Beautiful Failure (14 page)

It’s Carter.

“Did you
not
read my text?” I cross my arms. “It said I don’t feel like going out.”

“Did you read
my
text?” He smiles and I realize I never looked to see if he responded.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and read my latest message
: “Then we don’t have to ‘go out.’ You still need your swimsuit. I’ll be there in twenty.”

“You think you can
force
me go out?”

“
Forcing
implies that I’m making you do something you don’t want to do.” He steps closer and slips an arm around my waist, locking his eyes on mine.

I try not to smile, try not to feel anything, but I can’t help it. “Even if I did want to go out, I don’t
need
to. I’m having a really rough day, so—”

He covers my lips with his and uses his other hand to roughly run his fingers through my hair. Not letting me go, he pushes me against the wall, kissing me harder than I’ve ever been kissed before.

Moaning, I harshly bite his lip—thinking he’ll step back, but he doesn’t. He bites my lip in response and slides his hands down to my thighs, immediately making me wet.

“Go put your swimsuit on.” He squeezes my ass before pulling away.

“Oh...okay...” I suck in breath after breath, feeling dizzy, but I head up to my room. I rummage through all the new summer wear I’ve ordered online over the past few weeks and decide to go with a white and gold bikini.

As I stand in front of the mirror, I notice that my lips are puffy and swollen from that insane kiss. Smiling, I slip into a pair of frayed jean shorts and a red crop top that shows off my belly button ring.

Just in case he has somewhere boring in mind, I toss my writing notebook into my purse and rush downstairs.

“Is this your mother?” Carter asks, pointing to the huge picture that hangs over the fireplace.

It’s Leah at fifteen years old, when she was crowned the Junior Miss Queen at a statewide pageant. She’s wearing a gorgeous, hand-sewn white ball gown and smiling her perfect smile—the same one she taught me.

“Yeah, it is.”

“Hmmm.” He looks back and forth between her picture and me. “You look just like her, except for the hair.”

“I think my dad had jet black hair.” I tend to forget that Leah’s natural hair color was blond. She just dyed it so often that everyone assumed black was her real color. “I’m not sure if I would look good as a blonde anyway...”

“Probably not.” He smirks and takes my hand in his. “Black fits your personality better.”

I roll my eyes, silently cursing myself for saying anything about Leah to him. Even something as simple as her hair color feels too personal.

He shuts the house door as we step out, and I hit the porch light before locking the door.

As usual, he opens the car door for me and waits until I’m settled before moving to his side.

“You don’t have to open the door for me every time.” I watch him shift gears.

“I do and
I will
.”

“If you say so.” I shrug and sit back. I can’t remember any of Leah’s suitors ever opening the door for her when they picked her up, and none of the guys I dated in high school ever did that for me either.

Once or twice would be acceptable, but every single time? It’s strange, and I don’t understand why he would even
want
to do that. It’s unnecessary.

He turns the music up a little bit and reaches for my hand, clasping it as he drives.

As his thumb caresses my knuckles, I feel my heart begin to race. It’s just a simple gesture—a really sweet one, and it shouldn’t affect me like this.

I try to think of the last time a guy held my hand so I can compare it and see if it’s just a tender spot for my body, but I come up with nothing.

This is a first.

“Something wrong?” He brings my hand up to his mouth and kisses it.

“Did you just kiss my hand?”

“Did you just
like
it?”

“No.” I lie. I squeeze his hand a little tighter and sit back in my seat, waiting impatiently for us to get to wherever we’re going.

I don’t have to wait too long, because he literally drives us down the street and past the path that leads to my neighbors’ lake. 

“Are you coming?” He holds my door open.

Utterly confused, I nod and step out, hoping this is some type of joke, but he takes a cooler and a bag out of his trunk.

“Follow me,” he says.

Leading me onto a small dock, he spreads a blanket over the wood and motions for me to sit. He pulls out a few towels from his bag, and then pops open the cooler.

“Italian sandwich okay with you?”

I nod and he hands me one.

“Is this what you originally had planned for us to do today?”

“No,” he admits. “But this is
much better
.”

“Why is that?”

“I can get to know you better this way.” He smiles. “Anytime we’re in public, you get distracted and fend off my questions. That’s not happening today.”

I feel myself blushing and he raises his eyebrow.

“I had no idea you were capable of
blushing
.” He kisses me lightly, then he pulls a beer out of the cooler and holds it out for me.

I’m tempted to grab it, but I simply stare—remembering today’s random test.

“Something wrong with the beer?” he asks. “Do you not like this brand?”

“I do,” I say flatly. “But I don’t think an
alcoholic
should drink any brand, especially if she’s still in rehab...”

His eyes widen. “
What
?”

“I’m a recovering...” I pause. “I’m an alcoholic.”

He looks at me in utter disbelief, and then, as if he can sense that I don’t want to talk about it, he returns it to the cooler. “Have you read anything good lately?”

I smile, grateful for the smooth change of subject. “I’m saving most of my money for some fines right now, so I’ve just been downloading a bunch of samples.”

“
Samples
?”

“Yeah. You get to sample the first ten percent of the e-book for free. I keep the ones I really like and when I have money to spare I buy them.”

He blinks. “E-books are like two and three dollars.”

“
And
? That shit adds up!” I laugh. “Do you have an e-reader?”

“I do. I guess I need to start using the sample thing instead of buying them first.”

“You should...” I want to ask him what he’s reading right now to try and make conversation, but I’ve never been good at that. All I’ve ever been able to do is fire back sarcasm.

He wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me close to his chest. “I’m reading
Hiroshima
by John Hersey. Have you read it?”

I shake my head and he starts to tell me about the story—a journalistic account of six survivors whose lives were drastically altered after the atomic bomb was dropped on their city. He goes into intricate detail, telling me each of the survivor’s names and struggles, and I suddenly wish I had this book in my hands.

As he’s explaining the aftermath, he pulls two glass jars of tea from the cooler, placing one in my lap.

“You don’t have to limit yourself because of me...” I whisper.

“I’m not.” He grins. “Homemade tea is
far
tastier than beer.”

I roll my eyes and take a few sips.

Closing my eyes in bliss, I savor each and every one. I haven’t had tea this good in years—not since Leah stole some from an upscale restaurant.

“Is it good?” Carter breaks me out of my trance.

“Very. You
made
this?”

He nods, and we drink the rest of our tea in silence, occasionally looking at one another and smiling—confirming my belief that he’s going to try and have sex with me at the end of the day.

And I’m going to let him.

It’s definitely happening...

“Why are you looking at me like that?” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

“No reason.”

“Hmmm.” He stands up and takes off his shirt, exposing his perfect washboard abs. As if he knows how sexy he is and how hard I’m staring, he rubs his hands across them while smiling at me and then he dives into the water.

When he resurfaces, he splashes the edge of the dock. “Care to join me?”

“Maybe later.”

“What do you consider
later
?”

“
Never
.”

He laughs. “I bought you something last weekend. It’s in the red box at the bottom of my bag. After I get done warming up, you’re going to join me in here.”

I don’t get a chance to say “No I’m not” before he swims away. I watch as he brings his arms over his head in a strong motion, carrying himself across the entire length of the lake.

Once he reaches the other side, I fumble through his bag and find a shiny red box. On the top of it there’s a card:

For Emerald:

An “ALL literature type”

They’ll read much better this way...

Intrigued, I rip the paper to shreds and open the box, gasping when I see a brand new e-reader, the three hundred dollar one that came out two weeks ago. It has a camera, three times the memory, and he’s preloaded it with hundreds of books.

When I scroll across the home screen, I notice that he’s set the wallpaper to be a stunning picture of a lone raven.

No guy has ever given me a gift before—at least not without immediately expecting something in return, and I’m not sure how to feel about this. Confused, I lie back against the blanket and start to read
As I Lay Dying
.

Every now and then I look up and steal a glimpse of Carter swimming back and forth across the lake, involuntarily smiling at him whenever he catches me looking.

“Do you know how to swim?” He splashes me from below.

I sit up and shake my head. “Not at all.”

“Never wanted to learn?”

“Never wanted to
drown
.”

Rolling his eyes, he climbs onto the dock. He takes the e-reader from my hands and places it into the box. “You shouldn’t let your bikini go to waste. Take your clothes off.”

“Excuse me?”

“Take your clothes
off
. Or do I need to tip you first?”

My jaw drops. “Did you really just say that?”

He laughs. “Five seconds.”

I sigh and slip out of my shirt. As soon as my shorts hit the deck, he slips an arm around my waist and pulls me into the lake.

I move my feet around—feeling for the bottom, but the water is too deep.

“Relax,” he says and tightens his grip. He waits for me to stop flailing about and then he slowly lifts me and lays my body against the water—securing one arm underneath my head and the other underneath my thighs. “You need to learn how to float first.”

My heart is racing and I can feel my hands twitching. I realize I should’ve told him that my fear of drowning is actually a fear of deep water.

I shut my eyes and try to be as still as possible, but I feel him pressing his lips against mine—making it even harder.

“Are you relaxed now?” he asks.

“
No
!”

“Close enough.” He kisses me again. “Try to focus on me and not the water. I’m not going to let you go.”

I don’t say anything.

“Are you afraid of deep water, Emerald?”

“
No shit
. Are you suicidal?”

“Depends on what type of day it is.”

My heart is racing a mile a minute and I’m not listening to whatever he’s currently saying. I’m just trying my hardest to stay still, keeping my eyes shut.

“Open your eyes,” he commands.

“No.” I squeeze them shut even tighter and he presses his lips against mine again—kissing me so thoroughly that I forget where the hell I am.

I feel his arm gradually moving from underneath my waist, as if he’s letting me go.

“Don’t...” I open my right eye.

“Open your other eye,” he whispers against my mouth.

I don’t.

He bites my bottom lip and moves his other hand across my breasts, softly palming them.

“Emerald...” His hand travels down to my navel.

I feel an unfamiliar fluttering in my stomach and open my left eye, clinging onto him once I realize that he
did
let me go.

Laughing, he wraps his arms around my waist and carries me to the shallow part of the water—setting me down on my feet.

“You
lied
to me.” I hiss and start to make my way back towards the dock, but he grabs me from behind and holds me against his chest.

“I’m sorry.” He kisses the back of my neck, doing nothing to calm my anger. “I didn’t know you were
that
scared.”

“Well,
I am
.” I’m trying not to explode, trying to take deep breaths and act like he didn’t just do that to me. “I never learned how to swim and I don’t want to.
Ever
.”

He whispers that he’s sorry again, that he won’t let me go, and I slowly calm down.

“Are you okay now?” He sounds sincere.

“Yes...”

“What does this tattoo on the back of your neck mean?”

I sigh as his fingers gently trace the grey and black feather pen. “It stands for writing. My mom took me to get it when I was fifteen.”

“And this quote on your shoulder?” He kisses it before reading what it says. “Life changes in an instant. An ordinary instant.”

“It’s by Joan Didion. She wrote it after her husband died in the middle of dinner...My mom died hours after we’d had a great lunch together, after I came back from a shopping trip.” I stiffen once I realize that I said that aloud.

“I’m so sorry.”

I don’t respond. I’m just grateful that he’s holding me tighter now.

I briefly shut my eyes and see Leah’s lifeless body, see her leaving me without any notice, without any care about my feelings.

Block it out, block it out...

I take a deep breath and slowly turn around to face him. “Was your strategy to drag me into the water and
make
me answer personal questions?”

“Is it working?”

“No.” I roll my eyes and turn back around, determined to lighten the mood again. “Ask me something else, something
fun
.”