Chapter 7

Chapter

Seven

Z ane walks beside me to his Jeep and guides me to the passenger side. “You can sit up here.” He shoots Dylan a look as Dylan opens the door for Aimee.

She’s not wholly comfortable with them but no way is she going home. She would never leave me alone with people we hardly know. When Dylan climbs in back with her and Zane starts the Jeep, I look back at her. She’s not smiling but she would never complain out loud, whereas I would be shouting it out the windows and doors and the open top.

He pulls into a parking lot at a part of the beach that’s closer to our home—walking distance actually—so we can stay for a little while longer than we would if we had gone to one of the other coves nearby.

I hold the seat up for Aimee, and she smiles but she’s angry, simmering with it just below her skin. I sling my arm through hers and walk to stand in front of the front bumper and look at the water rolling onto the sand.

There’s a light wind blowing off the beach and the smell of the sea and suntan oil is strong here. Maybe it’s my imagination, but this is the kind of day that begs suntan lotion.

“Dylan’s cooler is in the back of the Jeep. You guys can help yourselves while we get wood for the fire.” It’s like he’s talking only to me, like the words are meant for my ears only. He’s just a guy, for fuck’s sake, but I can’t stop smiling.

“It’s not dark or cold,” Aimee grumbles. “We don’t need a fire.”

I’ve never seen her in such a mood, and I ignore it for now. I’ve let her drag me along to poetry readings and musicals and places that I would rather people not know I went, and I’ve always tried to keep my complaining to a minimum, so I’m going to let her have this.

Piper and Circe walk over from the other car—they rode in Finnick’s SUV—and they head to the back of Zane’s Jeep and pull the gate open. There’s a cooler back there and the girls pass out beers.

Aimee holds up her hand and doesn’t take one. “No thanks.”

I look at Circe and shake my head. “I prefer vodka.”

Circe smiles. “A party girl.” And high fives me like we’re frat boys.

“Vodka makes me gassy.” Finnick smiles and slings his arm around Isador. “You don’t mind, do you, babe?”

Babe? Ugh.

But then I imagine Zane looking at me the way Finnick is looking at her, smiling, calling me babe, and I like it. Too much.

It all hits me quick. I’m at the beach with Zane and, at nineteen, I’ve never been on a real date. My breath comes in a short, sharp huff. Holy shit. I’m on a date. It counts even though there are other people here. He specifically asked me to come. That makes it a date.

Zane and Dylan return, arms loaded with sticks and small logs. They arrange them in a spot where the sand is dark and mixed with ash, and there are the skeletons of old logs in the space.

When the fire is lit—they use lighter fluid and an old Bic—Zane sits a few feet from the fire on a blanket in the sand and smiles as he gazes at me then pats the spot next to him. I look at Aimee and see she’s shifting from one foot to the other. She’s uncomfortable, and as a result, acting awkward. Not talking. Not smiling. Quiet with jerky movements.

I slide my arm through hers and pull her with me to the blanket. I sit beside Zane and she sits beside me. She’s not talking to anyone or enjoying any part of this. The thing about Aimee is that she probably can’t enjoy herself right now. She’s too worried about Mom finding out and punishing her.

It would be the sisterly thing to go home with her, but just as I think that, Zane smiles at me and he shifts and leans on his palm behind me.

“Do you want a drink? There might be sodas in the cooler.” When I shake my head, I get a big whiff of his cologne. It has a hint of citrus, maybe sandalwood, too. I want to breathe deeper, but I’m afraid someone will notice. But then he leans in closer. “Do you surf, RJ?”

Dammit. Now I’m picturing Zane in a wetsuit. “I’m more of a swimmer.”

“I could teach you.” His voice is husky and I want nothing more than to surf with him. Now that he’s mentioned it, my mind plays the idea over and over in my head. Us together on a single board with his hands on my hips, my skin tan, hair kissed by the sun, golden where it’s usually brown.

“Okay.” It’s not a definitive plan, not a see you on Tuesday after classes kind of thing. But the idea of it is enough to make my body sing.

Beside me, Aimee chuffs and even though I’m thinking about him while I’m looking at the fire in front of me and I can’t see her face, I can feel her eyeroll. I have to ignore her.

She’s ready to go. I’m ready to give in after the second exasperated sigh, but then Dylan sits beside Aimee and starts talking to her. I don’t listen to more than the first couple sentences. They’re talking about one of the classes they have together and she doesn’t sound so exasperated now.

“I’m glad you came with us.”

The words are warm and rich and make my stomach flutter. “Me, too.”

“I’ve wanted to get to know you for a while.” He doesn’t touch me more than to nudge me with his shoulder, and I giggle. I’m not normally a giggler, not someone who even likes people who giggle, but it’s the sound of happiness.

“Yeah?” It’s not an eloquent response, or one that’s calculated. It’s genuine, though. Probably more curious than is cool to be. Mostly because I have no idea how to respond. The situation doesn’t require sarcasm, my go-to conversational skill, and heaven forbid I giggle again, so this is all I have in the moment.

“I’ve seen you around. You’re always confident.”

If he means it looks like I don’t mind walking the hall alone, he’s right. I don’t like having to force conversation, and small talk isn’t my forte. I don’t want to answer in such a way that he figures out I’m an actress, so susceptible to insecurity that I choose not to have friends outside of Aimee.

“I like my own company.” I smile. It’s not a lie. I like spending time with myself more than I like spending time with most anyone else. Present company excluded.

“So do I.” When he grins, it’s everything.

Heat flushes my skin and I stare at him, willing him to lean in. He doesn’t. Instead he looks back to the fire.

I am dying to be witty and sparkling, to have something intriguing to say, but I can’t think of anything. I’m literally—and this kind of thing never happens to me—speechless. But Aimee and Dylan are chatting it up. She laughs. He chuckles.

I’m not trying to listen, but I just need something to talk about. “Do you know her?” Aimee asks him softly.

“Not very well. She’s more Zane’s friend.” And now I’m tuned in. “They went out a couple times.”

“I think she knew a lot of people.” Who? Who knew a lot of people and dated Zane? I need names.

“Yeah. Rowen’s been at school for five years. She pretty much knows everyone. And she dated Finnick right before Zane. Bunch of other guys after, too.” He makes Rowen sound like she gets around, or maybe he’s trying to make it sound that way.

The point is none of it is evidence. I’ve been at the Institute for five years, too. I know hardly anyone. She’s social. Probably dates a lot because aside from being social, she’s pretty and magical. Rowen belongs in this crowd. I don’t.

“RJ?” Zane’s voice breaks my focus and I turn to look at him.

“Sorry. I got…distracted.”

He nods and smiles. “You distract me.” I don’t really need the cheesy lines but I like how hard he’s trying. And the part of my brain that never shuts up wonders if he tried this hard with Rowen, if this is his MO, his game plan, the way he flirts with all the women he might be attracted to.

We’re close enough there isn’t much space between us, but we’re not touching. Dylan is still talking to Aimee, but I don’t have the kind of experience with men—boys, dudes, guys—to know how to get him to put his arm around me or touch my face. Instead, I sit and think about it.

“What’s wrong?” Now he sounds concerned and his face falls. He’s staring hard like I have mustard dripping down my chin.

There isn’t anything I can think of to save the moment. I can’t exactly tell him that I was waiting, hoping, trying to figure out how to get him to kiss me or touch me. Can’t tell him that I was wondering if he’s upset about Rowen because he dated her. I can’t tell him that I’m jealous of Rowen.

I’m just glad he isn’t of the mind-reading portion of the Institute’s student body, the freak-shows who can’t stop themselves from digging around in the thoughts of others.

“Nothing. Aimee’s just ready to go.” I’m not lying. There isn’t anywhere she wants to be less than here, although she’s stopped huffing and puffing like the little engine from the kid story, and she seems to be friendly enough with Dylan.

Her displeasure at being dragged along and being stuck here is all I can think of to explain why I’m awkward, though. If I’m honest, I’m too nervous and need to get myself under control. I need to go home, watch some movies, research how to interact with a man like Zane, figure out how to make what I want to happen actually happen.

I nudge my sister with a sharp elbow, and she jerks to attention, turns away from Dylan and jumps into my conversation. “Right. Um, Mom’s late shift is going to be over soon.”

“Late shift?” He chuckles and the sound is smooth and pleasing. My stomach-flutters continue. Not because six-thirty is early in terms of “late” shifts, but because his laugh is rich and deep and smooth, and it does things to a woman. It makes me rethink leaving.

Somehow, even in the face of all his deliciousness, I manage a nod. “She works late a lot, but she’s always home by dinnertime, and she worries because when I was fifteen, I stayed out until bedtime.” Oh God. Someone stop me before I tell him my life story in one long, run-on sentence. But I continue undaunted. “And if we aren’t home, she’ll…”

I’m about to say come looking for us , but Aimee talks over me to finish my sentence with, “Be worried.”

And then I nod like I’m a bobblehead doll. “Yeah. She’ll be worried.” Inside, I’m seething because I want this. I want these friends. I want that guy. In my mind, the anger is reasonable.

I’m not mad at Aimee. She came up with the right thing to say at just the moment I needed her to say it. I’m pissed off at our mom because I’m grounded . At nineteen. Instead of making a scene, I stand and brush imaginary sand off my pants.

Zane stands, too, falls into step beside me as I walk to the edge where concrete meets sand. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says, his gaze pointed directly into mine. He isn’t asking me to call me. He’s telling me, and I like a man who takes charge. The thought makes my stomach flutter again.

He’s not paying attention to anyone else, he’s looking at me, as if he’s legitimately sorry I’m leaving. I can’t help but read into it. It’s not like I get a lot of looks like this one and I want a minute to savor it, to etch it into my memory.

My heart thumps a little harder, and I’m trying to rein it all in so I don’t embarrass myself, but the grin is staying put. Nothing short of a paint scraper and some industrial grade solvent is going to get rid of this thing.

“I’ll be home.” Until he calls at least. I’m not going anywhere until that phone rings and he asks me on a date.

Plus, it’ll give me time to suck up to Mom, convince her that I’m either too old or too well-behaved to remain grounded.

Instead of walking beside me as we leave the beach on the concrete path that slices the beach into two halves, he goes back to the blanket, and this time takes a beer out of the cooler Finnick and Dylan brought nearer the fire at some point.

And one way or another, I’m going to find out if all that beautifully dark hair is as soft as it looks. It just won’t be tonight.