Drift (Lengths) (10 page)

And I don’t give a damn if they do.

“I spent a lot of time doing things that no one expected me to do. You have to work up a thick skin, but, in the end, it’s your life to live. No one else’s. If you’re always trying to do what makes your boyfriend or teachers or parents happy, you’re going to wind up profoundly miserable.” I hold up my glass. “And maybe thirsty.”

He laughs softly. “That’s how you became so successful? Your friends told me you’re a lawyer.”

I want to go ahead with this mostly truth. I love the sound of it. But I’m not big on hypocrisy. I’d rather admit something that makes me squirm than lie with a fake smile on my face.

“I’m actually a lawyer on suspension.” Maybe I hate the fake smile, but I put it on full display, then take a long drink of wine so I can blunt the disappointment I know will come when Isaac’s bright, sexy eyes go soft and sad.

But they never do.

They harden, widen, fill with interest. “I want to hear that story.” He moves his hand to my arm and his fingers caress my skin. “I assume you were a very, very bad girl to get suspended.”

If he delivered it as a line, it would have been cheesy—gross even. But comes out as an ice-breaking joke, and we both laugh. I laugh harder than I have in a long time, and it’s about the one thing I never thought could be funny at all.

That’s the kind of rebound I love, though I never expected to get it this way.

“Bad enough. Not like I lied under oath or manufactured evidence. I would never do anything like that. This was more a mix of professional and personal at an inappropriate time and place.” I do wince. In hindsight the chance I was willing to take for a slug like Richard seems just plain stupid and insanely risky. And it wound up being a risk with stakes way higher than I ever imagined.

Isaac puts a hand over his heart, closes his eyes, and shakes his head. He peeks at me through his thick lashes and grins.

“I’m picturing all kinds of scenarios I shouldn’t be.” He wags a finger my way. “I never would have thought the model student in the front row could be secretly harboring this terrible secret.”

“Trust me, I was more stupid than bad,” I admit, laughing about my own failure for the first time since this whole mess started. “The real problem is, not only did I behave badly, I sucked at keeping it a secret.”

He runs his hand along my arm and I almost blank on his words, I’m so focused on being touched by him. “You’re not a spy, after all. Lawyers are meant to be brusque and unafraid.”

“That’s the understatement of the century,” I say around a laugh.

Isaac and I would have kept going back and forth all night if I didn’t hear someone’s noisily cleared throat.

Cohen.

I bite back a sigh and wonder if it would be appropriate to drag him aside and remind him that I have no problem blabbing about the time his
Playboy
and Jergens stash was discovered by our shocked mother...hidden under the chess box he made with such care in middle school shop class. Papi said it was no wonder it was sanded so smooth. “The boy has the forearms of a professional body builder! Too bad those are the only muscles he has!”

That story is always good for a huge laugh. And it seems an appropriate way to wipe that condescending look off his face.

Before he pushes me to take the gloves off and bring out some high-school level tattling, Deo lugs an enormous, steaming pot out of the kitchen and onto the table. We all take our seats, and I let Isaac herd me neatly into a chair next to him and pour me some more wine. Whit dishes out bowls of chili that would set fire to a novice’s tongue; luckily, we’ve been eating hot stuff since we were in diapers, Maren has had time to build up a tolerance, and Whit actually got this recipe from my mother, since she and Deo are honorary family.

“Do you like spice?” I ask, scooping some chili onto my spoon and letting the slow burn simmer on my tongue when I bite it.

“My father once allowed me a week free of tutors if I could eat a plate of habanero peppers from my grandmother’s garden.” His smile like a chili: so hot any warmth is followed with a nip of pleasure/pain.

“How old were you?” I ask as our elbows brush. I love the rub of his skin on mine.

“Eight? Nine?” He shrugs, but I cringe.

“That’s too young! You’re lucky it didn’t put a hole in your stomach lining.” I shake my head. “That was evil of your father.”

“My father took twisted pleasure in watching me suffer,” Isaac says. My eyes fly to his face, and his smile softens when he reads the upset I’m not even trying to hide. “I’m sorry. I just made my childhood sound much more tragic than it was. My father is a hard man, sure, but I was no poor, abused waif. All his crazy dares only made me stronger.”

“I can’t believe you can even stomach anything hot after something like that.”

I try to picture Isaac a decade younger, those green eyes glinting with confidence, his tongue scorched, trying to complete this stupid task his father set out for him without throwing up or crying. I hate the image.

“That burn in my mouth makes me think of freedom.” He eats a spoonful and breaks a piece of cornbread in his hands, leans close and shares a secret smile with me.

He’s about to say something else when my damn brother clears his throat again.

“Cohen, I think you need to drink something,” I snap, looking straight at him.

“Why?” he demands, his spoon clutched in one fist.

“Because you clearly have something lodged in your throat. And your constant throat-clearing is obnoxious,” I say. Obnoxiously.

“I’m surprised you heard anything…” He’s going to say something else, something immature and mean because something strange happens pretty much every time Cohen and I get together. We both become sniveling, arguing kids, and our families just kind of ignore as best they can.

But it’s like we both realize at the same instant that Isaac is not family. Or honorary family. Or married in. So he’s exempt from our infantile behavior, and we need to be civilized.

Grinning like he knows he’s pushing his luck, Cohen turns his attention to Isaac. “Isaac is it? I didn’t quite catch how you know Deo and Whit.”

“Dude, it was insane,” Deo cuts in, practically jumping up on the table. “The swells were intense. I’m not gonna lie
—I was a little scared of them myself. But this guy was shredding like a pro. Or an idiot. You know that’s a blurry line. But he was keeping his feet. Anyway, he came off a pretty crushing wave, and I see this gold in the sand.”

“Of course. You’re trained from our treasure hunting days to spot gold anywhere,” Cohen agrees while Maren, Whit, and I simultaneously roll our eyes.

My brother and Deo have a bromance that goes back to their toddlerhood, and they’re kind of ridiculously loyal and supportive. I mean, it’s great, it’s awesome they’re such good friends. But their constant verbal high-fiving definitely gets old fast.

“Right! You know how it is,” Deo says, like being able to spot gold in the sand is some immensely weighty superpower they both grapple with. “Anyway, winds up it’s Isaac’s grandpa’s necklace. Once I gave it back to him, it was dinnertime, so, you know me. I can’t turn a hungry stranger away.”

“Of course, man. Good save, by the way,” Cohen says. He turns to look Isaac up and down, sizing him up before the inevitable question he and Deo always ask. “So you’re a surfer?”

Because, obviously, ones worth in life is solely based on whether or not one can surf.

“I work at the university,” Isaac says.

I hide my smile behind my wineglass. Despite his perfectly polite words, it’s clear Isaac is trying to hide his amusement over Deo and Cohen.

“My brother-in-law works at the university and surfs, too,” Cohen says, and, just like that, it’s like Isaac has passed some ridiculous fraternity test and is in. “So, you up for catching some more waves this weekend?”

Instead of answering him, Isaac looks at me. “Do you surf as well, Lydia?”

Deo and Cohen snort, and I glare at them. “What the hell is so funny, you idiots? Did you seriously forget the fact that I helped teach you both to surf back when you were still dragging your boogie boards in the kiddie waves?”

Deo stops mid-laugh and screws his mouth over to the side. “Right. But that was forever ago, Lyd. I mean, do you think you could still do it?”

“You think I forgot how to
surf
?” I ask. He tugs on his collar and looks to Cohen for help. “How do you know I haven’t kept up with it?”

“When?” Cohen scoffs. “With that douchehole Richard?”

I notice Isaac’s hand tenses around his spoon at the mention of Richard’s name.

“So you think the only way I could have been surfing all this time is if I had a man to take me?” I demand.

“Seriously, you two are tools,” Whit says, directing her sloshing wineglass at Deo and Cohen. “I bet Lydia could beat you into the sand any day of the week.”

“I absolutely could,” I say, my voice steady and confident.

Cohen throws his hands up. “Perfect. Surf contest. Saturday, dawn, the sweet spot. What are the stakes?”

For a quick second, I back up.

First of all, I’m an adult. I don’t have Saturday morning surf contests with my brother and his lame friend.

Secondly, I have other things to do. Like follow-up on my inquiry about my suspension. I have reading to do for class.

I will also have to work double hard to not obsess over Isaac now that I’ll have another evening inhaling the smell of his skin, feeling the heat radiate off his body, and looking into his eyes over and over—waiting for something to happen, no matter how bad an idea I thought it might be if something actually ever did.

It’s uncanny how many times I’ve jumped into bad ideas with both feet.

Third, I honestly haven’t been on a board since I was an undergrad. True, I was amazing then. And I do pilates and yoga regularly, so I have a really strong core but…

“We should be on teams,” Isaac says. I watch Deo and Cohen meet eyes and smirk when Isaac takes a sip of his wine.

Those egotistical little assholes!

I logically know they’re grown men, but I swear, no matter how old they get, I see them with their spotty first moustaches, backwards caps, smattered acne, and torn-up Billabong shirts whenever they’re together. They always did think they were such hot shit, and apparently still do. It’s past time for someone to take them down a serious peg or two.

“We
should
be,” I agree, the thought of competition making my blood surge the way it always does. “And we should sweeten this whole deal. How about we get a little wager going?”

Isaac smiles at me and nods. “I like this idea. What would we wager?”

“The winners have to pay for a dinner out?” I suggest.

“Lame!” Deo and Cohen yell in unison.

They are like identical braying jackasses.

“Tattoo wager,” Deo grins and Cohen’s eyebrows shoot up.

My brother always was the more conservative dunce, so I’m not sure if his worried look should worry
me
or if it’s just typical Cohen being wary of Deo’s insanity.

“What the hell is a tattoo wager?” I ask, half-afraid of the answer.

“Winner gets to pick a tattoo for the loser.
And
pick where.” Deo crosses his arms in triumph.

I roll my eyes. “Sorry, Deo. Some of us have careers in the professional sector. Mermaid portraits of your wife might be fine in a surf shop, but I can’t go around with a
Minotaur on my bicep when I’m representing a client in a courtroom. No offense, Whit.”

“None taken.” Whit tugs on Deo’s sleeve, a severe frown creasing her brow. “Babe, a surf contest is fine. But Lydia is going to beat your ass, and I’m putting my foot down. I refuse to take a chance on you getting another mythological creatures with my face tattooed somewhere random. I really can’t deal with the thought of me as a unicorn on your
neck or a gnome on your ass. You need a different wager.”

“I’ve got it.” Cohen snaps his fingers and we all look over. He opens his mouth, then snaps it shut again, looking gray around the gills. What could make him more freaked out than a tattoo wager? He clears his throat. “Cece’s Yom Kippur performance. She’s begging for volunteers.”

“No!” Deo cries. Only it comes out in slow motion and the one syllable word accordions into fifteen drawn-out, agonizing syllables.

Isaac looks at me, alarmed. “Yom Kippur performance? Will Cece be
—”

I let out a long, sad sigh. Because, stupid as Deo can be, the way he screamed at the table was exactly the way I screamed in the privacy of my brain.

“Naked?” I whisper to Isaac. “No. Are you Jewish?”

“I’m Roman Catholic,” he whispers back. “You are Jewish?”

I nod. “And Yom Kippur is our holiest holiday. It’s a day of atonement, and our rabbi is very...eclectic. Anyway, he lets my sister do this, er, presentation every year. Usually with the help of her community theater friends. And he loves it when we all get involved.”

Deo has his hands over his face and is dragging his fingers down, distorting his features. “Why? Why does Cece
do
this to us? Like Yom Kippur isn’t depressing enough!”