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  “I’m coming,” I reassure him. We’re climbing over some pretty gnarly rocks, and I didn’t exactly wear the right shoes for this. “Where are we going anyway?”

  “Here,” Deo finally announces, his voice coiled tight around his excitement. “Check it out.”

  We’re standing on some more rocks that aren’t really just rocks at all. They’re a home. Their cracks and crevices are filled with crabs and sponges and dozens of other types of unrecognizable sea life.

  “This is incredible.” And it is. Everything is vibrant and alive. It reminds me of Wakefield. Or at least how I want to remember Wakefield. A sudden crush of panic presses down over me. Maybe I’m creating a vision of him in my head that isn’t even the right one. How can I not have the right vision of him? He’s my brother.

  He was my brother.

  Suddenly, it’s hard to suck any air into my lungs, and I desperately need to focus on anything other than the horrifying thoughts ripping through my skull.

  I crouch on the rock next to the one Deo is standing on to get a closer look. The waves don’t really reach us up on the rocks, I guess because the tide is too low, but cool water still pools around my ankles. A bright something moves slowly in the rippling water.

  This tiny pool is full of life. Unlike Wakefield.

  I press my eyes closed and shake that thought away.

  “Can I touch this?” I point to a sea star. “I’ve only ever seen these on TV.”

  Deo bends down next to me. His face is close. His hangover remedy must work wonders, because his eyes are clear and that weird, gorgeous light brown.

  “You can touch it, but don’t pull it up. You could tear its tube feet.” Deo is definitely in his element here.

  I tuck my hair behind my ear and then slowly poke the water with my index finger.

  “Relax.” His voice is low and reassuring. He wraps his large hand around mine and guides two of my fingers toward the sea star. His other hand presses lightly on the small of my back. It does the opposite of helping me relax. His touch is electricity. And we’re in the water. It’s a buzzing, pulsing electric shock.

  It’s different with Ryan. Ryan is easy. Uncomplicated. Ryan is fun. That’s the whole point. To be living big. To not be tied down. To not waste a single second of life. Deo… Deo is someone who could mess up my whole plan.

  He could sink me.

  I jerk my hand out of the water and slam it against the rock by accident.

  “Fuck!” I yell.

  “Oh shit! What’d you do, Whit?” he asks. He looks worried, and I feel like a grade A asshole.

  “Nothing, I just cut my hand on the rock.” I hold up my battered palm as evidence. There’s a nasty gash right through the center of the tender flesh that’s ugly and bleeding. My eyes and throat burn with the tears I’m trying to hold back. There is no way in hell I’m going to cry in front of any guy. Ever.

  “Holy shit, you banged that up good.” Deo’s eyes squint with sympathy for my pain, and that just brings the threat of tears even closer.

  I clutch my hand to my chest to keep him from holding it. It’s a stupid idea because now the front of me is covered in blood.

  “I think we’d better go.” I’m not a total wuss, but I’ve never been super great with seeing my own blood. Especially when I already feel exposed as heck out here in this stupid teeny-bikini. Damn Lindsey. Necessity my ass. What I really need is a tube of first-aid ointment and some gauze.

  “Come on, my mom has got some Calendula oil that will heal that in no time.” Deo stands and gets his footing on the treacherous rocks.

  “Some what?” I ask weakly.

  He reaches for my hand. “Trust me, she’s a pro.”

  I start to follow him, but I’ve only taken a few steps when he turns around and scoops me up like a small child. He cradles me in his arms, my nearly bare skin pressed to his scorching chest.

  “Second thought, I’d better carry you. I don’t want you busting your ass again.”

  “Deo, I’m fine. You don’t need to do this.” I try to sound firm, but I wind up wincing when I accidentally jostle my cut hand.

  “Do what?” he asks, his brows furrowed in mock confusion. He raises them suddenly and adjusts me so I’m pressed closer to his chest. I roll my eyes. “Oh, this. This is just how most people leave the beach. It’s actually an ancient Pacific Ocean custom. But, seeing as it’s your first time, I get that you’re a little surprised.”

  “Deo,” I plead.

  “Plus, I’d get in huge trouble for letting you bleed into the tide pools from all the environmental groups that patrol this area. You know how crazy Californians are about ecology.”

  “Deo.” I sigh.

  “It also happens to be an Italian tradition. Very old school. All the men in my family have been carrying their sweethearts back to their rides since their rides were donkeys, I swear. My nonna would roll over in her grave if she found out I didn’t carry you to the car on our first date.”

  “Deo.” I can’t help it. I lean my forehead on his chest and laugh.

  When I look up, he winks at me. “Stop being so judgmental about our West Coast traditions. It’s exactly that kind of close-mindedness that led to the East Coast, West Coast violence back in the day.” How can I argue with someone so clearly insane? Especially when being in his arms feels so damn right.

  Chapter Seven

  DEO

  There’s this romantic misconception that when you carry a girl in your arms, she’s light as a feather and all that. It’s crap. I’ve got inches and pounds on Whit, but when I scoop her up, it’s work to carry her. Her long, lean limbs and sweet curves have a good kind of substantial feel to them, and she’s holding her body funny, I think because she’s attempting to not get blood all over me. What she’s actually doing is making herself an awkward pretzel.

  But I like this girl, so I like the work of getting her safely over the rocks. ’Cause let’s face it; if sweeping girls off their feet, literally, was so damn easy, it would make it that much less awesome when a guy went all out and did it.

  I manage to struggle the passenger door of the Jeep open with the hand that’s under her knees.

  “Just put me down,” she protests, wriggling like crazy. “I didn’t hurt my legs.”

  I do put her down. In the seat. And buckle her seat belt. I take the opportunity to pretend the buckle apparatus is a hell of a lot more complicated than it is so I can smell her, all sweet grapefruit, salt on skin, and sexy, mind-quaking girl. “What kind of knight in shining armor would I be if I let you hoof it over the rocks? Seriously?”

  “I’m definitely not a damsel in distress, Deo,” she huffs. “It’s one little scratch on my palm.”

  I pry said palm from her chest, pop my glove box, and take out a handkerchief. Her eyes widen in what I’m sure is germ-afraid horror. I chuckle as I pull her hand closer and tie the soft cloth around it. “Clean, I promise. My grandpa has all these old-fashioned ideas about guys and handkerchiefs. Don’t even ask. Bottom line is I always have one ready for these kinds of catastrophes.”

  She makes her hand into a soft fist and stares at it, and when she looks back up, her eyes are rimmed with tears. “Thanks,” she croaks. She opens her mouth like she wants to say more, and I want to hear what she’s going to say, but she stops, I’m sure to plug up the tears. I don’t want her to feel uncomfortable around me, so I close her door and hop in the driver’s side, pull out, and head to my mother’s place.

  “Do I have to meet your mom in a bikini?” she asks, worried. “I should’ve asked you to grab my clothes from my car. You distracted me with your crazy made-up explanations about why you had to carry me to the Jeep.”

  I give her my best hurt pout. “You don’t believe my ancient Italian, Pacific Ocean, ecological reasons for carrying you to safety? I gotta say, your cynicism hurts, Whit. It hurts.”

  She stares at me with those big brown eyes. “You’re ridiculous, you know that? And I bet your mother is a
saint—”

  “That’s true. My mother is great. I can’t even remember her ever yelling at me, and I was a pretty obnoxious kid.”

  “I can only imagine,” Whit says, her voice oozing with sarcasm. “And now I have to meet this woman in a bikini.”

  “Lucky for you, my saint of a mother instilled a love of laundry in me at a young age.” I reach in the back, find a bag of laundry from my last trip to the laundromat, and pull out my favorite shirt. “Here you go.”

  She pulls it over her head and runs her hand over the worn cotton. “The Pixies?”

  “I know. I have epic taste in music.” I tug on the sleeve of the shirt, loving the way it looks on her. “I hate to admit this, but it looks a hell of a lot sexier on you than it does on me.”

  She smiles, and then it’s quiet in the Jeep for a long stretch of minutes.

  I glance over and Whit is looking out the window, her bandaged hand still clutched to her chest, her dark hair whipping around her face, which is tilted up to enjoy the fact that the top is down and the sun is blasting us with warmth. I like the way she fills the passenger side of the car, even though she’s a shorty. Whit has big personality, and I love that. Her mouth is turned down at the sides in a little frown and her eyes are unfocused, like she’s miles away from me and this ride and this date. I wish I knew how to pull her back and get her to tell me what’s on her mind, but I don’t. So I settle for the fairly comfortable silence.

  When we pull into the parking lot of my mom’s place, I warn her. “She’s a lunatic. But she’s amazing. I think you two might get along really well.” I’m not sure why this thought crosses my mind. On the surface, Whit and my mom seem as different as two people can be. But there’s something else, something more important than what’s on the outside. Whit is real, and my mom is about as genuine as they come.

  Finally a smile. “You had to throw the lunatic thing in there, didn’t you?” she asks, and I’m relieved to see a little eye roll. The patient is doing better already.

  I come around to get her door, but she puts her hands up and says, “No carrying me. I’m fine. Totally fine.”

  I mimic her, throwing my hands up too, and let her get out on her own. I take her uninjured hand and lead her to my mother’s hippie-dippie store, complete with tie-dye rainbow wall-hangings, all kinds of weird bells and chimes, crystals on every table, Janis begging someone to take a piece of her heart over the speakers, and a huge assortment of jars and bottles with herbs and oils. Mom looks up from her Kindle and smiles when we walk in. My mom is pretty much always smiley, and I love that about her.

  “Deo! I’m so glad you stopped by. And you brought a lovely friend.” My mom comes from behind the counter, barefoot, jangly silver anklets and bracelets and rings and earrings making her sound like an explosion of bells, her long hair swinging around her waist. She holds her hand out to Whit and says, “I’m Marigold. And you are…oh no! Bleeding! Get right over here. Deo, the Calendula, now!”

  I poke through all her weird glass bottles and find the one she needs, the one that she used on all my scrapes and gashes growing up. And my many days surfing and skateboarding left me super scraped up and gashed as a kid, so I hope my mom took out stock in Calendula. She has Whit sitting on a squishy chair and she’s leaned over, washing the cut with warm water and some kind of freaky soap she makes from who knows what. If my mom hadn’t miraculously healed every single ailment I ever had, I’d be worried about her crazy potions infecting my girl.

  “How did you do this?” Mom asks, her voice all clucking with mom-ish sympathy as she takes the bottle from my hand and applies.

  “Deo took me to the beach. I was looking at a starfish, but the rocks were really jagged,” Whit explains quietly.

  Mom’s smile is half-hidden by her hair as she fixes some gauze over Whit’s hand. “A beach date, huh? Very romantic.”

  “Mom,” I warn. “Whit’s just a friend. Stop trying to marry me off.” Whit looks up, her dark eyes wide with panic. “Relax, babe. She’s like the village matchmaker. She does this all the time.”

  It’s weird. I thought my explanation of my mom’s particular brand of matchmaking crazy would make Whit happy, but she looks sort of disappointed.

  “I guess I got overexcited. I’ve never been to the ocean before.” Whit puts her hand in her lap and eyes my mother shyly. “I’m Whit, by the way.”

  “Whit.” My mom pulls her name out like she’s enjoying the taste of it. “I love that. It suits you perfectly. So you were a land-bound girl before coming here? I can sense it. I was born and raised in the flat farmland of Michigan.”

  Whit’s smile is warm and relaxed. “I’m from Pennsylvania, right by Amish country.” She wrinkles her nose. “I know a lot about preserving jam and raising livestock. I’m really happy I got to trade goats for starfish.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir, hon.” Mom laughs and it brings out a reactionary bubbly laugh from Whit. I love that sound, the mingling laughter of these two awesome women in my life. “So, you have that brilliant college girl vibe about you. Am I right?”

  “I don’t know about brilliant. But I’m a freshman at Imperial Coast College, just getting my core done this semester and sitting in on some lectures in areas I might be interested in. So no major yet. Everyone always wants to know my major,” she explains, tucking her hair behind her ear.

  I never even thought to ask her major, and now I feel like a jackhole.

  The bell over the door jangles and a clutch of silver-haired hippies comes in, calling to my mother in high, excited voices.

  Whit and I leave the store before the laughing, screaming, demanding grandmas hopped up on herbs can trample us. “Your mom is so cool,” Whit gushes as we walk to the Jeep.

  “I’m glad you like her. You remind me of her.” Obviously, when I check out her ass hanging out of the bottom of my shirt in those tiny black bikini bottoms, it doesn’t bring up a single thought about my mom. Thank God.

  “Really?” She hops into the passenger seat. “Because she’s basically who I want to be.”

  I slide in the driver’s side and start the engine. “A hippie?” I never would have pegged Whit for a Grateful Dead groupie.

  “No,” she laughs as I pull onto the highway. “An independent woman. Someone who chooses her own path and makes her own decisions without regrets. Your mom didn’t do everything perfectly, but she’s happy with what she did and where she’s at. She has her passion, her store, her life. Her own life, with no one else’s expectations pressing on her. I think that’s amazing.”

  I grip the steering wheel and grit my teeth. “Yeah, well, she’s cool, but it’s not all rainbow flags and psychedelic music.”

  Whit slides her feet out of her flip-flops and puts them on the dashboard. “We all have issues, Deo.”

  “Not all of us go into month-long depression tailspins over the same worthless asshole every year or two.” My words bite out harsher than I mean them to. Whit wrinkles her forehead and bites her lip, and I’m suddenly pushed to confess all kinds of things I’ve kept buried deep forever. “My dad has been yanking her chain since before I was born. When he’s around, he’s all she can focus on. When he’s gone, she does her thing, but underneath it all, she’s just waiting. Waiting for him to come back, for him to call, for him to throw her a bone before he goes off and ignores her again.”

  Whit drops her feet to the floorboards. “Rocko said he was kind of dating your mom?” Her voice is careful after my little outburst.

  “Oh, she dates. She and my dad never got hitched or anything. He doesn’t do commitment, and she claims she’s cool with the no-strings-attached crap, too. You know, that whole ‘casual fucking to tide her over until her true love comes back’ bullshit.” I see Whit’s shoulders go tight and feel like a scumbag on so many levels. “Sorry, Whit. I’m sure you don’t want to hear all this. My mom’s cool. It’s just frustrating that she gets caught up in my dad’s crap over and over. You’d think she’d learn.�
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  “I guess some relationships are just like that.” Whit pulls her hair back, like she’s making a tiny ponytail, then releases it so it swings around her chin. “I get you, though. If someone is going to suck you in and wring you out like that, is it worth it to be with them? I’d rather just keep things casual and keep a handle on who I am than fall so completely in love and lose myself.”

  “Agreed. Very sensible of you, College Girl. So, I never even asked your major or any of that. I guess that was pretty shitty of me,” I confess when we’re back at the parking lot and next to her car. She looks over at me and throws this sweet-as-hell smile my way.

  “That was pretty non-boring of you. I don’t really feel like talking about school. And right now? I don’t really feel like talking at all.” Her voice is low and inviting.

  “Really?” I nod her over. “You never cashed in on that snuggle I offered you before.” I raise my eyebrows and she giggles, even though she’s trying hard not to. “Come sit over here by me.”

  “You mean on your lap?” She narrows those sweet brown eyes my way.

  “You’ve never sat on a lap until you’ve sat on mine. You know Santa Claus? I taught him everything he knows.” I crook my finger at her.

  She plugs up her ears and laughs. “Stop it! You are corrupting my childhood.”

  “Why? Have you been a bad girl this year?” I love that I can make her laugh. I love that she’s considering coming over to me. And then, though she’s acting like it’s pure torture, she moves from her seat to mine, squeezes herself between my body and the steering wheel and presses her face close.

  All the joking around comes to a sudden total stop. “This is a stupid idea,” she says, her voice a whisper.

  “I’m known for my charming stupidity.” Then I stop talking. I run my hands up from her knees to her thighs and let my fingers press just under the edges of her bikini bottoms. She pulls a breath in through her teeth.