I can still taste the sweetness of pina colada in my mouth, but it doesn’t mask the ache that’s growing in my stomach. How can bliss and nausea both happen at the same time?
“It doesn’t look like much yet,” I say, gripping the key, leaning my hip into the door for support.
“What do you mean?” He’s beside me, closer than he’s been before. So close I’m looking up at the gold stubble along his jaw. And I can smell his neck.
We could still turn around. And what would he say if I told him I wanted to go back to the party? He’d think I was crazy for dragging him out here, but there are worse things than having people think you’re crazy. Losing yourself is worse.
I twist my wrist and jingle my bracelets, but I can’t remember what they’re warning me against now. Not boys. Not sex. Something worse. Getting walked all over.
But this is different. I’m choosing this.
Reed’s staring at me now, like I really am crazy.
“I’ve only done the water,” I say. “And the water is just the background.”
“You already said that. But the way you described it before—it didn’t sound like just background.” He pushes his glasses up, and the glare from the streetlamp disappears. His eyes are warm and serious. If I kissed him, we might be able to call it a day. I look at his lips. I’m pretty sure he would kiss me back.
I slide my key into the door and twist it, and with the
The moonlight follows us in, pouring through the sitting room windows, soaking the tall white walls and making them glow. His face is nearly blank, but I see it in the slight widening of his eyes as he looks from chandelier to French doors, from vases to china cabinet. Too much glass. Too much crystal.
“No offense,” he whispers, “but why are you working for minimum wage?”
I take off my sandals for the second time this evening to stall. I don’t have an answer that won’t embarrass us both, based on his reaction. “I really love custard?”
It works. He laughs, and the tension lifts just enough for me to keep going. “My room is upstairs,” I say. I lead him without turning on the foyer lights. He doesn’t need to know that it turns from tomb to morgue when illuminated.
Up. I’m taking him up. My heart beats a little faster with each step.
I reach my room at the end of the hall, put my hand on the doorknob, and turn to him. He looks too big in this hallway, his shoulders filling up the space between the silver-framed photographs that line the walls. I’ve never noticed his shoulders before. Maybe it was the apron. He comes to a stop close enough that I could reach out and put my palm on his chest. I want to do it so I can both touch him and push him away.
“You’re nervous,” he says. “Am I doing something to make you nervous?”
“No. This is just the first time I’ve showed it to someone. And it’s probably not like what you’re expecting. It doesn’t actually look like water. It’s more like . . .” Of course, I can’t find the words, which is why I brought him here in the first place. Words can’t become the colors and curves and rhythms of waves.
He leans toward me and puts his hand over mine, pulling back on the door so I can’t open it. His neck is only an inch from my lips. He smells fresh but warm, like soap mingled with something indefinable—his heartbeat?
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t want you to show me if you don’t want to.”
I stare into his eyes. Do I want to? Or am I getting talked into this too? I turn to look at his hand over mine. His grip has relaxed, not pulling anymore, and he’s waiting for me to decide. In or out.
In.
I turn the knob and push. Panic spirals inside me. I anchor my hand to the door frame to keep the room from spinning and let my eyes follow Reed to the center, where my bed and dresser have been pushed. I focus on his face. I don’t want to but I have to, because if he doesn’t understand, I’ll see it now, in the way his eyes flit over the four walls I’ve spent weeks painting. And then I won’t be able to just like him because he’s handsome and he smells beautiful and the feel of his skin on mine makes my heart race.
But his face tells me nothing. He turns a slow circle, then walks to the far wall to where his shoes crinkle the tarp that lines the room. He lifts his hand, and his fingers trace a turquoise current to the corner, then down the length of the next wall as it rises and falls.
“It looks like it’s moving,” he says, voice low and soft.
He feels it. I lean into the door frame.
“How did you do this?” he asks. “I mean, have you seen something like this somewhere?” He stops turning and looks at me.
I shake my head. “It’s my idea. I’ve been obsessed with murals for a while. It just took a few years of begging for my mom to give in. I like the idea of making art that wraps around you. Or me, I guess.”
“Amazing,” he whispers. “Why the ocean?”
“I don’t know.” I fold my arms. The panic is gone, but I’m suddenly cold. “It’s endless, but hidden too. And something to hide in.”
He’s staring at me, not moving, not talking, and I hear my words. I don’t talk this way to anyone but Mo.
“What are you hiding from?” he asks.
“What?”
“You said something to hide in. I was just wondering . . . nothing,” he says. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. I . . . I’m going to paint coral on the lower half of that wall behind you and the left side of this one.” I tap the wall beside me with my fingertips and pretend I’m not changing the subject. “And I’m still researching ocean life for the rest. It’s taking me too long to decide, but I’m paranoid about it looking cheesy.”
“I can’t imagine you painting something cheesy,” he says. “Not overtop of this.”
I can’t believe he’s in my room, beside my bed, leaning against my dresser like he belongs here.
“Why are you standing way over there?” he asks. “Isn’t the idea that it surrounds you?”
“Yeah,” I say, leaving the safety of the door frame. But once I’m close to him, I won’t be able to really see him anymore. No distance, no objectivity.
I walk to where he’s standing, so we are staring at the same blue wall. I think hard for something to say, anything to say, but then I feel the lightest pressure of his hand on my waist and abandon hope. I will not be coming up with words. His other hand is on the other side of my waist, and I can smell him again. I feel the faint tickle of his breath on my neck and wonder if my legs are going to give out. Is that just his breath, or do I feel his lips brushing the side of my neck? I’m almost sure it’s his mouth when my phone buzzes from inside my purse and I jump several inches. He takes a step back and lets his hands drop.
“Sorry,” I mutter, digging into my purse. “It’s probably my parents.”
I’m wrong. I glare at Mo’s name on my phone. I’m going to kill him.
“Do you need to get it?” Reed asks.
I shake my head and drop it back into my purse. “Just a friend. I’ll call him later.”
“Are you sure?”
He is almost smiling, his lips perfectly shaped and parted a little. I glance up at his eyes and realize he saw me staring at his mouth. I nod. “I’m sure.”
He moves to close the space between us, but the phone buzzes again before he can reach me.
I close my eyes to hide the frustration. “It’s him again.” I check just to be sure. Yeah.
“Wait, the one who’s moving?” Reed asks.
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you take it?” he says.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
I press talk but keep watching Reed. He walks over to the window, the single break in the waves, and waits.
