When We Kissed Page 7

  Last I checked the girl Ashley knows is the same girl who refuses to leave the city for college because the thought of being so far away from her memories terrifies her, yet those same memories leave her petrified of deep emotional connections after suffering the excruciating pain that came as a result.

  She knows that girl. Ashley knows me.

  Whatever’s really bothering her must be a doozy. The pretzel I was all set to shove in my mouth slips through my fingers. I drop the rest, giving her my undivided attention.

  “Where’s this coming from?”

  “Nowhere.” She shrugs, ducks her head. Blond ringlets I spent hours creating with my new flat iron fall around her face. “I’m being stupid.”

  Lie. I know her as well as she knows me.

  Averted gaze—to the right this time.

  Lying.

  “Phew, thought I was gonna have to be all real friends keep it real and say that myself.” That makes her smile, like I knew it would, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. I’ll let her off the hook. Sort of. “Whatever it is, I’m here, just so you know.”

  She blinks back tears. “I know.”

  “So this is where the pretty girls are hiding.”

  We both startle, me more so because someone’s fingers are a little too close to the string of my top. This cover-up isn’t much of a deterrent rom the foolishness of horny boys. I barely suppress a scream when I realize I’m an inch away from being lips to navel with our intruder. Even after my eyes connect with the face, it takes a minute to register exactly who is all up in my personal space.

  Wyatt Porterfield.

  Nice guy, goes to a rival. Son of a popular sportscaster, shares his dad’s charisma and finely chiseled jaw, along with his ballerina mother’s smooth butterscotch complexion. Wyatt’s parents are local celebrities, so he’s used to invites into enemy territories. Not too hard on the eyes if you don’t mind a smattering of baby fat here and there. His clothes camouflage most of it. What they don’t, he covers with personality and loads of confidence. Wyatt’s not my type, but I can see his appeal to other girls.

  I also see he’s taking a liberal gawk at my cleavage, not bothering to pretending otherwise. “Mind if I join?”

  I give the zipper of my cover-up a self-conscious tug.

  Twenty bucks says he’s the reason J.J. asked about me.

  “Absolutely. I’m in desperate need of a Coke. Hang here, keep Simone company,” she offers, heedless to my silent plea to stay put. Unfortunately, Ashley hasn’t put the pieces together as quickly. Moments like this, I swear she’s a proverbial blonde. “What?” she ask, then mouths sorry once my glare penetrates her thick skull.

  “I’ll go. You should answer that,” I pointing to her phone vibrating on the table.

  I stand. She settles back in her seat.

  Wyatt steps closer. “I’ll go with you.”

  “Um . . .”

  Yeah, that’s the best I can come up with. Say yes, he’ll think I want his attention for the rest of the night. A no proves I’m the stuck-up snob guys think I am. That’s the thing about turning down so many dates. Eventually, you come with a warning label.

  Then again, I already have the reputation, right? How much harm can I add at this point? I could make a mad dash for the door. Problem is this cover-up also won’t ward off hypothermia for more than six seconds. Even if I somehow manage to slip back into my best pair of Sevens and my way too thin, stupid-cute sweater I have stuffed inside the duffle under my chair, I won’t be dressed warmly enough to escape without giving Wyatt the brush-off.

  Without another word, I head for the makeshift bar, because really, is there a way to come out of this a winner? As consolation, I weave between people who aren’t really in my way on the off chance I can shake him, Just my luck, J.J. chooses this moment to acknowledge my presence with a strictly platonic, albeit dazzling smile. I swear that boy is Idris Elba’s love child. I return the gesture, halfheartedly.

  Bridgette rolls her eyes.

  Ashley won’t be the only one giving her the stink-eye from now on.

  “You cost a bunch of guys some cash when you walked in tonight.”

  “Why is that?”

  “They took bets. You hardly ever show for anything.”

  Does he really believe sharing this information will flatter me? Because, it doesn’t. I mean, yeah, I’m usually a no-show and it’s nice to know people want to see you, or whatev, but the idea of guys taking bets on anything I do, or don’t do feels . . . icky.

  “What about you? How much did you lose?”

  Wyatt clasps my hand, slowing my hurried steps, then taps me on the hip with his other. His sudden nearness erases too much of our breathing room for my liking. I jerk free, round on him, ready to give him the business.

  He holds his hands up in peace.

  “Not a penny,” he assures. “Didn’t make any, either. I just hoped.”

  That last word saved him.

  “That’s . . . sweet.” I mean that. The boy really isn’t hard on the eyes. Yeah, holding his hand feels more Tea Time with Will Ferrell than Dinner and Dancing with Ryan Gosling—potentially fun, but not necessarily exciting—I appreciate knowing he didn’t use his allowance to treat me like a racehorse.

  “So, look, I was wondering if maybe we could hang out tonight, get to know one another better?” he asks as we squeeze our way in at the bar.

  Wyatt may not have been on my shortlist but . . . perhaps there’s room for consideration. Besides, like it or not, my list dwindled by fifty percent just in the last ten minutes. At this rate, I won’t meet my goal, amended or otherwise, until I’m eligible to collect social security. Maybe he’ll be the one to pleasantly surprise me.

  “Maybe we could—”

  “Two beers and a Coke, dude. Anything else?” Wyatt directs my way, cutting off my reply as the guy doling out the drinks walks over.

  Points off for ordering first. “I don’t drink.”

  “Beers are for me. This way, I won’t have to come back for a while. Half hour, at least.”

  Sad, how seemingly proud he is of the logic that edged him closer to being an illogical choice for me. Two beers in half an hour?

  I slip my hand away, use it to straighten the already snug bun on top of my head.

  “So, you were about to answer about us hanging out,” he hints, picking up the conversation along with the cups slid his way.

  I trail behind him as he heads back in the direction of our table with a care that should only be used when carrying sleeping babies or ancient artifacts. Take note of how he’s balancing all three in one of his large hands like a seasoned pro.

  Definite turnoff.

  “I don’t know, Wyatt. I stay pretty busy with school and work, so I don’t have lots of free time for other stuff.”

  “Chill, Simone,” he laughs, setting the cups down gently on an empty table situated right at poolside. “I’m not asking you to marry me. We’ll hang out. Talk. You’ll laugh at my jokes, tell me how cute you think I am. All that should be easy. We can catch a movie, maybe go bowling. Nothing too serious. Promise I’ll let you pay and everything,” he adds with a wink.

  I do laugh at that. “How thoughtful of you.”

  “What can I say? I’m all charm.”

  He isn’t, but . . . “So, nothing serious?”

  “I just want a chance to get to know you.”

  Maybe he’s right. Maybe I am making this bigger than it has to be. And if I’m going to gain any ground in Operation Mr. Right Now, I really do need to ease up. Wyatt can be pretty funny, and again, he’s not the ugliest guy in the room. At the very least, he may prove to be some additional distraction since Shawn’s on the fritz.

  Besides, there’s no rule, I have to be around him every time he’s drinking.

  Surely, I can deal until a certain someone moves to Connecticut.

  Maybe. “Let’s just see how tonight goes, okay?”

  He nods, grins. “I can handle that.
So, how you feel about wet hair?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Jesus.

  —Nana’s surefire prayer when nothing else will do.

  Whit

  Ashley’s blood curdling scream alerts everyone within a fifty mile radius what the dumbasses standing around the pool are just figuring out.

  Simone can’t swim.

  How brain dead does a person have to be to watch a girl flailing in the water before they realize she’s in trouble? Took me less than thirty fucking seconds to discern Simone’s textbook signs of struggle: Vertical bobbing, arms splayed wide. Drowning victims rarely make a peep. They can’t. They’re too busy trying not to die.

  I catch a glimpse of Ryan storming in Porterfield’s direction as I shrug out of my jacket, toeing off my boots at the same time. Either that dickhead thinks she was joking after he tossed her in, or he wants the hell beat out of him before anyone can save him.

  Chlorine and contact lenses are not a good mix. Soon as I dive in, the plastic tightens around my retinas, igniting a fire that instantly blurs my vision. I ignore the pain, reluctant to blink.

  Irrational? Maybe, but I’m worried Simone will, I don’t know, disappear or something before I reach her.

  Gauzy white material rises over her face like a transparent veil, fully exposing her bikini-clad body. Eyes closed, she’s the picture of serenity—so much so, I start to second guess myself, think maybe she really is playing possum—

  —until her feet touch the bottom of the pool and her knees buckle.

  Bubbles eke from her slightly parted lips. As if somebody took her batteries out, her shoulders slump like a neglected house plant.

  Scares the shit out of me.

  I cuff her biceps, squeeze. Her eyelids flutter.

  I’m not too late.

  I secure her limp body against mine, her back pressed to my chest, arms wrapped tight. Someone jabs a reach pole next to me. I knock it away. No way am I relying on anyone else to get her out of here. Water in the lungs? Nothing to play with. Sooner she can breathe, the better.

  I kick with everything I’ve got, powering us towards the surface. Water’s not as deep on this end—nine feet, maybe ten, but wet jeans slow me down and what should be a short ascension feels like lazy wading in a concrete swamp.

  Water spews from her mouth as soon as her chin breaks the plane. She sputters, her overtaxed lungs striking her rib cage in furious spasms. Egg beater kicks I learned at summer camp keep us from going under again while I wait for her lungs to clear.

  I adjust my grip, loosen my hold in case the tight grip I have her in is hindering her breathing—a decision I instantly regret.

  A sharp elbow to the ribs is the reward for my effort. She bucks back, nearly head-butting me. Her arms become propellers, causing a tsunami around us as she thrashes wildly for survival. Hysteria must fuel her sudden bout of super human strength because it’s taking everything I’ve got to hang on, leaving me little choice except to lean as far away as possible from her attack until I can safely move us into shallower water.

  The journey is slow-going, but once I’m able to plant my feet, I maneuver our position until our chests meet.

  In a countermove that would make our wrestling coach proud, Simone locks her legs in a vice around my waist. Comes close to doing the same with her arms around my neck, but I slip in a guard, bracketing her head with my hands. Bracing her chin with my thumbs, I lower my head until our noses nearly touch. Another time, another place—with Ashley, of course—this whole position would be pretty damn lovely. Right now, I need Simone to hear and see me.

  “Hey . . . hey, look at me. Listening? I’ve got you. You’re safe,” I rasp, in the most convincing tone I can muster, which I think sounds good, all things considered.

  Unfortunately, we’re not in agreement.

  Simone shakes her head in adamant disapproval.

  “Hel . . . help me! Get me out!” she squeaks, fear seizing the reins on her vocal cords. Tendrils of her hair shoot water bullets straight for my face like the sprinklers Coop and I use to sneak out and dart under at the country club when Mama wasn’t looking. “Please, Whit . . . please . . . don’t let me go.”

  I brush a wisp of her hair from my mouth, shut my eyes. Concentrate on corralling the air stampeding in and out of my lungs. “Wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart. But you gotta trust me, okay?”

  She whimpers.

  Good as a yes for me. I slide a hand under her butt, pulling her snug against the length of my torso. Let the warmth of her skin melt into mine as our bodies suction from the waist up. For the second time, I revel in the sensation of holding my girl’s best friend.

  “Ready?”

  Stark terror, brighter than the sun, illuminates her eyes. Adrenaline spurred by balls-out fear jacks with my nervous system something fierce. Her panic momentarily becomes my panic, an unfamiliar feeling stirring inside my chest, goading me into a fit of worry that something will go freakishly wrong. Simone is already spooked enough without me falling apart, too. One of us needs to hold our shit together.

  I drag in a breath, rally my nerves. Mutter an ironic thanks for Dev’s suppertime antics. Had they not provided extra incentive to appease my girlfriend instead of staying home, Simone might be lying in the bottom of this pool.

  Her sharp nails I’d bet my next allowance are polished some shade of pink gouge my nape, the crisp pain centering my thoughts. Getting us to the edge of the pool is something of a miracle since I can’t tell which of us is shaking more. Every part of my body is amped, cranked somewhere above overload.

  Incidentally, I’m aware what I did, thoughtlessly diving in after her is one of the first things a good instructor would warn not to do. Jumping in to save someone visibly struggling can easily turn into a worse tragedy. A desperate, non-swimmer can easily take you both down.

  “Easy,” I whisper, putting my lips to her ear. Have to shush her about a thousand times before she finally loses some steam. “You’re okay, sweetheart.”

  In a struggle for dominance I’m close to losing, it takes several tugs for me to work the wet fabric of my shirt from her death-grip. I address the real source of her fear, flattening her hand on the tiled edge. Give her a moment to feel the hard surface underneath her palm, further proof she don’t have to go back under. Same way Granddaddy did for me and Coop the first time he took us in the pool. He did it while reminding us the importance of relaxing.

  “Being in this water is different than the other time,” I explain. “There’s no current to drag you under, no danger of debris or gators eyeing you for lunch—just you and those built-in flotation devices flanking your heart. When the two work together, they can deliver you back to safety. Only fear can beat them, if you let it. Whatever air you’ve got, save it. Relax, get to your back. Engage that core, float and flutter. Won’t take much.”

  Simone’s chin quivers.

  Her distress is so palpable, I feel it like a punch in the gut. Tremors rack her body, causing her shoulders to quake as tears burst from her eyes like a breached dam. Heavy sobs—these uncontrolled yelps you’d expect from an abused animal, clamor up her throat and ricochet off of every single surface, barreling back for a direct hit square in the center of my chest. The sound alone is enough to rip me wide open.

  So, yeah . . . that lesson went a whole lot smoother for Granddaddy.

  I slide a hand along her spine, gather her as close as I can, until we’re fused again. Press her face into my neck with the other. Terror. Fear. Elation that comes from realizing you’re alive—I absorb it all the same way her hot tears seep into my already drenched shirt. Let her bawl while I do the only thing that comes to mind.

  Pray.

  Thank you, God.

  I pray Nana’s prayer. On repeat.

  “Pass her up, dude.”

  I don’t. I can’t. Not yet.

  “Let me take her.”

  “She needs a minute,” I argue, my voice breaking under the pressure building inside o
f me.

  What I should’ve said is we need a minute. Gratitude fills my chest—hers? Mine? Maybe both. Whichever, the emotion deems letting Simone go right this second an unviable option.

  Minutes, hours—I have no idea how much time passes. Any concept of time feels meaningless compared to the way Simone clings to my body, our chests pressed so tightly, every one of her sobs constricts my veins.

  “Pass her up, Devereaux.”

  I nod my head, acknowledge the request.

  Nope. Can’t do it. Whoever’s asking needs to stop squeezing my shoulder and back the hell off. Can’t he see I pushed her too hard? Holding her is the only way I can make this right.

  Or, I could if our interloper would let me.

  “C’mon man. Somebody called 911. Ambulance is here,” he continues, murmuring low. Pissed, I open my eyes, intent on setting this guy straight. The sight of my girlfriend kneeled beside his feet douses my anger. J.J. Roman is crouched beside me, his expression stony. “We need to get her out of there.”

  My hackles rise a bit at the use of the word we, since I do believe I’m the one holding the girl. The impulse to maintain my grip is so strong, I consider a move out of J.J.’s reach.

  He reads me like Dr. Seuss, though, tucks his hands under Simone’s armpits. A groan escapes my lips as I loosen the hold I have on my precious bounty.

  Hefting myself out wearing waterlogged jeans that hang heavily on my hips is a task. Ashley wraps her hands around my bicep, not really helping, but trying all the same. She catches me in a fierce hug as soon as I stagger to my feet, mindless of her dry clothes. The slick tiles rob us of stability and we struggle for our footing when I accept a towel someone passes my way.

  Clarity blossoms like Mama’s Morning Glorys under the first rays of dawn. Noises, unmuted, reverberate in a cacophony of sound. Yelling. Cursing. The undeniable smack of fists finding their targets. I search for the source, catch the slightly blurred vision of Ryan handling the jackass.