Beyond the Rising Tide (8 page)

“This probably isn’t exactly an ideal vacation day for you,” I say instead. “First, getting harangued by an overzealous screenwriter, and now car trouble.”

“Actually, it’s been a great day. And anyway, I’m not on vacation.” He glances at me, then back to his ring. “I came here to work. For a little while.”

“For the summer?”

He purses his lips. “I hope so.”

Even though I only just met him, I hope so too. He seems like someone I’d like to get to know better. “Where are you working?”

“I … I’m not sure yet.”

“So you’re still looking for a job?” I almost tell him to apply at the Chocolate Couture to replace the guy Dad fired yesterday, but I would never hear the end of my sister Sophie’s teasing if I brought in a cute guy for Dad to hire. “What kind of work are you looking for? Maybe I know someone who’s hiring.”

The lines of concentration deepen between his brows as if he’s making a mental inventory of his skills. “I’m good with my hands. Fixing things. And I spent last summer working in a vineyard.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place, then.” I make a sweeping motion with my hand, as though I’m Vanna White presenting a grand prize of vineyard-wrapped hills.

He nods in agreement. “I’m sure I’ll find something.” My window is still down, and he lowers his too. The humid air rushes in, swirling around us, pulling pieces of hair free from my messy bun. He gazes out the window at a passing orchard, watching rows of apple trees fly by. Then he sticks his hand out the window and spreads his fingers to catch the wind. He closes his eyes, like he’s savoring the sensation. And I find my own hand slipping out the window to do the same.

After a minute, he opens his eyes and looks at me. “I wouldn’t have guessed white.”

“White what?”

He tugs gently on my sleeve. “For a chocolate shop uniform.”

My heart gives a little lurch at his touch. “My black apron is on the back seat.” I slide a hand over my stomach, like I’m touching an imaginary apron. “My dad’s shop is like a fine restaurant. Black and white uniforms, stuffy decor, and gourmet chocolates you can’t find anywhere else. And at least with white, stains can be bleached.”

He goes back to catching the wind, appearing to contemplate this. “Wouldn’t it be nice if people could be bleached too?”

I give a breathy laugh. “You mean like your hair?” I can’t quite get over how white his hair is, and how it makes a stark contrast with his dark lashes and eyebrows.

His hand goes to his hair, and he meets my smile. “I didn’t do this. It just … happened.” And then his expression stills, grows serious. “What I mean is,” he says slowly, “what if whenever we were stained, or hurt, scarred, there was some magical liquid that would just … wash it all away?” He says this like he knows there are things I wish I could wash away. Of course he knows, because what person hasn’t done things they regret, or have wounds that never seem to heal? I wonder which of his stains he wishes could be washed away.

“Some people like their stains,” I say. “They wear them like a badge. Proof that they’ve lived and survived. I think some would choose not to use this magical liquid, even if it were available.”

“Would you?” he asks.

I consider his question. What would it mean to have all my pain washed away? If the hurt from my parents’ separation was gone, would it bring them back together? No—it would only change me so I wouldn’t be bothered by it anymore. And what about my grief over the death of the boy who saved my life? It would be a relief to not feel it anymore. But would I keep searching for his identity if it didn’t hurt so much? Probably not. And his family would never know what became of him. But maybe they wouldn’t care, because they would use the magical liquid too. Our entire society would be full of apathetic, uncaring people. Because it’s what hurts us that makes us human. It’s the pain that makes us compassionate.

“No,” I say after careful deliberation. “The price would be too steep.”

“What if it were free?”

“Nothing is really free.”

He seems to ponder my words for a long moment, then frowns and nods in agreement. At least I think he’s agreeing, until he says, “Maybe things are just harder to see when they don’t have a price tag.” His words swirl around with the air in the car until I see my exit approaching.

“How much farther am I taking you?” I ask. “My exit’s coming up.”

He scratches the back of his head like he’s really not sure where he’s going. “Go ahead and take it.”

I take the exit and head down the ramp. “Where am I taking you anyway? Home?”

He shakes his head. “I’m still working on that too. I only got here this morning.”

“So you don’t have a place to stay?” At the bottom of the ramp I turn right and pull over.

My concern seems to amuse him, because there’s a glint of humor in his eyes when he says, “I have a place. I just haven’t found it yet.” He pulls the handle and swings the door open. “Thanks for the ride. I can get out here.”

“But there’s nothing around here.” The shops on the beachfront are still a mile away, and in the opposite direction, waves of orchards and vineyards stretch endlessly. “At least let me take you to the beachfront.”

He gets out and looks around, like someone at a fork in the road, debating whether to go left or right. “I think I’ll visit some of the vineyards, see if they need help.” He shuts the door, and I feel panicky, like it will be the worst thing in the world if he walks away and I never see him again. But he doesn’t walk away. He gazes at me through the open window for one, two, three breaths. There’s a strange charge in the air, like a thunderstorm is hovering overhead, but the clouds above us are white and wispy. He rests his arm on the passenger door and leans toward me. “Can I come see you later? At the chocolate shop?”

I nod, trying to pace the up-and-down bobbing of my head so I don’t appear too eager.

“Maybe we can get some dinner when you get off work. That is, if I find a job before then, and get paid. I’m sort of short on cash.” He shuts his eyes and grimaces, like he regrets this admission.

“It’s okay,” I say, biting my lip to keep my smile in check. “I could pay or—”

He shakes his head. “I’m not going to be one of those guys your mom was complaining about. If I can help it, I’m keeping chivalry alive and well.”

“I’m a twenty-first century kind of girl. And I have a healthy savings account.”

“And I’m a twenty-first century kind of guy with a healthy ego.”

So much for keeping my smile in check. I feel it spreading across my face with abandonment. “Dutch?”

“American. I’m buying.”

I slide my gearshift into drive and stifle a laugh. “Come by later. We’ll figure something out.”

His gaze lingers on my face for a moment longer, and then he nods and straightens, waving before he turns and walks away.

The Chocolate Couture is packed when I walk in, tourists come to top off their lunch with something indulgent. As I step into the bustle, a familiar peace washes over me. Cold air falls from the vent above the entrance, but inside the shop it always feels warm to me. Maybe it’s the walls that are painted the color of melted caramel and cherry ganache, or the sweet air, as though the dust motes are coated in sugar.

Paige wonders why I spend so much time here. It’s because the only time I feel truly calm is when I’m immersed in busy work. Work is where I can forget about heroes who can’t be identified, parents who can’t be reconciled, and a longing for an ex-boyfriend that can’t be satisfied. I can get lost in the flurry of tasks, in tastes and aromas, in customers’ euphoric expressions when they taste something I’ve created. But today, something is on my mind that I don’t want to leave behind. Kai. His great smile, and his empty pockets, and our penciled-in plans for tonight.

Dad is at the register ringing someone up. He’s wearing his usual white dress shirt, black tie, and black apron, and a sheen of sweat shines beneath his thinning blond hair. There’s no one else behind the glass counters to attend the swarm of customers, and as I’m wondering where Paige and my sister Sophie are, I see them near the display window, bickering about something.

“Your dad said to work the counter,” Paige is insisting, hand on hip.

Sophie ignores her and continues with her meticulous arranging of gift boxes on a display shelf. A silky sheet of cropped black hair hides her face. Her natural color is showing at the roots, golden blonde like mine.

“Just because he’s your dad,” Paige says, “doesn’t mean you don’t have to—”

“Don’t you have something else to do?” Sophie says without looking at her. “You’re cramping my artistic process.”

“This isn’t art!” Paige grabs the boxes from Sophie’s arms and shoves them on the shelf in two untidy stacks. “Now come help me!”

Sophie is unfazed. “I think the Sundries Shack is hiring down the street. Why don’t you go work there, and you can pile things into baskets all day.” She rearranges the boxes, taking her sweet time, while Paige groans in exasperation. Sophie is only fifteen, but somehow manages to rule the place.

“I’ll help you, Paige,” I call out.

She looks at me, noticing me for the first time since I walked in, and releases a sigh of relief. “Finally. Someone who actually knows how to work.”

I follow Paige around the glass display case and greet Dad with a smile as I pass.

“Hey, Avery,” he says, “thanks for coming in on such short notice.”

“No problem.” I consider telling him about Mom’s manic behavior, but I don’t want to worry him. The lows always follow the highs, and it’s almost time for her to crash.

I tie on my black apron and get to work. The rest of the afternoon is filled with hazelnut truffles and mint squares and “Does that have nuts in it?” and “I’ll take three of those” and “Can I sample the bacon chocolate bars?” and “Wow, who knew curry and chocolate made such a great combination!”

Things finally slow down as the late afternoon sun breaks through the storefront windows. Dad takes the opportunity to fix a wonky hinge on the front door. Sophie goes to the kitchen to make a batch of caramel, and Paige and I take care of the last customers of post-lunch rush.

As I’m ringing someone up, the door chimes. I glance up to see Tyler, the sunlight behind him making his edges all soft. My knees go soft too, and I brace my hands on the counter to steady myself. He hasn’t been in here since we broke up, and I wonder what he’s doing here now. He lingers at the front of the shop, studying a display of chocolate-covered mangos, but from the way he keeps casting glances my way, I know he’s here to see me.

The lady I’m ringing up is asking something, but I don’t know what, because all I can think is that maybe my appearance at the beach last night had a bigger effect on Tyler than I thought, and he’s here to reconcile.

“Miss?” the lady asks.

“Sorry, what?”

“What time do you close? I’d like to bring my granddaughter back tomorrow night.”

“Oh. We close at seven.”

She nods and takes her box of assorted chocolates out the door, stepping carefully around Dad, who’s still kneeling on the floor tinkering with the hinge. Now that I’m free, Tyler approaches me with slow, measured steps as if he’s deciding what to say on his way. I grip the edge of the counter for added support, like a feeble old lady leaning on a walker.

He comes up and spreads his hands on the counter. He’s wearing a black wetsuit, and his dark hair is still damp, like he just waded out of the sea. His jade-green eyes look right into mine, and I think my heart might beat right out of my chest.

“Hey,” he says in a gentle voice that makes me feel even weaker. “How you doing?”

“Fine.”

He tilts his head and knits his brows, like he’s eager to know what I’m thinking. But it’s more than an expression. It’s a hundred memories. A hundred times I’ve seen that exact look, when he’s broken down my walls and gotten me to confide in him. He leans closer. “You know what I mean. I want to make sure you’re okay … after last night.”

The truth is I’m feeling rather discarded. Like a broken toy tossed in the recycle bin. But I don’t want to get into that, so I slide my hands up on the counter and say, “Really. I’m fine.”

He looks down at our fingers, at the small space between them. Maybe he’s wishing he could touch my hand the way he used to. Or maybe he’s thinking I need to scrub out the cocoa under my nails. “So we’re back to barriers, huh?”

“You’re the one who put them back up, remember?”

He lets out a long sigh, and his cool breath touches my cheeks. It smells like peppermint bark. “Avery,” he says, his tapping index finger betraying how bothered he is. “There’s something I need to say.”

For a second, I think he’s going to lean closer and tell me, “I’m sorry. I was wrong. I regret ending things between us. I want to be here for you while you’re going through all this, and I love you for so many more reasons than just your mad surfing skills.” That’s all it would take for me to throw myself into his arms and tell him all was forgiven. But the words I want him to say don’t come.

Instead, he says, “You don’t have to prove anything to me. If you don’t feel comfortable going in the water, then don’t. I want you to take as much time as you need to get better.” His hands slide toward mine until our fingertips touch. “I meant what I said last night. I care about you. I still have feelings for you, and they’re not going away anytime soon. So do what you need to heal completely, and when you’re okay, I’ll be here waiting.”