Beyond the Rising Tide (9 page)

“What if I’m never okay?” I whisper.

He shakes his head. “I know you. You’re fearless and strong. You’ll be okay.”

I almost ask why he can’t be with me now, the way I am. Why I have to be fixed before we can get back together. But I already know the answer. He told me himself the day we broke up. It was too hard for him. Too emotionally exhausting to deal with a grieving girlfriend. I didn’t blame him then, and I don’t blame him now. I saw the effort he made when we were still together. Coming to my house when I didn’t want to go out, trying to comfort me when I couldn’t be comforted. He tried to get me to open up about my feelings, but he couldn’t pry them out no matter how hard he tried.

It’s not his fault my heart has been doubly broken. It’s mine.

I look at his long, tan fingers spread on the counter, and wish I could press them to my cheek and promise him things will be different. That I am better. Fearless and strong, like he believes I am. But it would be a lie, so I say nothing, just nod and clench my teeth, biting back the tears I feel coming.

There’s a high-pitched cough at the shop entrance, and I look up to see Tourist Girl—Gem—standing there, arms folded over her bare midriff and sandaled foot tapping impatiently.

“I’m giving her another lesson today,” Tyler explains, but it does nothing to assuage the jealousy rearing inside me.

“I have to get back to work,” I manage, and then turn and go to the kitchen before he can see the stupid tears welling in my eyes.

On the counter in the kitchen lies a sheet of nougat, ready to be cut into squares. It’s exactly what I need. I grab a butcher knife and slice into it, cutting off a long strip.

My sister Sophie comes up behind me, a small, understanding smile on her cherry-red lips. “Harder.” She grabs another knife and plunges it into the sheet, tip first. “Like that. If you’re going to pretend you’re killing someone, don’t slice. Stab.”

I raise the knife and bring it back down, stabbing the nougat right in the middle. It feels pretty good.

“You need more force,” Sophie says. “Try raising it high above your head before coming down.”

I do, and when I bring the knife down, the nougat breaks into two jagged halves.

“What are you doing?” I turn to see Paige in the doorway, hands on hips, mouth wide open. “Stop it or we’re going to have to make a whole new batch!”

“Better the nougat than Tyler’s spleen,” Sophie says.

Paige takes the knife and points it at me, huffing out a sigh. “Why don’t you see? It’s a no-brainer! He wants you, Avery. You can see it in his eyes. All you have to do is be yourself. Is that so hard? I mean, look at that girl he’s hanging out with. She’s like how you used to be. Fun. Spontaneous. Carefree. Just be the same, and he’s yours!”

I’ve lost count of the times people have said things like that to me recently.
If you want Tyler back, then go after him. Fight for him. Be happy. Be yourself.
But I’m stuck somewhere inside this body. I don’t even know who I am anymore, or what will make me happy. And I’m tired of people making it sound like it should be so easy.

Sophie takes another swipe at the nougat. “I’m never falling in love. It sounds worse than having my toenails ripped off.”

Paige makes a disgusted face. “Ew. And it’s only torture when the person you love doesn’t love you back. Or when they do love you, but they don’t know it. Or they know it, but they don’t know how to show you or tell you. Or when—”

Dad pokes his head into the kitchen. “Girls, there are customers.”

“I’ll take care of the nougat,” Sophie whispers, standing in front of it so Dad doesn’t see the mess. Paige and I go up front to tend to the customers, and something white catches my eye through the window.

This afternoon may not turn out so bad, because pacing slowly outside the shop window is my new friend, Kai.

have a twenty-dollar bill in my front pocket. It took me four hours of hard labor to earn, give or take thirty minutes to convince a vineyard manager to let me work one afternoon for cash, without identification. And now I’m loitering beneath the striped awning of the Chocolate Couture, trying to get up the nerve to go in and see Avery again. I’ve been here at least ten minutes, long enough to see Tyler talking with her, and long enough to see him leave with the same petite blonde he was with at the beach last night.

I don’t know what Tyler and Avery were talking about, but hopefully he didn’t say anything to make things worse for her. He has a habit of doing that, and I wish he would just stay away and let her move on and heal.

Through the glass, I see Avery come out of the back of the shop to greet a customer. Something lifts inside me at the sight of her, the way cliff jumping makes your stomach rise to your throat. And when she meets my gaze through the window, the submersion is complete.

“Hey.” The voice comes from behind me and makes me jump. At first I think it’s Charles or someone from the other side, come to reclaim the stolen ring. But it’s just Tyler. He knuckles me in the shoulder. “You waiting for someone?” By someone, he means Avery, because he glances through the window at her. “Don’t bother, man. She’s my girl.”

I glare at him, annoyed at his interference. “Oh yeah? That’s not what she said.” So the statement is a little deceptive, but not entirely untrue. She hasn’t said anything about Tyler today.

“It’s complicated.”

Something about his words awakens a viper inside of me. I feel it snake through me, tightening my muscles as it goes. I think about all the times I’ve swung at him in the last couple months. The times my fist has gone straight through him, leaving him untouched and me frustrated. I think of all the thoughtless words he’s said to her, the tears she’s cried over him, her agony he could have softened, but instead magnified.

My eyes slide to the blonde girl who’s still waiting for him at the top of the steps. Her eyes are playing connect-the-dots around Tyler and me, trying and failing not to look at us, her face irritated and impatient. “So,” I say, “
complicated
means you’re free to hang out with other girls, but Avery isn’t allowed to be looked at by other guys?”

Tyler glances at Gem and then back at me. “It’s not like that, dude. She’s a customer.”

My stomach twists as my anger rises. I always feel sick when I get angry, because it makes me feel like my dad. I spent my childhood trying to be everything he wasn’t. I brought home dinner for my sisters, even if it meant stealing it. I told them they were smart and pretty and strong, instead of tearing them down. I refused to use the vile language my dad did, and tried so hard to not let my temper rage. But the anger always came, grew on my bones like muscle and sinew, begging to be used. And when kids at school picked on me or my sisters, they didn’t stand a chance against the power that was released in my first hit. I hated myself for it, for being just like my dad. I’d always felt powerless, like I’d been cut from the same fabric and pattern as him, and there was no altering it. That was until I met Charles Kelsey, who showed me a better way. But he’s dead now, like me. And at the moment, I can’t seem to remember anything he taught me.

In my already-clenched fists, I feel all those unconnected punches from the past few months, all my anger for Tyler still lingering, building. I try to rein it in, tie it up. I shrug. “I’m a customer too. I’m just here to get something sweet.” I turn away before my fist ends up in his face, but before I make it past the threshold, Tyler grabs my arm. And although it’s probably not meant to instigate anything, his touch is like a razor, slicing through the restraints holding my hand at my side. Before I can stop myself, I swing around, my fist landing squarely on his mouth. He stumbles back, clutching his mouth in his hand.

“What was that for?” he shouts when he finds his balance. His face is screwed up into a mixture of shock and outrage.

“What’s going on?” Avery charges out of the shop, eyes and mouth wide open. There’s a big white smudge across her black apron, and stupidly, all I can think is how maybe black can be stained too.

I’m still looking at Avery when Tyler plows into me, and the impact sends us both to the ground. Tyler straddles me and swings at my face, but I block him easily enough, and I wonder if he took sparring lessons from a sloth or if this body’s reflexes are faster than a mortal’s.

“Tyler!” Avery screams as she yanks on the back of his shirt. “Get off him!”

Tyler glances back at Avery, then jumps to his feet and backs away, chest so inflated I half expect him to pound it gorilla-style.

“What are you guys doing?” Avery demands.

I stand and dust myself off, too ashamed to meet her eyes. I don’t know what part of me thought that hitting Tyler would make Avery trust me more, but I mentally send that part of me to the doghouse.

Blood is oozing from Tyler’s split lip, and he dabs it with the back of his hand. “He was watching you,” he growls to Avery. “I saw him.”

“So?” she says. “I know him!” Tyler’s face goes slack, and I fight back a smug smile.

Someone clears their throat behind me, and I turn to see Tyler’s petite blonde standing there, arms folded, looking the way my little sister used to when she was carefully considering a tantrum. She’s left her big surfboard at the top of the steps, and a family is trying to navigate around it. “Should we reschedule my surfing lesson?” she asks. Her voice reminds me of Betty Boop, and I wonder if she’s forcing it on purpose to sound cutesy or something.

Tyler looks at Avery, and his lip isn’t the only thing on his face that looks wounded. “No,” he says to Betty Boop. “Let’s go.” He picks up a surfboard from a nearby bench and follows his “customer” down to the beach.

Which leaves me alone with Avery and her fiery gaze. I duck away from the intensity of it and sit on a concrete bench in front of the shop to collect and reorganize my thoughts. She comes and sits beside me, propping one knee up and hugging it against the smudge on her apron. “You okay?”

I shrug. “I’ve had tickle fights more brutal than that.” I glance at her, hoping to see a smile, but her lips are razor straight.

“Why did you hit him?”

“I …” My hands fall open and I offer a repentant look. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. He didn’t want me to come in, and then—”

“So when people get in your way, you just knock ’em down?”

In her eyes, I see her second-guessing our dinner plans. I need to fix this—fast. “No,” I say, scrambling for a way to explain myself. “It was more than that.”

“Then what?”

I can’t exactly tell her the truth, that I’ve been hanging around for six months, catching bits of her conversations with people. That I’ve heard Tyler say hurtful things to her face and behind her back. I can’t tell her I’ve seen him flirt with countless girls on the beach while she sat at home and cried over his absence. That I’ve watched him keep his distance while she suffered, like she was a leper and he was afraid of being contaminated with her grief.

I can’t say any of this, so I say, “He hurt someone I care about.”

Her lips part in surprise. “Oh.” Then her brows crash together, as though she’s perplexed and even hurt by my words. “So … you know him?”

I shrug. “Not really. I mostly know
of
him through a mutual acquaintance. And he was already on my bad side when he grabbed my arm, so …” I sigh. Charles always says that excuses only take away our power to set things right, so I stop. “It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have hit him.”

She starts playing absentmindedly with a button at the top of her white blouse and gazes toward the beach where Tyler and Betty Boop went. She’s probably wondering who Tyler hurt, and what exactly he’s been doing since they broke up. Or maybe she’s trying to think of a way to get out of dinner.

“I’ve blown it, haven’t I?” I ask.

She tilts her head one direction and her mouth the other, and looks at me like I’m some sculpture in a museum and she’s trying to decide if I’m art or trash. “I don’t know. I’m debating whether it’s smart to go to dinner with someone when all I know about him is that he carries a pocketknife and has a lethal left hook.”

“You have my pocketknife,” I remind her. “And I really am sorry about the left hook. If it makes any difference, that’s the first time I’ve used it in over two years.”