Bombora Page 11

  To his credit, Nate must anticipate I’m planning my exit, despite the limited options available; either I fling myself into the sea or dig myself a hole in the sand. He advances a few steps and makes like he wants to take my arm again before thinking better of it, but is close enough to block my escape with his body. I inhale at the proximity, the subtle smell of sweat and sea salt on him, and hope to high hell he doesn’t notice the flare of my nostrils and my tongue darting out to wet my lips the same way he notices every other one of my tells.

  “Do you hear me denying any of that stuff, Phel?” he asks with a shake of the head. “I’m not—I know I fucked up royally. But just… I never meant—”

  My hands tighten into painful fists of their own accord. “So help me, Nate, if you say you didn’t mean to hurt me—”

  His eyes drift shut in resignation, because we both know my guess is correct. With Nate, they always are, just as I’m not dense enough to believe he doesn’t know me equally well. It’s been months, and I don’t doubt we could still carry on a conversation with just our eyes like we’ve been doing since Day One. That’s part of the problem with feeling you know someone so well—it’s all the more devastating when the farce is revealed.

  Nate has to know how far he’s pushing me out of my comfort zone, but still, he insists, “I didn’t. Fuck, Phel, I lo—”

  Without warning, my first flies out and catches him on the chin, close enough to his mouth that I feel my knuckles split against his teeth, the painful collision with bone. The whole thing happens so quickly. I wonder if I haven’t blacked out, seconds lost between thinking, Please don’t say those words, anything but that, and finding both of us bleeding, Nate from the lip and myself from the hand. I have never punched someone in my life, and it shows. Belatedly, I remember Hugh commenting, in the midst of some shitty action movie we found on Netflix, that only amateurs go for the face, since the stomach is an equally effective target and far kinder to an assailant’s fists. At the time, I dismissed this information as useless, but apparently there is a point where even an adamant pacifist will resort to physical violence to shut someone up.

  Appearing as shocked as I feel, Nate stumbles back with a curse and reaches up to touch his split lip. He glances between his blood-smeared fingers and my face with an expression of utter bewilderment, but the sight of him hunched over and breathing hard, face flushed, doesn’t move me to pity or regret. Instead it inspires the only real reaction of which I’m capable—the one thing I’ve been trying to suppress since Nate hurtled back into my life with all the subtlety of an apocalyptic disaster.

  Sometimes I think my mind isn’t my own. Judging from the speed with which I can go from in control to the grips of a panic attack, this more or less is consistent with how I’ve come to view my body when adrenaline floods my system and the fight-or-flight instinct kicks in: a vessel occasionally at my disposal, but with significant override functions to which I do not hold the key. Over the past few months, I’ve come to accept these feelings of helplessness, since I do not, after all, have much say in the hormonal revolt my body might display in the face of anxiety. Other behavior, however, escapes even my considerable powers of rationalization—the only explanation is that I simply don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.

  Striking faster than a fist, I lurch forward and collide with Nate’s body as I grab at that startled face, pulling him forward until there are a dozen surprise points of connection leading up from our hips and ending at our mouths. At first Nate is too stunned to do anything but grunt, the sound immediately swallowed by my kiss, lapped up like his blood upon my tongue. But then his hands are moving, gripping at my hair, my waist, everywhere they can reach, bruising, possessive, greedy. Familiar. Nate’s grip is hot in contrast to the clamminess of our sea-chilled skin; I push myself into the touch, pressing our bodies together, his chest as smooth and muscular as I remember.

  Teeth and tongues dominate the kiss, my lips burning from the force with which we fight one another, and take and take and take. A groan of frustration, barely recognizable as my own, wrenches from my throat at a bite of particular violence from Nate. While this bit of roughness in all likelihood splits my lip, the tang of my blood is impossible to distinguish from Nate’s own. He moans into me, a guttural sound deep in his chest, and the sting of his nails in my back punches a noise of similar urgency from me.

  Moving on autopilot, I shove once, hard, against his chest, and then again. We both make surprised sounds when Nate’s heel catches on the piece of driftwood and sends him careening backwards, arms flailing for a moment before he grabs back onto me and takes me down with him. The sand barely cushions the landing. My weight crashes on top of Nate and forces the air from his lungs in a huff, warm against my lips, but hardly a second passes before we’re mauling each other’s mouths again with me perched heavily across his lap, straddling his hips.

  Though neither of us are strangers to passionate lovemaking, Nate and I have never been rough to the point of discomfort. As such, my fingers surprise me by tightening in his hair to what is surely a painful extent, tugging as far as my grip will allow until his head is jerked backwards at an angle. I continue kissing him in a fury, and it elicits a sound of such open need from Nate’s throat that I feel my cock harden in my shorts, twitching against his erection. I realize I want more. I want that rush of fear and adrenaline and uncertainty flooding through his veins for once instead of mine.

  I find his wrists and pin them above his head in the sand. Nate is the larger man, but all the time I’ve spent surfing, paddling out through rough water and building the muscles in my back and arms—I’ve gotten strong, strong enough to hold him down so he will have to struggle to free himself. If he so chooses. He doesn’t, not really, bucking against me for a moment before he gasps into my mouth and arches his whole body instead, letting me savor the thrust of his pelvis and the bump his ribs against mine, sharp protrusions from the awkward angle of his arms.

  The feeling is powerful, heady. In fact, I haven’t felt this way since the night I met Nate in the bar, when anything I did would surprise him, draw him in, keep him off-balance. I so badly want to feel that way again, and I dig my nails into his skin a little harder, pressing into ligament and bone. My mouth detaches from Nate’s long enough to find the pulse in his throat and bite down until he cries out, distinctly, with my name. The flash of his eyes shows only want, surrender, and that’s what I need to keep the balance in check. I’m too afraid to give anything of my own, unsure if that side of me still exists.

  “Phel,” he says over and over, “Phel, please.” I want to ask him what he’s begging for, since I’ve never known Nate to beg, but then he rolls his hips and arches against me again and moans, “Baby, yes.”

  Something in my chest snaps so hard at the word and the need in his voice that my ears ring. I shove him back into the sand with all the force I can muster, then push myself upright and off him altogether, as if an invisible hand has yanked me back by the scruff of the neck. Whatever sense of power I felt recoils like a rubber band that’s been stretched too far and then released, cracking back against my skin with a sting I can feel all through my insides.

  “What?” Panting, Nate struggles into a half-sitting position with his elbows dug into the sand. I watch his chest heaving for a few seconds and follow the intense flush that travels down from his face, proof of the same rapturous burn I felt not a moment ago. “What was that?” he asks in a gruff voice. He licks his lips and I see his tongue emerge to prod at where the flesh is torn.

  To distract myself, I waffle a moment before I begin to shove the rest of my belongings into my bag, not bothering to check if it is all mine or if I’ve forgotten something. My plan to wait around for Hugh is a thing of the past, because right now I want to be as far away from Nate and my recurring insanity as possible. I need to go back to where it’s safe and I don’t fear my own behavior so much. Obviously I’m not to be trusted.

  Nate sits up a bit further. “Wh
ere the hell are you going?” he demands.

  I ignore him, but all this does is make him try harder—of course. He’s pursued me every other time I’ve tried to run away; it’d make no sense for him to stop now. But when that word comes again, “Phel, baby,” the fog dissipates completely and I stumble back farther, finding myself more or less where I began when he showed up. The only difference is I’m through trying to shield myself from him; I just need to go.

  “I am not your baby,” I spit. His face crumples in surprise at the vehemence of my words, but I want so much more than that. I want him to feel as deeply shaken as I’ve felt the past few months, like nothing will ever be right again. I want this so badly, I worry it’ll never be enough. “I’m not your anything.”

  With that, I start to jog back across the beach, away from him, and I don’t look back despite the several times he calls out to me in that heartbreaker’s voice. He sounds pretty heartbroken himself. I can’t look; it’s all I can do to keep going before something gives out and I can’t run any more.

  5

  Nate

  EVERYTHING is broken.

  It’s hard to feel otherwise when the cut on my lip scabs over and my jaw bruises a gross purple from Phel’s fist, harsh reminders each time I look in the mirror or see worry written across my brother’s face in response to my injuries. He looks at me like a concerned parent whose kid has fallen in with the wrong crowd, so fraught and tense that I could scream, like I really need another layer of stress added to what I’m already feeling. The pain itself is no big deal, little more than a twinge when I talk or chew, but that isn’t what I mean, not what freaks me out. I feel disaster closing in each time one of Hugh’s sideways glances shows doubt in the lies, suddenly numbering in the double digits, that I’ve been forced to tell. Since I found Phelan living here in Cardiff, they seem to be multiplying with terrifying speed; damned if each one doesn’t hurt more than a hundred of Phel’s punches or a thousand of his kisses.

  But what’s the alternative? Do I tell Hugh, Hey, buddy, sorry for the recent weirdness but—your best friend? I’ve been fucking him this whole time and single-handedly ruined his life, along with my family’s? I don’t think so. Something tells me Phel wouldn’t be down with this course of action either.

  I write off my injuries as an accident with the surfboard—amateur’s misfortune, blah, blah—but aside from feeling like Hugh sees straight through the bullshit, I can’t believe I’m back here. The reason I came to Cardiff is because I was sick of secrets, sick of feeling my whole life was a lie. I’m supposed to be rebuilding, escaping the shit that piled up past the rafters in Ohio, finding a way to set things right with my family—and if I’m lucky, myself. Instead it seems to be happening all over again, like I’m stuck in a budget remake of Groundhog Day or some shit.

  For days I can think of nothing but Phelan’s mouth, the way it burned into me so hotly my lips felt branded after. I wish I knew why he did that, why he turned so suddenly and took off like the freaking hounds of hell were on his tail. Maybe I shouldn’t have yelled at him. Maybe I shouldn’t have kissed him back or tried to say I love you, but even if I regret the method of delivery, I don’t feel guilty for saying what needed to be said. Phel ripped himself free of my life before I could tell him any of that stuff. I guess I didn’t want to miss out on the opportunity a second time, and desperation does funny things to people.

  Weirdly enough, I find a strange source of preoccupation in wishing he’d honor my request to talk to Hugh. Knowing Phel, he’ll come around on his own eventually—my brother is difficult to ignore for long, and pretty irresistible once he’s decided he likes having you around, the spoiled brat—but in the meantime I can tell the radio silence is getting to Hugh. Maybe getting to them both. Phel never had many friends to begin with, not even in Chicago, and I think it would be good for both of them to get over this hump and pick up where they left off. Even with the limited amount of time I’ve seen them together, I can tell they fit. They like each other, probably even more than Hugh and I would if we weren’t related. Easy friendships like that are hard to find. I won’t say I’m not jealous, because I am, but I’m not so much of an asshole I can’t see how good the friendship is for them both. I want them to have that, but haven’t got a clue how to help. My own life could stand some fixing first.

  An answer of a sort comes about a week after the incident at the beach. I’m out walking Callie, watching her run back and forth across the sand after the stick I’ve been throwing, over and over, until my arm starts to hurt. Much like my brother, she is completely inexhaustible—despite the fact that I seem to have taken over her walks, the only time I’ve seen either of them tire is around each other, the pair as well matched as it’s possible for dog and human to be. She seems dismayed I don’t share Hugh’s boundless energy, but humors me as long as I keep throwing the stick. It’s a good specimen, as sticks go, heavy enough not to blow away in the strong coastal winds, but even with a dog of her size, it looks comically huge in her mouth. I’ve taken to throwing it like a javelin to conserve my strength for the next round.

  My phone trills from the pocket of my cargo shorts as a crab or some other sea critter lures Callie into the surf. With one eye on the dog and the other on the caller ID, I almost drop the phone when I see Emilia’s name flash across the screen. For a moment my mind whirrs like a turntable with no record on it, around and around while nothing plays. We haven’t spoken in weeks, my wife and I, not since I announced I wanted a divorce. Although I’ve tried to call Liam plenty of times, needing to hear his voice as desperately as I want to see his face, Emilia has managed to intercept every call, making it perfectly clear she doesn’t want me talking to our son while the divorce proceedings are still being worked out. Does she think I’m gonna brainwash him or something? I’m sure I could push legal action over that, but the thought of dragging Liam even further into this mess makes me sadder than anything. I’ve already disrupted his life. Am I supposed to make him miserable too?

  I plop down onto the sand when my knees start to feel a bit wobbly. Hands shaking, I answer the call. “Hello?”

  “Dad?” Speak of the devil. The sound of that small, uncertain voice makes my heart clench so hard in my chest that I wince, fighting the knee-jerk urge to either drop the phone again or slam it shut in surprise, like I’m being punk’d in the cruelest way possible.

  Thankfully, I do neither of these things, though I do take a moment to compose myself, easing the shakiness out of my voice as I reply, “Liam? Is that you?”

  “Yeah.” Anticipating my question, he explains, “She went to the store. I know I’m not supposed to be calling you, but… I miss you a lot, Dad. Mom won’t tell me anything about what’s going on or why you won’t come home.”

  So much for small talk. The sheer confusion in his voice makes my chest hurt more than if he’d accused me of abandonment. He wouldn’t be wrong, not really, but the thought of him alone, ignorant of why his home is in tatters, makes me angry and so, so guilty I can’t be there to make it better. Add to this the knowledge it’s my fault to begin with, and a watery grave starts to look pretty damn attractive.

  Thing is, I have no idea what to say. Emilia and I aren’t getting divorced because we can’t stand each other—in fact, my opinion of her is pretty hard to beat. She’s protective, is all, the same way I’d be if our roles were reversed, and it’s not like there’s a road map for this one, at least not a good one. It would probably be a lot easier to take a page straight out of the annals of divorce court and say something disparaging, but I hate when couples turn ugly. The last thing I want is to say something out of line, make Emilia look like the bad person. She isn’t. I am. Liam deserves to know that.

  But first things first. The phone might prevent me from giving my son the hug he so obviously needs, but I can still reassure him he’s not alone in feeling, well… alone. “I miss you too, kid,” I say gently. “I’ve been thinking about you every day I’m out here. Sorry I ca
n’t be there right now.”

  “Where are you? When are you coming back?”

  “California. I took a drive out here to spend some time with your Uncle Hugh.” Realizing I’m putting off the inevitable, I take another deep breath and shift the phone to rest between my ear and shoulder so my hands are free. Needing something to hold on to, I push all ten fingers into the soft, beautiful sand, warm and silky between my knuckles, digging in deep until my bones ache from the pressure. “As it stands, I don’t know when I’ll be back, Liam. If I had it my way I’d be there now, but there’s some stuff I gotta work out with your mom before I can do that.” There’s an awkward pause. “How much has she told you?”

  I hear Liam’s guilty, conflicted sigh. “I asked her if you guys are getting a divorce, since my friend Matt says it’s normal for dads to take off when parents split up.” By the time Liam has reached the end of his sentence, I can’t decide who I want to punch more—myself, or Matt. “Mom started crying when I said that, but she didn’t deny it.” Now I kind of want to smack Liam too, because seriously? Sometimes my kid acts like his sensitivity chip short-circuited in the bath. I know for a fact Emilia and I raised him not to go saying shit like that, even when angry, but I guess it’s not like we planned for this eventuality. He might be entitled to a free pass right now, but not if he’s going to start upsetting everyone in the process, or heeding bullshit at school he knows better than to listen to.

  “Hey, hey,” I reassure him, gently chastising, “no one said anything about me not coming back, okay? This isn’t a permanent thing, believe me. Your uncle and I would kill each other eventually.”

  Wincing at the empty promise, because who the hell knows what this is, I attempt to man up for real and tell it straight, talk to Liam like an equal and not a little kid. He deserves that much, not that I blame Emilia for trying to buy herself some time or not knowing what to say. Hell, it’s possible I’m about to screw the pooch myself, if my guess is wrong; I tend to overestimate people a lot, myself most of all.