Untamed Hearts(8)

I want to see her in that hoodie tomorrow morning; next week; always. I want to feel her below me in my bed; wake up gazing into those dark, haunted eyes.

I want all of her, forever.

Easy, boy. I force myself back to reality. You don’t even know where she’s taking you. After that scene at the party, kissing you might be the last thing on her mind.

I take a breath, trying to stay in control. She’s just a girl, I tell myself. But the words have barely formed in my mind when I’m struck with how ridiculous it sounds.

Even now, I know. Brittany Ray will never be just some girl to me.

I reach out and take her hand.

Brit flinches at my touch, tripping on the rocky shore. Damn. I quickly pull her up before she falls.

“I got you,” I say, self-conscious. I should let go, I know, but my hand has a life of its own: it closes around hers, lacing my fingers through hers.

“Thanks,” she whispers. She glances over at me shyly, and I catch her eyes, struck dumb all over again just at the sight of her.

I feel like a kid again, like I’ve never even held a girl’s hand. My heartbeat is skittering, my whole body feels alive with panic, but still, there’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be. The beach is empty, we’re all alone. Just for a moment, she’s mine.

I smile at her, so full of gladness just to be here with her. Brit stares back, like a deer in the headlights, but she doesn’t let go of my hand.

Thank God she doesn’t let go.

I clear my throat, awkward. “So, Susie, tell me about yourself,” I say, trying to sound casual. “What brings you to Beachwood Bay?”

“I’m just passing through.” Brit replies slowly “I’m… really from the city. My parents have a place there. I’m starting fashion school soon.”

I turn in surprise. “Oh yeah?” Fashion school. I should have guessed. She’s always wearing these cool, unique outfits. It never occurred to me that she had made them for herself. I play along with the story she’s building. “What do your folks do?”

“My mom’s a designer, too,” Brit replies, and I swear I hear a twist of something sad in her voice. “And my dad… he’s just a regular guy. He works in an office, but he’s always home for dinner at night.”

“Sounds nice,” I take a long breath, just imagining that fantasy. Ordinary parents, a simple, normal life. “My parents are pretty regular too.” I say, They’re teachers. We live in the middle of the suburbs, with a dog and a minivan.”

“What’s your dog’s name?” Brit asks.

“Hans Solo.” I reply without thinking.

She giggles. “You’re a Star Wars geek, huh?”

I can feel my cheeks flush. “Yup.”

But she doesn’t say anything cutting, just falls silent again. Comfortable.

I walk beside her, just enjoying the feel of her slim hand in mine. Even though we’re both telling lies here, it feels somehow like we’re being more truthful than ever. Maybe you can tell more about someone from their daydreams than anything real in their life. Already, I know that Brit wishes she had a normal family, that she dreams of going to design school, that she wants a father who’s home after work every night. I don’t know the details of her real life, but knowing this imaginary one seems even more intimate: a secret she’s only sharing with me.

Maybe the confession is too much for her, because Brit suddenly speaks up, her voice bright and loud. “But enough about everyone else,” she announces. “Tell me about you. Favorite ice cream flavor.”

“You know that.” I shoot her a sideways look. “I order it every time.”

“Chocolate fudge,” Brit laughs.

“And you like those milkshakes, with mint chocolate chip.” I reply.

Brit stops. “How do you know that?” she demands, surprise clear in her voice.

Busted. I give her a bashful grin. “I see things.”

“Like what?” Brit asks.

My heartbeat pounds. “Little things.” I shrug, trying to make it seem casual, and not like I haven’t taken my eyes off her all summer. “Like, you always wear so much black, but your favorite color is purple,” I admit slowly. “And you never keep your hair the same way for more than a week.”

“Oh.” Brit looks embarrassed.

Now I’ve made her feel uncomfortable. Why the hell did you have to say that? “I’m not stalking you, I promise,” I add quickly. “I just notice you. I can’t not.”

Brit doesn’t look at me, her expression impossible to read. I wish for a moment she was like the other girls I’ve know: their thoughts written clear as day across their faces, everything obvious, and right there to see. But that’s what makes Brit so special. Nobody else is such a mystery to me. Nobody can surprise me, the way she does.