2
Logan
The ocean water’s cold, but the quart of alcohol running through my veins keeps me warm. I’m not naive enough to assume the heat I feel spreading through me is from Danika. She turned to ice the day she left without so much as a goodbye. Her soul hardened with each ignored text message and voicemail. Begging for an explanation as to what happened. To give me another chance.
The only reprieve I got from the spasms in my heart
was the day Piper was shot. Even then, Danika refused to physically speak to me, but we could text. Not nearly enough, but I greedily took the crumbs she dropped.
She gave me twenty-four hours of her time with the stipulation that I couldn’t talk about us. The moment I did, she said she was done. Four months of radio silence. Five unconventional months of being us. Too many broken years of friendship and I got one day.
As gut-wrenching as it was to know Piper was fighting for her life, that was the best day I had in what felt like a lifetime. It is still the best day I’ve had since because, for a short time, I could take a breath. My lungs, heart, and soul weren’t trapped in a vice for one horrifically beautiful day.
And then, like Cinderella, the magic ran out. My shiny carriage turned back into a pumpkin and I’ve spent every day since trying to recreate that feeling. The Sprite-tinged vodka I drink daily since high school helps take the edge off, but I’ve yet to achieve the peacefulness I seek.
Until today.
Until I set my hands on those wide hips. I swam up from the trenches of hell and finally, finally, found a pocket of clean air to fill my lungs.
It’s the reprieve I’ve needed. The reset I never thought existed. Even now, standing close enough to touch Danika, but keeping my hands to myself, I can still breathe. My mind feels sobered, and I am alive again.
Ironic, considering I’ve dreaded today for the last six months, ever since Walter told me his plans to propose to my mom. Don’t get me wrong, I like Walter. I like how he makes Mom happy, but I don’t like that he’s Danika’s dad. And I don’t like that I am supposed to act like she didn’t tear my heart out senior year and dig the heel of her stupid black Converse sneaker into it.
All of the anger and hurt I’ve bottled up the past few years mixes with desire. It pisses me off because I don’t want to be attracted to Danika. I’ve tried my hardest to get over her, but damnit if she doesn’t make my pulse race like I’m a fucking teenager again.
I gave Danika my heart when I was eighteen years old and haven’t found anyone else that deserves it. Have I screwed other women? Of course I have. It’s been almost four years and I went through my stages of mourning.
Not touching anyone for a solid year, fearful Danika would think I was unfaithful, until it hit me that she wasn’t coming back. That I was saving myself for a woman who had probably long forgotten I existed.
Then, sticking my dick in a new girl almost every night. Until campus police found me naked on the fifty-yard line with the Dean’s daughter and a few of her sorority sisters. That was the final straw of my college adventure.
Coming home, my options were limited, which was probably for the best. I played a game of risk and miraculously didn’t contract an STD during my sexcapades.
And now, I’m at the stage where the random hookup is needed every once and awhile, when I reach the bottom of my bottle and feel lower than dirt. Using a warm body to give the allusion that I am a semi-functioning human being doesn’t help, but if I can convince the world that I’m okay, maybe I can convince myself too.
“Please, don’t touch me, Logan,” Danika whispers. She has to feel it. The heat bouncing between our bodies. If we’re not careful, it’ll ignite into an inferno and burn us. For now, it’s bright, and magnetic, and the kind of painful that makes you want more. “I’m holding on by a thread.”
I say nothing. There’s maybe a foot between us. A full twelve-ish inches I’m doing my best to maintain because the snapping of her thread could mean a plethora of things. The last time Danika snapped, she left me. Flushed us down the toilet like a used condom with no afterthought of all the could have beens.
The universe, however, has other plans. A wave, bigger than the knee knockers we’ve felt so far, pelts into us, lifting the water thigh-high and shoving Danika backwards. I’m not prepared for the force of the wave or her weight. We topple. Me landing on my ass, holding onto Danika’s waist so she doesn’t somersault over me and to the shore. Within seconds, the water retreats back into the abyss. Danika stands, looking down at her soaked dress, one part shocked and the other part horrified.
I push to my feet. My head is spinning for the first time in months. I may drink a lot, but I know my limits; dancing a fine line between buzzed and tipsy more often than I’m comfortable admitting out loud, but never drunk.
This spinning, spiraling feeling is all Danika.
“Are you okay?” I ask, following her out of the water’s reach. Danika walks with purpose through the soft sand. I grab our belongings and hurry to reach her just as she bends over a hotel trash can, emptying everything in her stomach. I swallow a gag, dropping our things by my feet, and curl my fingers around long dark strands.
“Just fine,” she mumbles through strained breaths, standing upright. The playful drunkenness in her eyes is replaced with tired, red lines. She sits on the bottom step to the hotel, toes digging in the sand, and drops her head into her hands. “I’m never drinking again.”
There’s a good chance she will be drinking again tomorrow, but I keep my thoughts to myself. I doubt her feelings towards my mom have changed. If she's anything like the firecracker I knew back in high school, it’s going to take more than a few beers to play nice.
I push one sandy leg into my pants, then the other. I pull them up and secure them, then make sure my wallet and keys are still in the back pocket. After slipping my long sleeved shirt over my head, I reach for Danika’s shoes and purse. “Come on, beautiful.”
Danika can barely raise her head, but she manages to look at me. Tired lines kiss the crease of her eyes. She looks older. Tired. Then again, so do I. “Where are we going?”
“To bed.” Too bad talking to a drunk is wasting breath. I take Danika by the wrists and pull her to her feet, just long enough to slip my arms under her legs and lift. I half expect her to protest, but she doesn’t. Instead, she turns her cheek against my chest and closes her eyes. I carry her up the steps to the pool deck and realize I have no idea which room is hers. “Danika, what is your room number?”
Her lips fall open, drool pooling on my shirt. Yeah, she isn’t going to be of any help. I take the elevator up to the fifth floor and pause outside of my room. How the hell am I going to get it unlocked?