Swept Away
Authors: Melanie Matthews
Swept Away
Copyright © 2015 by Melanie Matthews
Cover Photograph © Alena Ozerova/Shutterstock
Swept Away
is a work of fiction.
Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever without written consent from the author.
About
Swept Away
Daria Castle can’t have any distractions during her senior year. She needs to focus, excel, and earn back her parents’ trust. But the arrival of Gabriel Antonio del Castillo, a Spanish foreign exchange student, disrupts her plans—and shakes her world. Gabriel is unlike any boy she’s ever met. But he’s keeping a secret—one that will shatter what she thought she knew about life, love, and fate.
“Look at that hottie over there,” Camilla says, pointing to a surfer.
“He’s all right, I guess.”
It’s a hot day at the beach in Florida. I forgot my sun block, so I’ve been roasting for hours. I feel fine, now, but I’m sure later, the sting will hit me. Camilla Vargas, my best friend, is naturally tan. I hate her. We’re enjoying some fun-in-the-sun before our senior year starts at Old Spanish Town High School, further inland.
Camilla sighs. “All right, Daria, what’s
his
problem?”
She’s frustrated, her help hindered by my resolute desire to be single—forever. I should hang a sign around my neck:
Daria Castle: Out of Business
.
“I’m not ready.”
“You need someone to get over Frankie—and to show-up Vicki.”
Francis “Frankie” Brody is my ex-boyfriend. He’s dating Vicki Hollow, a bitch. Frankie’s a bad boy, always getting into trouble. So, when we dated,
I
got into trouble. My parents had enough. They took away my car and my cell phone. I’m still on restriction, but it’s eased up a bit. I’m allowed outings with Camilla, at the beach—but with a set curfew. It could be worse.
“What about Tony?” I suggest, smiling.
“I love you, Daria, but if you go near my boyfriend, I’ll kill you.”
“Threat taken seriously,” I say.
“Now I know why it smells like fish around here,” says a familiar, unwelcome voice.
It’s Vicki Hollow with Emily Gordon, who used to be our best friend. Emily says nothing, looking scared.
Camilla flips her off.
“Funny,” Vicki says, looking at me. “Frankie gave me the finger the other day, if you know what I mean.”
“Gross,” says Camilla, wrinkling her nose.
I say nothing. Vicki giggles and leaves, with Emily trailing behind.
Camilla starts to speak, but is distracted by a text from her boyfriend, Antonio Dixon, the ebony-fine stud quarterback of Old Spanish Town High School—the Angels. It fits. He’s an angel to her.
“What were you going to say?” I ask when Camilla is done texting back.
“Oh? I can’t remember now.” She shrugs, and then says, “Oh, yeah, would you turn me in if I murdered Vicki?”
“Nope,” I say. “I’ll even help you bury the body.”
She smiles. “You’re a great friend.”
“I know.”
“What about that guy?” she asks, pointing at another surfer.
“No,” I say.
She sighs. “What about ice cream?”
“Okay, but I’m not making a commitment.”
We’re enjoying our ice cream when suddenly I feel like I can’t breathe. There’s water all around me. It feels like I’m drowning. I shake my head to release the water.
“Oh, ice cream headache?” Camilla asks, sympathetic.
“No, I—I don’t know,” I say. “I feel like I’m surrounded by water.” I shake my head again. “I’m fine. It’s over.” It’s a lie, but I’m able to maintain focus. I know I’m not really drowning. That’s ridiculous.
Camilla believes me. “Hey, what about that guy?” she asks, changing the subject.
She just doesn’t quit.
I turn to where she’s looking, just to oblige her. And I keep staring. He’s gorgeous, not from this world. I’m in a trance, watching him. He’s seated at a wooden bench, by himself. He’s dressed for the beach, wearing aviator sunglasses. He’s facing us, but doesn’t seem to notice that I’m staring at him. I feel like I’m drowning, submerged in him.
I shake my head and turn back to Camilla.
She’s smiling. “I think we have a winner.” She nudges me. “Go talk to him.”
I shake my head again. “I’m not ready.”
I turn to take a second look and notice he’s gone.
“Maybe it’s a good thing,” I say. “He looked old, like in his twenties.”
“Yeah, he was nearly on his deathbed,” Camilla says, then sighs.
I shrug. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. I’m destined to be alone for the rest of my life.”
“No, they’ll have robots in the future—to fulfill all your perversions.”
“Until they become self-aware and murder me in my sleep.”
Camilla swipes her tongue along the vanilla spiral and swallows. “At least you’ll die with a smile on your face.”
“Speaking of dying, what time is it?” I ask, throwing my cone in the trash.
Camilla checks her phone. “We’d better get back—an hour ‘til curfew.”
“Let’s roll.”
Camilla is speeding. She never gets a ticket, though—always talks herself out of one—Cuban charm, I guess—and big tits.
I lay my head against the car window and close my eyes. I can breathe again. I’m not drowning. I picture the handsome stranger and fall asleep.
I wake up when the car breaks.
“Are we there yet?” I ask, yawning.
“No, I decided to stop instead of running through a red light and into traffic.”
“That’s safety conscious of you,” I say.
“Well, we can’t let that merit badge go to waste, now can we?”
Camilla accelerates at the green light. I take in our surroundings. We’re almost home. The roads are crowded as we near Old Spanish Town.
“I’ve been thinking about getting a job,” I say.
“That’s cool. How about working at the little Cuban restaurant?”
“What little Cuban restaurant?”
“Libertad,” she clarifies in perfect Spanish.
“Oh, yeah,” I say, remembering. “I think Alejandro works there, doesn’t he?”
Alejandro Aznar and I have known each other since childhood. He’s always shy towards me. Sometimes, he hung out with me, Camilla, Tony, and Frankie. He never seemed to like Frankie, but not many people do.
“Yeah, he does. Why don’t you go out with him?”
“You’re assuming he’s interested.”
“Well, chica, I don’t think he used to hang around us because he loved being the fifth wheel.”
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“Are you still in love with Frankie?”
“No,” I immediately say. “I’m just—I’m not ready.”
“What about that guy at the beach, the one who had you leering?”
“Was I
leering
?”
“Like a pervert.”
“I’ll never see him again, so there’s no point in fantasizing.”
“Okay, so it’s settled. Ask Alejandro out.”
“Not now, Camilla.”
“Ten-four,” she acquiesces.
We’re home. She turns onto Santa Maria Circle, a suburb. We live on the same side of the circle, a few houses apart. She stops at mine. I gather my belongings and we say goodbye.
I enter the house, the strap of my beach bag digging into my shoulder. My mom’s at the sink, washing dishes.
She stops to look at her wristwatch. “One minute late.”
“Sorry,” I say, nervous, shuffling my feet.
She surprises me with a smile. “It’s okay, Daria. You’ve made great progress this summer. Your dad and I are proud of you.”
I smile and hold back a tear. “Thanks.”
“Tea’s in the fridge,” she says, and resumes washing a plate.
I pour myself a glass and sit, happy. My parents are proud of me. The tea tastes wonderful.
My dad is home. He enters and frowns at me. “You’re red.”
I look down at my burnt arms. “Oh, yeah,” I say. “I forgot to wear sun block.”
He leans down and kisses me on the forehead. “Be careful next time, okay.”
“Okay, daddy,” I say.
He kisses my mom, pours himself a glass of tea, and sits at the table, next to me. “Have fun with Camilla?”
I nod. “We swam. We got baked—I mean, burnt—I got burnt, not Camilla.”
My parents exchange a look. I told them I never did drugs, but Frankie did—still does, most likely. I was guilty by association.
My dad just nods and picks up the day’s newspaper. As a family, we’ve healed. At first, when I was put on restriction, I fussed and fumed for days. I cursed and threw things. I thought my life was over. Camilla was there for me. She told me it wasn’t the end. It was the beginning.
“I’m going to take a shower,” I inform, gathering my bag.
“Supper’s almost ready,” my mom says, cleaning her hands with a dishtowel.
I smell sauce cooking in the pot and the noodles are almost done. The butter bread is toasting in the oven.
“Okay,” I say, and head up the stairs.
I shower and change into casual clothes. My parents are still in the kitchen, talking in low voices. When I enter, they break away from each other: my mom to the meal, my dad to the table. I know they’re talking about me—good things, I hope. We eat supper together, chit-chatting between bites. We laugh a lot. The topics of conversation are light and easy. After, my dad and I help my mom with the dishes, and then I retreat to my room.
I pass by my bathroom, the shower. Earlier, I was quick. The cascade of water, the rush, brought back the events at the beach: drowning in the mysterious stranger’s presence. Who is he? And will I ever see him again? I hope—yet I don’t. I’m not only drowning, I’m being ripped to shreds.
I look at my hair in the mirror. Suddenly, it’s too long, like seaweed, threatening to strangle me. I take a pair of scissors and cut and keep cutting. Hair is on the floor. More than what is on my head. I relax, will myself back to sanity, and snip here and there, straightening out the mess I made. The ends of my hair rest above my shoulders. I don’t like the feel of it against my skin. I tie it up and away from my face.
I stare in the mirror, at the reflection.
“Is that you, Daria?” I ask the girl staring back at me.
“Yes,” she answers.
