The crackle of a roaring fire and beat of deep, bass-filled music pricks my senses, heightening my anxiety, as Vee and I shuffle across the loose beach sand.
This bonfire party is close to the North Carolina shoreline, just a few miles away from campus—and I have to admit, I’m kind of disappointed it’s nighttime. I haven’t been to the beach in ages. Even though Stoney Creek is located near the Florida coast, we never took group fieldtrips anywhere. It was more of a lock-yourself-away-from-the-world-until-you-feel-safe-to-reemerge type deal.
And although my parents own a beach house along the coast of St. Augustine (hence why I was admitted to Stoney in the first place; their little secret place to stash the child who shall not be named, banned from Dartmouth of the elite), I spent far too many tiring days of study at school to visit much.
Now, with the cool night air whipping at my cheeks, destroying the painstakingly grueling hairstyle Vee attempted, having tamed my rebel curls, a surge of homesickness rushes over me with each crash of the waves, amplifying the effect.
Regardless of my discomfort, I love the ocean.
Like, not the way someone says, “Oh, I love the ocean!” This is a serious obsession. I have collected a ridiculous number of killer whale stuffies and shells and anything else ocean-y I could get my hands on since I was a kid. It was always my secret dream to run away from all the pressures of living up to my family’s name to simply buy a cottage on the beach, where I could do whatever the hell I wanted.
I haven’t thought about that fantasy in a long time, though. It was quashed right alongside all the other desires I had before college, when the realization really sunk in that my life was already planned out—my father relaying how after I graduate, we’ll have my match decided and an engagement announcement.
I did appreciate his attempt to make it seem like I was going to be a part of this decision. He said, “we’ll have…” But I knew even then that was just a formality. I may get some say, but ultimately, it will be from a preselected lineup of his approval.
A little piece of me—scratch that, most of me—died that day. Any hopes I had for college—being on my own for the first time, experiencing new, exciting things, freedom—all blown to hell in one single, family brunch.
And I know, it’s not the 1800s; I’m a woman of the twenty-first century who has rights and doesn’t have to bend to my father’s will. Yet, knowing this doesn’t mean one can affect that change. Old money doesn’t work like that. I’m a debutante. A debutante. The word just sounds archaic.
Before my junior year of college, I had a “coming out?
? ball. I was presented, like an auction prize, to eligible men of equal status and old money to start something akin to a bidding war. Wining and dining my father, making professional propositions, talking about a merger between families like it’s a business deal.
And that’s just what it will be; a business deal. I’ve grown up aware of these customs, so it wasn’t so much as shocking as it was finally comprehending the absolute finality. I’m sure if I tried to explain this to Vee she would be outraged. But it’s just the way things are. I’ve accepted it, and the thought of trying to fight the inevitable is just exhausting.
I would be cut off from my family. I don’t care about the wealth; it’s the thought of severing a link to my blood, to the people who have known me forever, that terrifies me. I have no one else.
As Vee steers me toward the crowd circling the blazing fire, amber light blooms around us, illuminating the scene. Girls wearing skimpy outfits with some kind of Bobcat attribute. Guys in football jerseys, their faces painted blue and white—totally reminding me of Braveheart. A line wrapped around a keg stand near the flames, which I think might be dangerous…but I silence my inner nerd.
Just go with it.
I can feel the fire’s warmth before we’re even close; it’s huge. Embers pop and sizzle into the glow of what looks like low-hung clouds. The humidity casting everything in a hazy blaze; peaceful, if not for the rowdy mob—shouting, laughing, music thumping. A post stands erect in the center of the roaring flames. I stare harder into the orange inferno, and realize the wooden beam is dressed in a football jersey and sporting a helmet.
“Engleton,” Vee says, nodding toward the fire. “We’re roasting our rivals.”
“Wow. That’s…fierce,” I say, and she laughs.
The bonfire gives off plenty of heat, but I’m still relieved I changed into a hoodie and jeans at the last minute. The cool wind off the ocean is biting. And I just wasn’t comfortable in that mini skirt. I can almost envision my father’s disapproving glare.
“I don’t know about you,” Vee says, nudging my shoulder with her elbow, doing her best to keep balance in the loose sand with her wedge sandals. “But I really need a drink.” I follow her gaze toward the keg, to where the guy she was mooning over during lunch today stands filling a red plastic cup.
My insides revoke this idea; nausea roiling against my stomach lining. But I follow her anyway, if only to be of moral support in her endeavor to gain Gavin’s attention. My own self preservation is making me glance around suspiciously, seeking the whereabouts of Ryder—the guy Vee informed me I was talking to during my awkward moment at lunch.
I’d rather not be subjected to anymore of his egotistical tactics. Despite how funny—although, yes, obscene—they were. I mean, did he really think licking his finger and checking me out was hot? That’s a total girl move. Vee enlightened me that I should feel honored, as Ryder hasn’t had to attempt picking up a girl all on his own, like…ever. Regardless, I wasn’t too impressed.
His ice-blue eyes and ripped abs be damned.
I’m not here to be a one-night lay for the star quarterback of Braxton. A notch on his bunk bed. I’m not exactly sure why I am here…but it’s certainly not to become the butt of some locker room joke. That wouldn’t be a great start to my new college career.
And as if just thinking his name can summon the football god himself, Ryder appears next to me, plastic cup poised and ready to be filled. And damn. He’s shirtless. My eyes go right to his ripped abs, my gaze being drawn lower—to the muscles defining the V just above his jeans. A hint of a tattoo peeks above his boxers…and, oh, my God.
Jerking my gaze upward, I focus on his chest. And ugh. That doesn’t help. I’m useless. I just allow my eyes to roam unabashedly, because really, the guy is all man, and I can’t help it. He has another tattoo on his upper arm, and I might as well leave now.
I’m through.
“How you doing, carrot cake?”
Against my will, my lips twist as I try to keep from smiling. His face is painted white and blue, and he’s still ridiculously cute. I shrug. “All right. And the cake was all right, too.”