“And the panties are see-through,” he confirms, biting down on his lips to catch his smile.
Closing my eyes, I whisper, “When I imagined being in your arms naked, it looked pretty different.”
My ears feel hot. I don’t know where this honesty is coming from. I never say what’s on my mind. Especially to strangers. Especially boy strangers. But Joe feels familiar.
“You imagined being in my arms, naked?” He raises an inquisitive eyebrow.
“Hmm, maybe once or twice.”
“And you thought a good way of indicating that to me was by running for the hills the first time we met?”
I don’t miss the irritation in his voice. Cinders of what must have been anger.
“I thought you and Pippa were hitting it off. I couldn’t stand the idea of watching you two . . . I don’t know, flirting. Because I liked you. And I never like anyone. I came back to look for you a few minutes later.”
I’m still in his arms as we’re having this conversation, wrapped in a fuzzy plaid orange-and-purple blanket.
“You thought I was hitting it off with Mainstream?” He sounds surprised . . . and a little smug.
“Well, yeah.”
“Dare I ask if you were jealous?”
“I plead the Fifth.”
“We’re not in America right now,” he points out.
I shrug.
I want him to tell me that he likes me, not Pippa. Instead, he says, “I went after you too.”
“The pharmacist told me.” I nod.
“And now you’re here.”
“And now you’re here.” I sit up and turn my body toward him so I can look at him properly. My butt hits something on the sand, and I pluck it from underneath me. It’s the black canvas bag that was sitting by the fire earlier this evening. I pick it up. My fingers are shaking. My breath catches in my throat.
“Of course.”
“Weird reaction to a bag.” He frowns. “I’m going to need some context.”
“I read some of your story.” I pass him the backpack, feeling myself blushing. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. It was—”
“Terrible?”
“—exhilarating,” I finish at the same time.
He studies me a little warily, drumming his long fingers on his knee.
“It needs some work, but the bones are there, I think. It’s why I’m here, actually. In Europe. To write a novel.”
“You can’t write a novel in America?” My question comes out like an accusation. It sounds like he is going to be here for a while, and I’m flying back in less than twenty-four hours. Nice work, fate.
“Technically, I can.” He drops the backpack by his side. “But I needed to get away. Home’s been intense the last couple decades.”
“You’re nineteen,” I point out.
“Good math.” He winks. “I’ve had a pretty rough start.”
So he has one of those families. One that doesn’t have cute Christmas traditions and go surfing together. Where Mom and Dad don’t slow dance in the middle of the kitchen. Nothing like mine.
I rub my thumb over my chin. “Define rough start.”
“I will. When we have more time and run out of fun things to talk about. Let’s leave our troubles at the door tonight.” He tucks away another lock of wet hair from my forehead, and it’s the most romantic and heartbreaking thing anyone has ever done to me. More than when Sean took me to prom and then to the Ritz-Carlton after. The night I lost my virginity and the little interest I still had in boys.
“Okay?” he asks.
“Okay.”
“Don’t go anywhere,” Joe warns. “I’ll go get your dress. Beige, right?”
He stands up and kicks the sand off his jeans. Some of it gets into my eyes, but I’m too stunned to care. “You noticed me? I mean, before?”
He tousles his hair, flashing his earth-shattering grin. “I was about to come over when you were by the fire. My friends told me not to bother. That I was imagining you. I may or may not have thought I saw you at least a dozen times the last couple weeks. Active imagination.” He knocks on the side of his head.
Satisfaction floods me. I did the exact same thing. Imagined him in thick crowds.
“Then I heard you crying for help in the sea, and there was no doubt. You have a hot-girl voice. You should narrate books or something. Don’t go,” he says again as he goes to retrieve my dress, leaving me with all this information and my heart in my throat.
Basking in the compliment, I use my alone time to run my fingers through my tangled hair and wipe the runny mascara from my eyes. It’s going to be hard to seduce him when I probably look like a swamp creature. When he comes back, he is holding my dress and my purse, where I keep my cash and phone. He disposes both of them next to his backpack.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Are you feeling better?” He plops beside me.
“Eons better.” I shove my arms through my sleeves, dressing quickly. My body is pale and slender, peppered with freckles everywhere the sun touches.
“Good. I met Mainstream by the fire and told her you were with me and that you were fine.”
“What did she say?”
“That I’m fine too,” he deadpans.
I laugh.
We catch up on these last couple of weeks. I tell him about Barcelona. He tells me about Sevilla and Madrid. He’s here with three friends. All four of them are from Boston. The rest of his party is going back to their respective colleges at the end of the week. Joe is staying in Spain a little longer, then will go backpacking through Europe alone in hopes of finishing his book. “Romania, Poland, Hungary, Italy, and France.” He uses his fingers to count the countries. “I mapped it all out, including the hostels and bed-and-breakfasts I’ll be staying in. Shouldn’t take me more than four months to write the entire thing.”
Four months? He can’t be on a different continent for four months. He can’t be single and ridiculously attractive for four months. He can’t just continue existing like we never happened.
Only he can, and there is nothing I can do about it.
Tucking my crazy in, I decide not to broach the subject of us. The conversation flows, despite my crushing disappointment. I tell him about growing up in San Francisco. About Renn and his surfing, and about Mom’s gallery in the Castro. He tells me about his upbringing. Two Catholic parents, one sibling, and an ocean of unsolved issues.
I tell him about my art.
This is the part where I expect him to freak out. It’s not every day you meet an eighteen-year-old who designs headstones as a hobby.
“It’s less sinister than it sounds.” I lick my lips, already on the defense.
“You design headstones, not kill babies for a living.” His eyes sparkle with amusement. “But I’m sure there’s a story behind it.”
“When I was, like, eight, my cousin Shauna died in a boating accident. She was only fifteen. My mom wanted me to attend the funeral, but Dad thought I was too young. There was a lot of back-and-forth between them. In the end, they left it for me to decide. I wanted to go. Shauna and I had been close. It was the first time I’d visited a cemetery. I remember looking around and thinking, All these headstones look the same. How is that possible? We’re so different from each other when we’re alive. Why are our personalities reduced to nothing when we’re dead?