Depths (17 page)

“Of course.” Cece takes most things in stride, but anything feminist gets her fired up, and the idea of this asshole branding Maren with his name has even my usually calm sister pissed.

I look at Deo and we meet eyes. I announce loudly, “Hey, Deo, I gotta give you that board wax. The stuff from Hawaii. It’s in my car.” The girls look at me in confusion, but Deo doesn’t need to hear another word.

He’s already kissing Whit on the cheek and heading to the driveway with me. “Be right back!” he calls.

When we’re standing in the driveway, Deo holds his hands out. “Alright. What’s the plan?”

“I’m gonna rip that asshole Jason apart with my bare hands,” I snarl. Unlike the girls, Deo doesn’t get all freaked out when I’m pissed. He actually looks fairly amused.

“Dude, you get so
damn Incredible Hulk when you’re pissed. This is exactly why you’ve got to let it out more often. You know? You’re always so damn responsible. You need to be crazy once in awhile.” He leans back on his Jeep and jerks his thumb at his board. “Remember when me and you said we’d shred it in New Zealand?”

I nod. Maren told me to make a bucket list, right? I guess I’ve had a partial one for a long time.

“Right. We should.” I clench and unclench my fists, wishing I had something to punch. Like Jason’s smug-as-shit face.

“Top five things you gotta do before you get settled down and turn into an old, fat Mexijew, and say them without thinking too much. Go.” Deo points at me and I don’t think, just say what comes off the top of my head.

“Beat the shit out of someone.” I hold up one finger. “Easy. I’ve even got a name for that one. New Zealand. Let’s do it. Your bachelor party, alright? I know you’re not gonna be able to wait much longer to make an honest woman of Whit. So that’s two. Uh, huge tat, and it’s about damn time. That’s three. Four? I want to cliff dive. Yep. Alright, one more?”

I’m going to say that I want to climb some badass mountain or skydive or something, but Deo cuts in.

“Seriously, man? Five is get your balls in order and ask Maren on a real date once you beat her boyfriend to a pulp. Then you two fuck like crazy animals for, like, five days straight. Because, I don’t want to know your business with Kensley, but I don’t believe a girl that incredibly stupid in every way could have been good in bed. Sorry. I’m just not buying it.” Deo’s shaking his head like he feels bad for me.

“Are you kidding me? Kensley and I had sex all the time,” I protest.

“I never said you didn’t have a lot of sex. But, c’mon. Admit it. It was subpar.” He raises his eyebrows and shakes his head. “Tell Papa Deo. Your sex was shitty for, like, five years. I know it because Tracey rocked your world, and that was just a one night thing. You didn’t even know that girl.”

Tracey? How crazy is it that I thought she was the one? As good as the sex with her was, it didn’t even begin to do to me what some heavy making out with Maren did: which was throw me into a crazed state of near-constant lust. And, Deo’s right. Sex with Tracey was better than it was with Kensley.

If kissing Maren was better than sex with Tracey, which was better than sex with Kensley, what the hell would sex with Maren be like?

It’s like some kind of pornographic Algebra problem, and it makes me feel like a total sack for even wondering.

“I…it’s not like that, alright? She’s…Maren is…” I can’t find the words.

Deo unfolds his arms and his jaw goes slack. “No shit. No shit. You already screwed her? You sly fucking dog!”

I rub a hand over my face. “How do you always manage to be a bigger dick than I imagined possible? I did
not
have sex with Maren.”

“You did not have sexual relations with that woman?” Deo laughs. “You’re so full of shit. I can see it on your face. I know you, man. I even know your lies.”

“I know you think you know everything, but…you don’t, asshole. We, uh, we may have fucked around a little, no sex, though. But we were so damn drunk. And we both admitted it was a mistake.” Or, in my case, I told a really solid lie about how it was a mistake, and she seemed relieved to have me say that. Much as that sucked, it was probably for the best.

“You’re so into this girl. Just go for it. She’s your number five.” Deo grins and rubs his hands together. “And I need to get you to New Zealand. This is the perfect way to guilt Whit into pushing the wedding up.”

“You’re so damn romantic. Did you ever think there might be a reason she’s running away from this wedding? Like maybe she’s scared to be Mrs. Beckett?” It sounds dickish, but it’s fairly impossible to get Deo down.

Which he proves by snorting at my suggestion. “She’s dying to be Mrs.
Deo
Beckett. She’s just like you, man. Love-scared. Not me, though. I’m a natural born lover, and I will snare Whit in my love web. Mark my words. Natural. Born. Lover.” He points his thumbs at his chest.

“More like a natural born asshole.” I toss him the board wax that I really did need to give him. “So, if I need bail after I kick Jason’s ass, you got me, right?”

Deo throws an arm around my shoulders. “As long as you don’t tell Whit about the Mrs. Deo Beckett joke, we’re solid. She’s all ‘empowered woman, not losing myself, yaddayadda.’ And remember to keep your awesome fury in check, Hulk. You wanna scare the asshole, not kill him.”

I nod and we head back into the house where Whit and my loud, obnoxious family wait to eat with us. Conversation bounces from one subject to another like mad, and the food is beyond delicious, but I feel like I can’t hear or taste a thing.

My mind keeps flipping between two scenarios. In one, I’m beating the shit out of Jason Nucci and making damn sure he doesn’t think about hurting Maren again.

In the second, I’m doing wild, crazy things with Maren for hours on end in my bed.

I can’t keep this girl out of my brain, but I realize it’s probably because it’s been so long since I got laid. I mean, I guess it hasn’t been that long in the grand scheme, but sex was pretty much a daily thing with Kensley, and now it’s been…too long. Much as I think I want her, I know any relationship is probably the recipe for rebound disaster. Good thing that by the time I make scenario number one happen, scenario number two will probably be out of the picture.

But I tell myself I don’t care if Maren will most likely hate me for kicking her boyfriend’s ass. I can acknowledge that dating her is a stupid idea, but there’s no part of me that can be okay with seeing her get hurt.

I make a decision to get going on my damn list so I can keep thoughts of Maren as far out of my head as possible.

I’m wishing myself a lot of luck on that one.
 

I pull the large spiral-bound pad out of my bag and open it to the first page. The pages are heavy and still stiff because, even though I bought his sketch book two years ago, it’s the first time I’ve taken the time open it. I clasp a binder clip to the bottom of the pad to keep it open in the persistent wind and pull out the fresh pack of oil-based sanguine pencils, taking the time to roll one back and forth in my palm, feeling the familiarity of the rough wood before poising it to the pad.

I used to draw daily, once upon a time. It was something I’d done since I was a kid. Almost every photograph from when I was a little girl features me with a crayon, paint brush or pencil in my hand, creating something.

But then real-life happened and the instances of me feeling creative, or even thinking about expending the kind of energy creating something takes, just dwindled and faded away. The last time I’d drawn anything at all was first semester, when I still had hope things would change for the better and all my best-laid plans would finally work out. At least while I was still in school, I had an excuse to waste time on things like art. I made sure to work in some art class each semester into my schedule.

Until I couldn’t afford those extra classes anymore…and then had to drop out of school altogether.

I take a deep breath of the thick ocean air and start outlining. A rough uneven line to represent the shore, jagged peaks for rocks and squiggly lines for calm water. The surf isn’t great this morning, and one by one, I’ve watched the surfers give up for the day and make their way up the sand.

I dig my toes in the sand and try to grasp just how much my life has changed from the time when I was a hopeful student with a shiny new set of classes and fulfilling future in front of her to a depressingly single, underemployed loser living with her alcoholic dad. Instead of getting bogged down in the inevitable suckiness of my life in general, I focus on this moment in particular and remember exactly why I used to frequent this spot on the beach when I needed inspiration. It’s perfect because the main crowds stay further south since the sand is a little rocky over here, but I don’t mind it. I just put down a double layer of towels and I’m good. Alone, peaceful, perfect.

I did second-guess whether I should go to a different beach or even sit up on the pier this morning because now I know where Cohen’s place is—it’s less than one hundred yards from where I’m sitting now. If it weren’t for the huge rock formation next to me, I’d be able to see a straight shot to his gorgeous home.

It was a risk picking this spot. But a calculated one.

Maybe if I run into him, it’ll quash some of this awkwardness between us. We still haven’t had a normal conversation since his tongue was on my neck and his hands were…Christ…maybe seeing him will only make the awkwardness worse.

I press my pencil back to the pad, but the line is all wrong. It’s too thick and dark and heavy handed. I close my eyes and let the wind swirl through my hair, transforming it to a knotted mess, no doubt, but I’ve got to relax. Since that night at Jason’s place, I’ve been wound tighter than ever. I feel like I wasted so much time on him. And for what? He’s called round the clock. He even texted me that he loved me last night, which I don’t think he ever said to my face.

I didn’t reply.

I can’t.

I just want to forget that Jason and that chapter of my life ever happened.

I need a clean slate.

And a fresh piece of paper. I unclasp the clip and turn to the next page in my sketch pad, smooth it down, and re-clip.
     “Maren?” a voice I know so well says. I pause for a moment, wondering if I imagined it, but the wet droplets collecting on my towel say that, no, it did actually happen. I slowly raise my eyes, taking in the tanned and toned legs, the abs that no one has the right to have—at least if I can’t touch them—and that jet black hair dripping water onto his broad shoulders, down his chest, and… “What are you doing here?”
     I swallow hard. “Here? I’m just drawing.” I hold the pad up as evidence and start to blab like I’m guilty. It’s like I’m outside of my body watching myself act like a huge fool, and there’s nothing at all I can do to stop it. “I know you live nearby. I swear I wasn’t hoping to run into you or anything. Really, I just—”
     “Maren, it’s a public beach, you have just as much of a right to be here as I do. Even if your page is blank.” Cohen winks at me and I want to crumple myself up like a piece of paper to avoid this particularly hellish embarrassment. “Surf is terrible today. Do you surf?” He graciously changes the subject.
     “I do.” I watch the corners of his mouth twitch up into a pleased smile and I feel a flash of satisfaction. “I haven’t in a long time. Jason—” I start to tell him how Jason thought surfing was only for slackers and people with too much time on their hands. He didn’t appreciate how you experience both wild exhilaration and total serenity while in the barrel of a wave. But I decide against talking about Jason to Cohen. “Never mind.”
     “We’ll have to go sometime. I’m out here almost every morning,” Cohen says, running his palm across the smooth surface of his board. I’ve never wanted to be a surfboard so much in my entire life.
     “Absolutely. I’d really like that,” I say, keeping my voice steady and hopefully concealing the raw lust bubbling up inside of me.
     I hold my hand up in an attempt to block out the rising sun when Cohen locks his dark eyes on mine. We stare at each other for what should be an uncomfortable amount of time, but it isn’t, because I’d love to stare at him longer. All the time.

“Listen, Maren. I need to talk to you about something and—”

“Please don’t…” I pause and let my courage build for a few seconds. Which is totally necessary when I’m being faced with Cohen in all his wet, sexy glory about to tell me that the little perfection we had wasn’t good enough after all. It’s the last damn thing I need to hear today. I take a deep breath and dive in. “Don’t say that you regret the other night. Don’t say how it was a mistake, because I can’t take hearing that right now,” I confess.

Maybe it’s too much honesty to lay out here, on a sunny public beach so many nights after our amazing, hot stolen moment, but I can’t keep it inside anymore. He’s got to know.

     “I wasn’t—” Cohen pauses to clear his throat. “I promise you I don’t think it was a mistake.” The sincerity in his voice, combined with the way his eyes rake over me, instantly convinces me that he doesn’t regret the scene in the kitchen.
     I nervously pull my bottom lip in, waiting for him to finish.

“Can we just go somewhere and talk? I have some dry clothes in my car and there’s a place right up the beach with amazing Mexican food if you’re game. I’d really like to buy you lunch.” I let my eyes wander one more time on his exposed stomach, dreading the minute he pulls a shirt on, and nod. “That sounds good.”