Page 78 of The Clinch
I take it.
We walk back with the crowd, bodies funneling toward the boardwalk stairs. Someone bumps my shoulder. A kid runs past with a sparkler.
Then a man coming the other way slows.
He’s older. Sun-weathered. The kind of face you’d see ringside in a place that doesn’t card at the door. His eyes catch on mine and hold for exactly one second too long.
“Lillian?”
His girlfriend tugs his arm and pulls him up the stairs before he can say anything else.
Leo’s hand tightens on mine. He felt the pause even if he didn’t hear the word.
“You good?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just the crowd.”
He doesn’t push. We keep walking.
We head back toward the house through smoke and salt and the last scraps of noise from the beach. This time I keep my hand at his waist under the hem of his hoodie, my fingers resting against bare skin.
He says nothing about it.
His silence does more damage than commentary would have.
Behind me,the bathroom door clicks shut. Water starts a second later.
I stand in the middle of the room, every nerve still lit. His T-shirt is draped over the chair. Navy. Soft. Worn.
I pick it up. It smells like cedar and soap and him.
I pull off my hoodie and slip his shirt over my head. The fabric falls to mid-thigh, familiar and foreign at once.
Then I grab the paperback from my bag—armor I won’t need but carry anyway—and lie down on the bed.
The water shuts off.
I’m still pretending I haven’t jumped off the cliff when the bathroom door opens.
19
ROPE WORK (LEO)
Istep into the bedroom still warm from the shower, skin tight from salt and sun and holding back. Steam clings to my skin. I stayed under the water too long trying to get control back.
It didn’t work.
I drag the towel over my shoulders and reach for the T-shirt I left on the chair.
It isn’t there.
I look up.
She’s on the bed.
On her stomach. Ankles crossed. Paperback open in front of her like she’s killing time instead of setting fire to the room.
She’s wearing my shirt.
