.
I stand there for a second, but they’ve lowered their voices, and I can’t even hear muffled words. I don’t want to go up to my room, because if they raise their voices or open the door later, I want to hear what they’re saying.
Jared is playing
World of Warcraft
—shocking. “Did you get enough to eat?” I ask, peeking my head into the family room. If he was more observant, I’d ask him if he heard any of what they were talking about in Dad’s office, but he’s sitting at the computer with his headset on and the volume too high. Some days I swear I dream to a Warcraft soundtrack.
Instead of answering, he says to himself, “Why are frost mages still ridiculous? Seriously.”
“Jared?” I repeat, because sometimes when he plays video games, he also ignores people.
“I had some pizza when I got home,” he says without tearing his eyes away from the screen.
“And?” Since he still hasn’t answered the question.
“It was good,” he says. “But I’m kind of hungry again.”
I glance at the door to the study and try to will it open. But nothing. I look at Jared again. “Did you finish your homework?” By the way his fingers pause for a second and he falters, I know the answer is no. “Pause it, dude.”
“It doesn’t pause,” he says with a roll of his eyes, but he looks over at me. “Can you make some of that mushroom risotto?”
“That’ll take too long, but I can make you some fried rice, and I think we have shrimp in the freezer? But you have to come do homework in the kitchen.”
He nods, and I head to the kitchen, knowing he’ll follow me, because one of the best things about Jared is that he’ll do just about anything—even homework—for food.
“Nick and Kevin think I should try out for baseball this spring,” Jared says as he sits down at the kitchen table.
I turn around. Jared is awesome at water polo; he made the JV team this year, and he’s one of their best players. He hasn’t played baseball on a team since he was twelve. But I don’t say anything, because something along the lines of “Who cares what they think?” probably isn’t what he wants to hear.
“But I really want to train for polo. Do you think Nick and Kevin will be disappointed?”
“Dude, of course they’ll be disappointed. You’re awesome, but they aren’t going to be mad or anything. Just tell them the truth. They’ll get that.” Jared nods and opens his mouth to say something else, but I stop him. “Read
Of Mice and Men
. At this rate we’re going to be hanging out waiting for you to read your pages all night.”
He mutters something about how little he likes the book, and since it wasn’t one of my favorites either, I keep my comments to myself.
My dad’s study isn’t in my line of sight, so periodically I pause in my stirring and leave the kitchen under the guise of “getting something,” and I try to hear more of what’s going on in there. But each time, I come up with nothing.
Jared and I are both eating when the door to my dad’s study opens, and the four of them make their way into the kitchen.
Deirdre’s blond hair is pulled into a messy pile on top of her head, and the dark lines under her eyes make her look like she hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in days. I wonder if it’s all the testosterone at work, or if it’s more than that—worse than that.
She smiles at me anyway, and it doesn’t look forced. “Hey, guys, how are you doing?”
“Good. Do you want some?” I ask, gesturing to the pan on the stove. I’m desperate to ask about the UIED and the case, but I can’t. Because I’m not supposed to know anything, and they all think I know less than I really do.
“Yes!” Struz says, pushing past her. He looks like he always does, like an overgrown kid, enthusiastic and too tall. “Barclay, you want some of this?” But he doesn’t give anyone time to say anything else. He’s shoveling the rice into four bowls and passing them out.
My dad says, “J-baby, what would we do without you?” and then he looks at Jared. “The best-laid plans of mice and men!”
“Would be better if it had aliens in it,” Jared says.
“Thanks, but I’m heading out,” Deirdre says, as she winks at me.
“Excellent, more for us,” Struz says, dumping the contents of her bowl into his.
“Think about what schools you want to visit during spring break, J,” Deirdre says. “I might be able to convince my boss to give me those days off so we can do a college tour.” She elbows my dad, who just laughs, then she drops her voice to a whisper. “Some girl bonding might be in order.”
I nod, even though I can’t even begin to think about college. And then I almost laugh. Because a few weeks ago, that’s all I was thinking about—where I would go. Now I’m worried the world won’t last that long.
Struz passes a bowl of fried rice to my dad. “James, I bet you could get some extra cash by renting J-baby out to people. She could cook for them, maybe clean up around the house a little. She seems pretty good at that kind of stuff.”
I snort.
“What, you don’t think so?” Struz says.
My dad slides an arm around me. “She’s too good to us,” he says with a squeeze. “And it’s more than the cooking and cleaning.”
“Wow,” Barclay says, his mouth still full of fried rice. “This is really good.”
“Don’t look so surprised.” I almost add that he’s a jerk, but my dad is right there, so I let it go. Tonight I have more important things to solve than Barclay’s attitude.
I
lie awake thinking more about Nick. Most nights recently, I’ve lain awake thinking about Ben Michaels, coming back from the dead, my dad’s case, and the UIED. But right now I have to focus on what I can solve.
I remember the night Nick told me how betrayed he felt by his dad. We were at Torrey—almost all of our talks were at Torrey after my shifts. But there was no bonfire that night, no reason for Nick to actually come to the beach, and Kevin was nowhere in sight.
We walked, the wet sand cold under our bare feet, as we moved side by side down the beach. We joked a little, and a couple of times he bumped his shoulder into mine, and then he opened up and told me how torn up he was about stuff going on with his family.
Sure, his dad hadn’t cheated on
him
, but his dad was so hard on him all the time, he always demanded perfection, then he went and messed up their family. And I got that. Because I love my parents, but they still manage to let me down.
One on one, we connected. Moments like that, I thought I really might like him. A lot.
But when I’m around Ben, I can see what the difference is. And it’s huge.
Even one on one,
I
never really opened up to Nick. I never told him too many details about my mother; I never introduced him to my dad. I talked about Jared a little, but most of what I said was superficial. And Nick either wasn’t observant enough or was too selfish to ask. So even though he likes me, I don’t feel like he knows me at all. Not really.
I know that’s not Nick’s fault—it’s mine. But the fact that I didn’t want to talk to him, that means something.
And I don’t know Ben, but I want to. I want to know him, and I want him to know me.
No matter what I decide to feel about Ben, I need to break up with Nick. It’s just not fair to lead him on like this. Not when I’m spending most of my time thinking about another guy.
Which means I know what I need to do.
N
ear the end of first period, I ignore the urge to go home and go to bed, and I try to convince myself that I’m doing the right thing and I have nothing to feel guilty about. So what if I almost kissed Ben last night? I didn’t actually kiss him, and Nick and I never really said we were “together,” and I’m about to break up with him, and I don’t actually know he hasn’t been having drunk hookups at parties I don’t go to. Except of course, if he hooked up with anyone else, Brooke would make sure that news made its way to me.