"You shouldn’t be down here alone this late.” The deep timbre startles me, and I spin around so fast I nearly lose my footing. Noah’s arms reach out just in time, though, large hands on my waist and elbow steadying me before I end up ass-down in the shallows. Seawater tickles the hem of my white sundress that’s not much more than a swimsuit cover-up. I take note of nothing but the heat of his grip though, and for some reason, I’m taken aback by his hands. Bigger than I remembered. They’re the hands of a man, and I wonder if by calling Jonah my “boy”
he meant to point out the glaring differences between them.
His eyes follow mine to where he holds me, obviously mistaking my confused interest for discomfort, and with a small squeeze, as if to make sure I’m steady, he releases me.
“Where’s your boy?” Noah Reed’s handsome face is cast in nothing but shadow and moonlight, highlighting the hard lines of his unshaven jaw, his strong, beautifully masculine cheekbones. His eyes appear greener than usual in the natural, ethereal glow of the night, yet somehow darker, knowing.
His eyebrows raise, and I momentarily forgot he’d asked me a question.
“Berry?” Noah has always called Jonah by his last name. “Your boyfriend?”
“He’s not—” I almost say he’s not my boyfriend. We’ve never used those titles after all. But I suppose he kind of is, and for some reason, now more than ever, I’m not sure I want him to be. “I don’t know,” I say instead, whether I mean I don’t know if he’s my boyfriend, or where he is, I don’t let myself ruminate.
I almost add that I don’t care, either. But that would be unkind, and Jonah deserves better than that. Not much, I’m sure, but better than my telling others before him something I’ve known since even before I gave in and started dating him in the first place: that we’ll never be right together, that our relationship isn’t going anywhere. I know better than to talk to someone else about what I know in my heart before I grow the courage to tell Jonah himself.
Even if it is Noah Reed.
Noah nods thoughtfully, something behind his eyes almost mocking, and I recall his distaste for Jonah. Noah has never taken Jonah for much more than a bully or a joke, but Noah isn’t the only one who’s grown and matured over the years, and suddenly I feel indignant on Jonah’s behalf. He’s far from perfect, but he’s always been there for me, and I need to remember that.
“I should get back inside,” I murmur, making a half-hearted step back up toward Jillian’s house, where, off in the short distance, the music and muffled conversation continues to color the background like a familiar white noise.
“Back to Berry?” Noah’s tone is almost sarcastic, and I resent it. I know he has good reason not to like Jonah. Jonah wasn’t always the nicest kid, and he was the one who dared Noah’s kid sister to walk the rail of the back boardwalk causing her to fall and break her arm. But that was mostly an accident, and, anyway, it was what? Five years ago? And Noah hasn’t been back in town in at least three years now, so what does he know? If Noah could grow into that, then Jonah could have changed, too. He could be a saint these days for all Noah knows.
“Back to my friends,” I say sternly, and practically huff away, regretting my less-than-mature attitude, not quite sure why I feel as put out as I do.
I don’t have to look back to know Noah doesn’t follow.
I take the short footpath back through the small hills of sand dunes and beach grass, and less than a minute later, I’m once again surrounded by sweaty, partially clothed bodies, and smoke from both cigarettes and weed, The Red Hot Chili Peppers blaring from the wireless speaker by Jillian’s infinity pool.
It’s an entirely different world than the peace of the quiet shoreline, at least at this time of night, and in my current mood, I much prefer the latter.
A glance at my phone displays several missed calls from Jonah, and texts I don’t bother reading. We’re at the same party, after all, and it couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes since he’d been relentlessly nagging me about kegstands.
I note that it is getting kind of late, and, in my less-than-enthusiastic mood, I consider calling it a night.
“Where the fuck have you been?” Jonah accuses, before I even manage to catch sight of him.
His harsh grip drags me several feet away from the crowd by my elbow, but most definitely not out of earshot, and I’m not sure why he bothered even that. He’s strange when it comes to the opinions of others. He could care less what they say about him, but when it comes to what they think of me—us—he wants full control. It’s like he’s determined to project a certain narrative, whether or not it’s indicative of reality.
I yank myself from his grip, unprepared for the force necessary to free myself.
It hurts, and I roll my shoulder, tracing the faint redness on my elbow with my opposite hand.
“The beach...” I say carefully. It’s always wise to be careful when Jonah is less than sober. “And I’ve told you not to talk to me that way, Jonah.” I add more with my eyes, silently reiterating the warning I’ve stated a hundred times at least—that if he wants someone to control, or worse, push around...he picked the wrong fucking girl.
After all, tons—if not most—of the other girls in Atlantic West would be positively thrilled just for a chance with him.
Jonah is exceptionally good-looking—despite his current foreboding glare—in that surfer kind of way he has about him, and while I’ve never been particularly impressed by his reputation personally, I appear to be alone in that opinion.
So, if Jonah wanted that kind of controlling, 1950’s-style relationship, there’s no logical reason for him to have pursued me, of all people, especially so vigilantly, and for so long. Not for the first time, I wonder if his attraction to me is more physical than anything else. It makes no sense otherwise, and I’ve told him so. Many times now.
His thin blonde brows pull together in anger, his cheeks reddening in flames I should probably know better than to fan.
It’s then I notice how glazed his eyes are, how bloodshot. I don’t know exactly what he’s consumed tonight, or how much, but silently I hope it’s from smoke and not drink. He’s far calmer when he’s high than when he’s drunk, more reasonable, though he knows I prefer him on nothing at all. Still, the combination is the worst, and I can tell in his expression that there’s no reason there whatsoever. Which means there’s no point in trying to discuss anything with him right now, certainly not when he’s in this state. Although I’m not sure there’s anything to discuss, anyway.
“And I’ve told you,” he says darkly, “I don’t like to be fucking disrespected!”
Jonah takes a looming step in my direction, standing practically right in my face, as if to remind me of his superior size, and of my own, more petite, more vulnerable frame. As if I wasn’t already well aware.