CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I RAN TO the one person I was pretty sure I hadn’t disappointed yet.
“Bea,” Sam said, opening his apartment door and rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“Sorry, were you asleep?” I blurted out, stepping inside. “I mean, of course you were, it’s the middle of the night.”
“What’s wrong?” he said, his brows drawing together as he reached over to cup my face.
“I . . .” So many emotions were crashing through me, and I couldn’t get a handle on any of them. All I knew was that there was a deep, dull throb of hopelessness underneath it all. “I saw my mom,” I finally managed. “Also, Evie’s pregnant and didn’t tell me—because no matter what happens between us, I’m always her disappointment of a little sister who can never be trusted. And Leah is into one of the most awful people ever and stopped me from going back to the Otherworld, which would have let me fix everything. But now I can’t fix anything and everyone hates me and I’ll never be anything more than this . . . this sad person. This sad, broken, nothing person—”
He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close.
I didn’t cry. I felt too hopeless even for that. But I held on tight, his warmth enveloping me and making me feel some version of safe. I expected him to start bombarding me with questions about everything I’d just spilled, but he just kept surrounding me with that warmth, his hands stroking through my hair and down my back.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he said softly. “That’s so much.”
For some reason, that made tears spring to my eyes. I turned my face up to his. His eyes searched mine, and I saw no trace of smug, of beaucoup fromage. He just looked like he was trying to figure out some way, any way, to heal me. Before I would have taken that as pity, would have pushed him away and challenged him to . . . I don’t know, a math duel or something. Now I took it as confirmation of something I’d absorbed about him these past couple weeks: that his empathy ran deeper than anyone gave him credit for, that he was stronger than anyone knew. That I’d underestimated him the way so many people underestimated me.
I kissed him. He made that surprised growl in the back of his throat, the one that got under my skin and set all of my nerve endings on fire. Then he pulled me closer, his hands tangling in my hair, his tongue sliding over mine. He was clad only in boxers, which he must have thrown on hastily before answering the door, and I reveled in pressing against so much of his delicious bare skin. I ran my hands over his chest, thrilling in the goosebumps appearing beneath my fingertips.
“Bea,” he said breathlessly, breaking the kiss. He cupped my face and stroked a thumb down my cheek, his eyes full of a million questions. “Do you need to talk or do you want me to go with you back to HQ so you can talk to Evie or . . . just tell me what you need.”
I leaned into his palm, luxuriating in his touch and the warmth surrounding me. “I need to feel . . . this.” I gestured between us and pressed a hand to his chest. “Just this. Just for a little while. Please.”
He didn’t ask any more questions. Just pulled me into another kiss that made my head spin. I pushed him back toward the couch and he sat down, pulling me with him. I straddled him at the waist, my hands stroking his chest, his arms, his broad, gorgeous shoulders. He slid the strap of my dress down my shoulder and nibbled at my collarbone. As usual he took his time, tasted every inch of my skin. Then he moved lower, stroking the lace of my bra out of the way with his thumb so he could slip my nipple into his mouth.
I shivered, losing myself in the sensation. The wet heat of his tongue, the pure beauty of his mouth bringing me so much pleasure. I loved the way he always looked like he relished tasting me, like he couldn’t get enough. Like it was his favorite thing in the whole goddamn world.
I trailed my fingertips down his chest, skimmed over his abs, and then reached lower to free him of his boxers. He stroked my thighs, pushing my skirt up, every touch making my blood fizz with pleasure. We managed to find a condom in the side table next to the couch. I helped him get my panties off, and then I was rolling the condom on and guiding myself onto him, my hands on his shoulders. He gripped my hip and thrust upward, and we both gasped, our eyes meeting.
“Bea,” he said, holding himself there.
“Sam,” I whispered back.
I realized then that we were in the same position we’d been in that night we’d first kissed: on the couch, me straddling him, our eyes locked. That night, we’d said each other’s names like we’d both just made a huge mistake. But tonight was different. And as we started to move, as he gazed at me with a wonder that brought tears to my eyes again, I figured out why.
I’d broken the one promise I’d made. The promise to never fall in love with him.
Just another thing I’d managed to totally fuck up.
Afterward, we lay in a tangle on the couch. Sam pulled a fuzzy blanket cocoon around us and fell asleep, his arm locked around me. I rested my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
“Sam,” I whispered after a while. “Are you awake?”
His breathing remained deep and even.
“Okay, good,” I said. “I need to tell you something, and I can only tell you if you’re asleep.” I closed my eyes and made my voice even softer. “I love you. I don’t know how it happened. I totally broke that promise I made, and it’s almost like you knew I was going to break it, like you knew . . .” My voice faltered, and I squeezed my eyes shut more tightly, trying to hold back tears. “. . . you knew there was no way I could get bored with you. That I’d only want more of you. There’s so much to you under all that swag. You’re so passionate about the things you care about. More sensitive than people think you are. You make me feel so . . . seen. Beautiful. Treasured. And you make me feel like I actually deserve for someone to see me that way.” I opened my eyes and let the tears trickle down my cheeks. “That day at the bookstore, when you so clearly saw how scared I am of being abandoned . . . I think one of the reasons I always conveniently ‘get bored’ with the people I date is . . . deep down, I’m afraid they’ll leave me. So I leave first—and the truth is, it’s not always as drama-free as I like to say it is. That’s just another lie I tell myself so I don’t have to deal with feelings—theirs or mine. And I usually manage to leave before I get to know them too well. But with you, it’s like we said. I already knew you. I never stood a chance.” I swiped away the tears and swallowed hard. “I can’t bear to tell you all of this and then have you try to make me feel better by pretending you feel the same way. That’s what I think you’d do. And that’s worse than pity.” I pressed my face against his neck. “I love you,” I whispered again. “Bea: Zero, Sam: Infinity. You win this ridiculous battle we’ve been having forever.”
His breathing remained deep as I disentangled myself, tucked the blanket more snugly around him, and got dressed. He didn’t even stir as I let myself out. It was still the middle of the night, and I caught the all-night bus home. No one was awake when I crept into HQ, and I made it to my room without incident. So there was one whole thing that had gone right in the last twenty-four hours.
I fell onto my bed and stared at Leah’s painting on my wall, that wild, beautiful mermaid. Leah probably hated me. And I couldn’t really blame her. Nicole was awful, she was my nemesis, but was she really a “dark force”? Had I really felt that, or had I just convinced myself it could be true because I wanted my mother back so badly?
My gaze fell on my bedside table and a sparkly, purple folder caught my eye. Oh, right: the report Nate had asked me to look at the night Evie and I had our most recent fight. It was another meticulously documented interview by Nate’s friend Kai with the most recent near-drowning victim: the third person who had no memory of how they’d ended up in the water. I’d read it the day after Nate had given it to me, but hadn’t really picked up on anything new. And I’d exchanged a few emails with Kai discussing the incidents, but that had kind of been the end of it.
For some reason, I found myself opening the folder, paging through, skimming the document again. This particular survivor’s account was vivid, harrowing. I’d been transfixed when I’d read it the first time, and I was just as transfixed now. I read through the whole thing again.
And then, as I reached the end, I gasped out loud.
Oh, fucking frakballs. How had I not seen it before?
I set the report aside and grabbed a notebook and pen from my bedside table. I started to scribble, my mind working overtime. Finally, the pieces were starting to come together. And the picture they were painting was more fucked up than I could have imagined.