I stood my ground.

The anticipation of it was as physical as if it were a gust of wind—impossibly fast but in slow motion at the exact same time, and I held absolutely still—my gaze fastened to his, my whole body alert and humming, seeing him clearly now, too, for what felt like the first time.

He felt things.

He’d just shouted that at me, but I could feel it now.

He was angry, and aching, and lost, and lonely. Exactly like the rest of us.

Also, he was totally ripped, with his drenched white oxford grasping and clinging to his torso.

So there was that.

I’ve never felt such intense anticipation—wanting him to hurry up and get to me, hoping like hell I was reading him right, longing to be closer to him so badly. Feeling like I finally understood him at last.

Duncan made it to where I was, and then he stopped short.

We stared at each other, wet and breathless, until I could only think of one thing left to do.

I took the final steps that separated us, and I reached up, clasped both my hands behind his neck, and then brought his mouth to mine. In that same smooth motion, as our bodies collided, he clamped his arms around my waist and pulled me close.

I could write a book about that one moment in my life: the pressure and drag of my wet clothes against my skin. The breathlessness of exertion and surprise. The tug of the waves at my calves. The feel of his chest against mine—cold with salt water and warm with body heat at the same time. The sense of safety I felt inside his arms. The ravenousness of his hands as he ran them all up and down, almost like they would never find a way to touch me that would be enough.

The relief of being connected at last.

The only sounds were the rush of waves and breath and air. Just motion and touch and closeness.

We kissed each other in the water for a long time.

Though I’m not sure “kissed” is the right word.

“Devoured” might work better.

Or “consumed.”

Or we might need to invent a new word.

I reached up, pressed myself closer, and kissed him harder. Whatever he was starving for, I wanted him to have. Because I was starving, too.

I brushed my tongue against his. I traced my fingers into the velvet of the back of his hair. I breathed him in. I pressed as close to him as I could get. I could feel his heart beating through his rib cage, and I wondered if he could feel mine, too.

I was cold, but I didn’t care. I was sticky with seawater, but it was fine. Somebody wolf-whistled us from up on the seawall, but we ignored it.

Whatever he was doing, I did it right back. I clutched him just as tightly as he was clutching me. We were cold, and still dripping wet, but his mouth was warm, and his chest and the tightness of the way he was holding me seemed to steady my trembling. He was like the only solid thing in the world. I wanted to melt into him.

I wanted to never, ever stop.

And just as I had that feeling, he stopped—and pulled back.

“The first time I saw you, I knew you were going to be trouble for me.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. I saw you banging on that broken locker, and I thought, ‘Oh, shit. That girl is going to ruin my life.’”

I pulled him closer. “The first words you thought when you saw me were, ‘Oh, shit’?”

“Pretty much.”

“What do you think when you see me now?”

“The exact same thing.”

I gave him a little smile.

“Don’t ever fucking do that again, okay?” he said.

“I won’t. I swear.”

“You scared the hell out of me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I feel things, okay? You have to believe me.”

“Okay.”

“I feel everything.”

“I believe you.”

And I had one last thought before he kissed me again. The world keeps hanging on to this idea that love is for the gullible. But nothing could be more wrong. Love is only for the brave.

* * *

After that, we kissed our way back to my place.

I’m not even entirely sure how we got back. But there was kissing involved.

Kissing as we walked.

Kissing at crosswalks as we waited for the light to turn.

Kissing pressed up against the sides of buildings before remembering to keep going.

Kissing back in my apartment, after we worked the lock open with the key, still kissing, and stumbled in. Kissing as we fell back onto my bed and tried to peel off each other’s sticky, salty, seawatery clothes.

Good kissing. Life-changing kissing. Kissing so intense, my whole body tingled.

Kissing so intense, I saw flashes of light.

Kissing so intense, I could smell honeysuckle and roses.

And that’s when I realized: It wasn’t just the kissing.

I was having an aura.

twenty-four

Yep. I was about to have a seizure.

For a minute, I wondered if maybe I’d just swallowed too much seawater earlier when I’d almost drowned. But that wasn’t it. You get pretty good at knowing.

Perfect timing.

But not all that surprising. It’s not usually in the middle of the stress that the seizures come. It’s usually right after. Just when you start to relax.

I pushed back from Duncan.

“You okay?”

I nodded, but then I shook my head. “I think I might be about to have a seizure.”

He frowned. “Oh.”

“And I’d rather not do that with you here. Like, I’d really, really rather not.”

“You need me to go?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“I’d actually kind of like to stay.”

I shook my head. “Can’t happen.”

“I’d really like to be here for you,” Duncan said.

“That’s a nope.”

“Why not?”

I didn’t know what to say. “It’s … private.”

“Having a seizure is private?”

“Yeah.”

“If you don’t control when they happen, how can it be private?”

“It’s private if at all possible.”

Duncan frowned.

“I’m just going to lie down after you go,” I said. “Stay in bed. No big deal.”

It was clear that he thought it was a big deal. “I feel like you shouldn’t be alone.”

“I’m always alone,” I said, before I realized how sad that sounded.

I didn’t know how to explain why I was kicking him out. “The thing is,” I said, taking a breath, “it’s not pretty when these seizures happen. It’s me at my absolute worst. And I just can’t bear the idea of you seeing that.”

Duncan nodded.

Then he did something I was not expecting. He lifted up his shirt to show me the scars on his side—pink and purple and mottled as ever, and so much more heartbreaking now that I knew how they’d happened. “You saw these before, right?” he asked.

I nodded.

“This is me at my absolute worst. And I wish you’d never seen it. But you did. On a night when you looked after me. And Chuck Norris. And apparently rescued my dying succulents.”

I gave a little smile.

“You were there for me, is what I’m saying. I want to be there for you.”

“That’s sweet, but no.”

I needed to get him out of there.

“You think I can’t handle it?” he asked.

Well, yeah. Kinda. “You shouldn’t have to.”

“What if I want to?”

“Nobody wants to.”

“I would have told you nobody could see my scars without fleeing the country, but here you are.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Why not?”

I tried to think. “You got shot by someone else. It wasn’t your fault. But my seizures—they’re me. I’m not doing them on purpose, but I am doing them. My own malfunctioning neurology. I’m the problem. That’s different. Plus, they’re never over. They don’t fade away.”

“What do you think that means?”

What did it mean? It meant that I couldn’t promise him that it wouldn’t get worse—or start happening all the time. It meant my life wasn’t in my control. It meant that we didn’t have a future together. It meant that if he ever saw me like that, he’d be disgusted.

And maybe that was the first time I’d put that into words.

He was waiting for an answer. So I sat up and edged to the side of the bed. The I turned to him and said, “You know all those after-school specials where kids mistakenly think their parents split up because of them—but then they learn the healing lesson that it had nothing to do with them after all?”

“Okay,” Duncan said, not sure where I was heading.

“I was the reason my parents broke up when I was eight. My dad left because of me. I overheard him actually saying it that night. Then, when I was ten, my mom died. And he wouldn’t take me. I went to live with my aunt instead. When I graduated high school, she gave me a trunk of my mom’s old things, including some diaries, and they confirmed everything I already knew—in intricate detail. He hated my seizures. He was humiliated by them. I drove him away. I was the reason my mom’s life fell apart. Why she had to work two jobs. Why she died alone. And that’s not a false conclusion. That’s the straight truth.”

Duncan nodded, but just barely. Then he said, “You think your dad left because you were too much. But what if your dad was too little?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean … a better man would never have left you. A better man would have stayed.”

I tilted my head. “Maybe you’ve just never seen one of my seizures.”