Chapter 4

4

Max

I wake up feeling refreshed for once. Excited to start the day. It feels like experiencing the sun on my face after a month of rain. Sitting up, I wince at the pain in my legs; it was a rough game last night—my favorite kind—and I'm feeling it today. I love being physically sore, though. It's an earned pain. I check my phone as I swing my legs over the side of the bed. It's not yet 6 a.m. which means I've woken up before the alarm I'd set. No use trying to fall back asleep, though. It'll never happen, and god knows it would ruin my good mood.

I shower and get dressed as silently as I can. Marcos is a light sleeper, prone to hearing noise from my room and coming to check on me. " You good?" he'll call from the other side of my door when a nightmare wakes me up. He never comes in unless I invite him, though. I can picture him standing on the other side, hand hovering over the door handle, ready to come to my aid, but unsure of whether he's welcome. Our friendship has suffered the most this past year— after the party and the subsequent hospital visit. He's no longer my best friend, but a mother—eyes always watching, and wearing his worries on his sleeve. I hate him and love him in equal measure. I miss him even when he's standing there, right in front of me.

I don't go to the kitchen, knowing he'll hear me if I make coffee or open the refrigerator. Checking my appearance once more in the mirror, I put on my shoes and slip out the front door. It's a cooler morning, winter digging in and reminding everyone that February belongs to it. It's a strange time to plan a beach excursion, but I suppose at least it won't be busy. I hope Luke isn't planning on swimming. Jogging down the stairs, I wonder if I should text him and confirm that we're still on for today. I didn't go to the diner last night, blessedly tired after my game and winning the fight against insomnia. We haven't spoken since Thursday.

Starting my car, I sit immobile for a few minutes before deciding to just hope for the best. If he doesn't show, at least getting stood up at the beach is less embarrassing than having it happen in a crowded restaurant. I'll stop for coffee and something to eat; I'm starving, which is another win. I can't believe there are people in the world who feel like this all the time: hungry and excited for the day, hopped up on a few hours of good sleep and the prospect of a date with a handsome man.

The beach parking is, as expected, empty except for a car that looks like it hasn't moved in the last century. There is a baseball glove on the passenger seat and an empty water bottle in the cup holder. My stomach flips in nervous anticipation; this must surely be Luke's car. Of course he didn't stand me up. I don't know him well, but I know him well enough to know he wouldn't do that .

Leaving my shoes and socks on the floorboard of the driver's seat, I grab the two coffee cups and the paper bag. The sand is cold and rough against my skin as I traverse the beach access. Stopping at the top, I take a couple deep breaths of salty, coastal air, as I look around for Luke. He's not hard to find, being the only person here—a dark figure with his back to me, standing at the water's edge as though watching the waves kiss the shore. I call out to him, but the wind whips my words away.

Walking carefully so as not to cut my feet on shells or rocks, I head his way. As if he can sense the presence of another person, he turns. I'm close enough now to see the smile as he deftly lifts a camera to his face and snaps a picture. I scowl, ducking my head slightly so that the brim of my hat obscures my face. I'd thought he was kidding about taking my picture.

"Hello, you," he says, when I'm close enough to hear. My stomach flutters again. This has become his standard way of greeting me, a flirty little you tacked on to remind me of the night we met. I wish it didn't make me feel as special as it does.

"Hey," I hold out one of the coffees and he takes it, fingers brushing across mine unnecessarily, "I brought coffee."

"Decaf?" He asks playfully, taking a sip. "Thank you. I came early to catch the sunrise, so I need this."

He steps closer to me and wraps a hand around my elbow. It's so gentle he's barely touching me, but sweat pricks at my hairline anyway. I hold myself still, willing my nerves not to betray me as he leans in and kisses my cheek. Of course flirty Luke would be sweet; he steps back just far enough for me to get a clear view of milk-chocolate eyes, as warm and welcoming as the rest of him. He drops his hand and I feel a confusing mixture of relief and disappointment.

"What's in the bag?" He asks.

"Breakfast."

"A man after my own heart."

I laugh, holding it out to him. He drops unceremoniously into the sand and opens it, peeking inside. His dark hair is fanned out around the edges of a backward-facing ball cap. I sit down next to him, careful to leave enough space so that I don't bump him. The inclination annoys me, suddenly, so I scoot a little closer until our knees are touching. This is a date, Max, act like a normal fucking person.

"Colorado Avalanche?" I ask him.

"What?"

"Your hat."

"Oh! Yeah, I like them. They've got heart," he says, scratching at his forehead and trying to adjust his hair. He holds out one of the breakfast sandwiches to me.

"You do know the point of a hat is to shade your face, right?"

"Huh?" He says, around a mouthful of croissant. One of his eyes is squinted shut, as though the sun is hitting it wrong.

"Wearing your hat backward is pointless. The brim is meant to shade your face," I repeat. He grins at me, crookedly.

"But it looks cooler like this."

"No, it just looks like you don't know how to wear a hat."

He laughs and tilts his face upward as though trying to catch the sun. His skin is a soft, smooth brown, telling of hours spent outside playing baseball. I can smell the sunscreen and sunshine on his skin, mixing with the saltwater scent of the ocean. For the first time in a long time, I fantasize about kissing someone on the mouth.

"I'm glad you came," he says, dusting his hands off after inhaling his breakfast. Hands placed in the sand behind him, he leans back. His camera is resting in his lap, forgotten.

"You thought I wouldn't?" I sound surprised, even to my own ears. Funny, given I was worried about him not showing up.

"I ask a lot of people out. I'd say I have about a fifty-percent success rate." He grins and nudges my leg with his knee to let me know this is a joke.

"Were the other fifty-percent blind?"

"You are a terrible flirt, Maxy. Absolutely incorrigible," he says loftily. I raise my eyebrows at him.

"You've been told that before, have you?"

Laughing, he leans forward and dusts his hands off. "I am a delight, don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

Grabbing his camera from his lap, he stands. Looping the strap around his neck, he dusts off the backs of his legs, shaking his hips a little and giving me something else to fantasize about. When he holds a hand out to me, I don't even hesitate to grab it. Once he's pulled me to standing, he lets go and starts walking backward.

"All right, muse, strike a pose." He lifts the camera off of his chest.

"Absolutely not, Luke. Put that away," I angle my body sideways in case he tries to take a picture. "Take pictures of the ocean, isn't that why we're here?"

"No, idiot, we're here to take pictures of you next to the ocean."

"Luke," I warn, when he shows signs of wanting to lift the camera to his eye .

"All right, fine. Let's walk." He beckons me with a hand and we set off, strolling along close enough to the edge that the water laps against our ankles. My already sore thighs burn anew.

Every now and then Luke drops back, stopping to pick up a seashell or take a picture. He brings me a piece of driftwood to show me the initials carved into the side.

"Where do you think it came from?" He marvels, looking at it happily before placing it back on the beach. "So, Maxy, tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"Anything. Everything. I want to know so much about you, I could write your biography."

"Oh, I'm not interesting," I demure. "Tell me about you instead."

He tips his face to the sky and rolls his eyes dramatically. " I'm not interesting says the guy who was drafted to play hockey in the highest league possible. I'm not interesting says the guy who reads sad Russian literature for fun and picks up hot strangers at diners."

"I didn't pick you up," I point out. "You just sort of attached yourself to me."

"Like a cuddly and adorable koala."

"Or a parasite."

This time, when he tips his head back, he laughs. I smile, trying not to openly stare at him and failing. I don't think I've ever seen someone this handsome up close before.

"Tell me about your mom," he prompts, kicking at the sand as he walks.

"My mom would be happier if I was on a date with someone who could give me biological children."

"Oh." He scrunches up his nose. "My mom is this tall," he holds his hand flat at his mid-chest, "and will kick your ass at charades."

I chuckle. "I'm an only child."

"Same."

"Did you want siblings? I did. I always wished I had a twin."

"Hell no!" He exclaims, startling a group of birds pecking at the sand. Lifting his camera, he follows them and clicks the shutter. "Are you kidding? I loved being an only child—more attention for me."

"Oh my god," I laugh. He looks at me, grinning, and my stomach makes a swooping motion similar to the way the ocean is moving.

We walk until our stomachs rumble, before turning back and slowly making our way back to the parking lot. I spend the time fraught with anxiety, trying to convince myself to reach for Luke's hand, but in the end too cowardly to do so. Luke didn't do anything to you, I chide myself, stop being a pussy and hold his fucking hand. By the time I've bolstered myself enough to initiate the contact, we've reached the parking lot and the moment has passed. Disappointed, I unlock my car and grab my shoes, bending over to slip them back on.

Luke, leaning against the side of my car and watching me, waits until I'm back at eye level to speak. "So, dinner. Are you free any night this week?"

I almost laugh at his dogged persistence. Maybe he doesn't like me at all; maybe he's never had to chase anyone before, and the draw of me is only my reluctance to go out with him properly.

"Practice until seven, most nights. But free after that. You tell me," I reply, and he beams.

"All right. I'll text you a day once I figure it out." Reaching out a hand, he swipes a thumb over my cheek. "Sand," he explains.

"Did you get good pictures?" I ask, suddenly desperate for the morning to continue.

"I got exactly what I wanted," he says, smiling in a mischievous sort of way. "I'm going to load them right when I get home, take a closer look. Thank you for coming."

"Yeah. Thanks for the invite."

"Anytime, Maxy, anytime at all."

The moment I open the door to our apartment, Marcos is there. His phone is clutched in his hand and there is a wide-eyed look of distress on his face.

"Sorry," I say immediately, because I am always the cause of his distress these days.

"Hey," he says, in a carefully blank tone, "where were you? You weren't answering your phone and I?—."

"Yeah, no, sorry. I left it in the car. I was at the beach." Bending, I take off my shoes and stow them on the rack. When I stand back up, Marcos is looking at me questioningly.

"You went to the beach? For…for a run?"

"No," I walk toward the kitchen, intending to make something for lunch. I am starving; hungry enough to eat an entire pizza. "I was with Luke, actually. Just…just hanging out. Hey, do you want to order pizza? I'm pretty hungry."

Leaning my forearms on the counter, I pull up a delivery app. I don't have to ask what Marcos wants, I know him better than I know myself.

"Who's Luke? Wait—were you on a date? "

I glance up at him and laugh at the shocked expression on his face. I'd be offended if it wasn't for the fact that I haven't been on a date in over a year. "Yeah. You know Luke. Luke Kelly."

"Luke Kelly," he repeats in a tone that makes me pause. "Luke Kelly, you have got to be fucking kidding me."

He puts a hand to his forehead, cupping his palm over his eyes and breathing out hard like one of the horses in the Kentucky Derby. I stare at him, completely nonplussed. I'd say he doesn't like Luke, but how can that be possible? Luke is great.

"Luke Kelly," he mumbles, again. "Max…"

"What? You guys aren't friends? I thought you liked all your baseball friends."

"No, it's not…I like him fine. He's fine. But," the hand finally lowers and that cautious expression is back on his face, "he's not exactly the kind of person you want dating your best friend."

"What does that mean?"

"Well, to put it delicately, he's a man whore. I'm pretty sure his one and only goal is to sleep his way through the gay population of SCU. He's got the attention span of a squirrel; dates one guy for a week before moving on to the next."

"I…" My phone vibrates and I look down to see a text from Luke. My face heats. Is that what's going on? I'm the next notch in his gay bedpost? "I didn't know that."

"I didn't even realize you knew him."

"No, I don't. Well, we met only a few days ago. When I was out walking." I gesture vaguely toward the front door and Marcos' jaw clenches. It worries him that I like to walk when I can't sleep .

"Ah. Are you going to see him again?" He asks carefully. I shrug.

"Dinner, yeah. We agreed to go to dinner."

I can tell he wants to say more; wants to convince me to stay here with him, where he can keep an eye on me and protect me. I'm glad he doesn't voice any of those words: if he did, I think I would scream. I'm sick—so fucking sick—of him looking at me like I'm a sad, broken thing. I'm sick of being a sad, broken thing. If I want to go out to dinner with a man whore, that's what I'm damn well going to do.

"I'm going to go," I declare, and Marcos' face falls before he fixes it back into place, carefully neutral.

"You should. He's…fun. You should have fun."

"Yeah," I mutter, looking back down at my phone and the half-finished pizza order. "Hey, I'm not that hungry, actually. Is it okay if we take a rain check on the pizza?"

"Sure, Max, whatever you want," he says, just like I knew he would. I could ask him to do anything in this world and he would agree. His guilt makes me feel sick to my stomach; a virus infecting the pair of us and rotting away at our friendship. I don't call him back as he disappears into his bedroom, but stare at his closed door for a long while after he's gone.