Over the course of the next three days, it seems both Jake and Stella have decided—on each their end—to forget all about their almost-kiss on the beach and continue on as normal. In other words: as if nothing ever happened. As they were before.
Friends.
Which, admittedly, has proven more difficult than Stella thought it'd be.
Because she did want to kiss Jake that night.
And part of her fears—no, not fears, knows—she still does.
She wanted to kiss him the other day, while they'd been laying side by side upon their wide striped beach throw, warm rays of sun shining down on them and the sound of waves rolling onto the shore in the faint distance. Droplets of water lingering on the bridge of his nose, across his tan cheekbones, in his brows. Her damp hair heavy with salt and sand. The two of them, enveloped in a cloud of sunblock tickling their noses.
Peering down at a crossword, their elbows pressed together, she'd stolen the pen out of his hand—his fingertips warm as they grazed against hers—and scribbled across the four boxes following the clue 'annoyance' in her italic scrawl: J. A. K. E.
He'd rolled his eyes with a chortled breath, chin resting atop his knuckles as he turned to glance at her with a small smile. And as he did, for one brief moment, the rest of the world seemed to cease into nothing but a blur of background noise: the wails of the seagulls soaring above them on the blue canvas of the sky, the sound of Nic flipping through a ruffled paperback on the beach towel next to theirs, Ethan and Avery sat down by the shore—building a sandcastle.
A few hours later, as they'd split into teams at the beach volleyball court, she wanted to do it again. Heartstrings pulled tight as Jake pouted—having flickered his dark gaze to hers, he'd thrown the ball lazily between his hands with a "But I want to be on the same team as Stells,"—at Lea's suggestion of playing a game in teams of the girls against the boys.
She wanted it as they floated around on the surface of the cool ocean water—eyes closed against the warm rays of sun—, laughing as they occasionally drifted into one another.
She wanted it as he attempted a butterfly stroke but instead inhaled an involuntarily gulp of ocean, intertwining his fingers through hers while he treaded water, grinning even through his choked coughs.
She wanted it as she stumbled over her own feet on their way back from the ice cream parlor, having Jake folding over in his chortled wheezes. She wanted it even more as he made sure she—as well as her waffle cone of chocolate ice cream—was okay.
She wanted it yesterday night as the two of them set out on cooking dinner for Angelina and Geoffrey. Sidestepping one another, elbowing one another out of the way as they reached for green cupboard doors and drawers. The soft, mellow tunes of music drifting into the air from the radio stood atop the kitchen island. Fingers lingering around the spatula a moment too long while letting it pass between their hands, stupid small smiles curled on their lips.
She wanted it this morning as they were sat out on the balcony and his gaze flickered to her lips as she applied her cherry chapstick. Or maybe she imagined that one. Maybe the flutter she sensed as she caught him staring was nothing but her projecting her own—admittedly confusing—feelings onto an innocent breakfast between friends.
Stella did want Jake to kiss her that night: enveloped by salt air, dizzy anticipation in the space where their breaths melted together, her dress fluttering against her skin in the light wind, his palms warm on her hips.
She had wanted it then. And she wants it now.
Sat in the soft glow of this crowded restaurant, with its dark interior and narrow rectangular tables, her knee absentmindedly leant against his.
Lighthearted laughter echoes through the room, bouncing against the wide windows facing the boardwalk: loud and short in its amusement as it blends with the soft murmur of voices, clinking of glasses and silverware scraping against plates.
The rest of their table is watching Luke as he stabs his finger down against the dark wooden tabletop, lips in smiles as he attempts to state the point he's making, but Stella's busy watching Jake.
Chin resting in her palm as she lazily twirls some pasta around her fork, small upward tilt to her mouth, her gaze flits over his features. Over the twitch in his cheeks as his lips split into a grin, deepening the smile marks etched around his mouth. Over his cheekbones lifting as he laughs, all the way to the glimmer in his eye. Over the slow beat of his fingers as they tap against the foot of his glass.
Letting a faint chortle fall from his tongue, Jake shifts in his seat—gaze flickering to Stella. Fork in hand, he reaches across the table and spears it into one of the red cocktail tomatoes on her plate.
Stella's mouth falls open with a small breath of mock-disbelief. With a small laugh, she raises her brows and knocks his fork away with her own. "Excuse you?"
Innocence dances over Jake's lips as he pops the tomato into his mouth. "What?"
Their friends' conversation melts into soft background noise as he holds her gaze, the amused smile tugging at the corners of his lips mirroring the one rounding Stella's cheeks.
In an attempt to tune back into whatever the rest of their table's up to, Stella reaches for her glass of iced tea and flits her eyes away. She lets them roam over the room, internally reprimanding herself for her ever-growing smile and the warmth lingering on her cheeks as she listens with half-an-ear to the ongoing conversation.
Then, fingers wrapped around the glass of iced tea, she freezes—the steady rhythm of her heartbeat exchanged for one alike that of a stampeding horse. Her focus falters and fades. As does her smile.
A coldness settles over the restaurant. There, at the corner table—behind a gigantic yarn-ball of a hanging ceiling lamp—is the last person Stella thought she'd see here. On a Friday night in sunny Acebridge, on the coast of North Carolina, of all places.
The one person she had hoped she would never have to lay eyes on ever again.
The one person she least wants to lay eyes on ever again.
He's yet to see her, seeing as he's busy pulling a foolish face at his three children who—as expected—throw their heads back in delighted laughter. And though Stella wants to do nothing but look away, to go back to laughing with her friends, continue eating of her deliciously creamy pasta, she cannot tear her gaze away.
As always, he emits the kind of loud presence that has everyone in his orbit looking twice. Strong build, those years as a swimmer honed into his every feature. Handsome, in an old-fashioned way: shirt ironed and piercing steel gray eyes—if one were to look up close—with the ability to drain you of your breath. His shampoo commercial worthy hair falls a little longer than usual, giving off the impression of a relaxed vacation vibe.
It's the kind of presence eager parents and grandparents alike would love to capture on camera.
But beneath the pretty surface there's an ugliness neither of them—or anyone else it seems, for that matter—could ever imagine.
No; one would have to be at its hands to even glimpse a fraction of it.
Clammy palm tightening around her drinking glass, Stella swallows hard as her airways begin to close in on her. Skin prickling, her chest constricts: the rise and fall of it heavier with her every breath, drowning her out until nothing but tension consumes her body.
The next few minutes go by in a blur.
As if sensing Stella's eyes on them, the woman at the corner table—his wife—flickers her gaze sideways and across the room, where it collides with Stella's. Looking as stunned as Stella feels, surprise crosses her features—small mouth settling into a thin line.
Something cold splatters across Stella's chest as her glass tumbles to the floor, sprinkling the dark stone in hundreds of tiny clear shards.
It's not until a waiter appears by her side, broomstick in hand, that Stella's gaze drops to the front of her linen dress—realizing the once white fabric is now dyed peach tea brown.
Somehow, she manages to utter a breathless "thanks" to the waiter as they reassure her these things happen all the time and that a new drink is already on its way.
And though conversation has resumed around the rest of the table—Stella's ear shattering spill of iced tea alreadyforgotten—, next to her, Ethan slowly lowers his utensils and glances her way. His eyes fall to her trembling hands, a faint crease appearing on his forehead.
"Are you alright? What happened?"
Across from them, Jake's gaze zeroes in on Stella as well. Taking in the sight of her, he frowns—brows drawing together as she swallows through her dry throat, her stare back to being fixed on the picture perfect family sat across the room.
He leans forward, one arm folded over the tabletop. "Stells?"
Momentarily, his voice snaps her out of her transfixion and swiftly, Stella's gaze flickers his way. The beat of a second is all it takes for Jake to straighten up, lips parting as concern etches into his features.
He regards her for another moment before turning his head over his shoulder, his eyes searching the room—all the way to where Stella doesn't want to look but cannot help not to.
Hands balling into fists where they rest over his arms, Jake's jaw clenches as his softened gaze returns to Stella's.
He cocks his head to the side, a tug of sympathy to his frown. "Come on, let's get some air."
Frozen, Stella's eyes remain on the corner table, nausea building in the pit of her stomach. Her eyes flit between Jake and the corner table. A harsh blow, as if kicked—hard—in the chest, air catching in her throat, the room nothing but a hazy blur before her eyes as her chair scrapes hard against the stone floor, she pushes to her feet, the cloth napkin in her lap tumbling to the floor.
"I'm going to be sick."
━ ♡♡♡ ━
A creatively strung together sentence of curse words falls from Stella's lips as she stumbles out of the restaurant and out into the thick night air, the world seeming to sway beneath her feet.
The ocean breeze lifts her dress, having the white fabric flutter against her thighs as she runs across the street and the boardwalk—head pounding—, heels of her sandals sinking into the sand where she folds into herself, arms wrapping around her goose bumped arms.
Fingertips numb as they press into her elbows, she's enveloped by the lull of the outside: it's quite the contrast from that of the restaurant, the noisy crowd exchanged for the waves washing onto the shore as well as the faraway laughter from the neighborhood of beach houses a great distance away.
Errant strands of her hair fly in the wind, whipping her in the forehead and sticking to the warm wetness coating her cheeks as she gasps for air. Vision hazy from the tears staining her eyes, she brings one of her trembling hands to her throat, gently pressing her cold fingertips against her skin to force down the lump there.
A flock of seagulls rest in the sand by the shore, a serene image underneath the darkest blue night sky. They have no idea Stella feels as if she's on the verge of dying.
In an attempt to ground herself, she closes her eyes and inhales through her nose—exhaling audibly through her mouth between her silent sobs, fingers curled into her palms.
Flinching, her eyes fly back open a beat later as a soft touch grazes her back: just a few light fingertips coming to rest in the space between her shoulder blades.
"It's me."
Eyes swiveling skyward, Stella runs her thumb roughly over the tears having prickled her cheekbones. She lets her clammy palm come to her heart, willing its beat to calm underneath her soothing touch—willing every emotion whirling around there to still, to give her some sense of peace—as she turns around to face Jake.
A frown shapes his lips, features hard. Anger simmers in his dark eyes. Not like the one she's witnessed through their years growing up together—not the 'slamming a game console down against the couch cushion in an act of frustration' anger, the one that usually fades within the moment of a heartbeat. This is a rawer emotion, out for the world to see, not even successfully concealed by the faint tenderness dancing over his lips.
Staring up at him, Stella swallows hard and—without really putting much thought to it—lets herself fall into his embrace, allowing him to take on her weight as he wraps his arms around her and pulls her close.
"You're okay," He breathes, the words tickling her temple as he tucks his chin over her head. His hold tightens as she buries her nose in the fabric of his shirt, in the comfortable citrus scent, in his warmth—her tears staining it as the beat of her heart slows. "You're okay."
As she speaks, her sobs are muffled against his heartbeat. "You should go back inside."
"No."
"But your friends–"
Intentional or not, Jake gives her shoulders a small squeeze. "You don't have to worry about them."
"Okay, but what about our food? Or my—shit, my bag's still in there. I can't go–" A flare of anger burns Stella's skin from within at the unwelcome interruption of her night, but as she speaks her words are nothing but defeated. "I can't go back in there Jake. I can't."
"I know," Jake says softly, clearing the hoarseness of his voice. "We'll figure it out later."
Inching back, Stella tips her head back to glance up at him. "Jake–"
"I'm not leaving," Jake's gaze is steady, unwavering, as it meets hers. "Nothing good would come out of me going back in there."
Stella's throat tightens, lips pressed together as her eyes flicker over Jake's features. The pained expression flickering over his dark eyes. The notch having appeared between his brows. The clench of his jaw.
Nodding once, tears prickle her eyes as she croaks. "What is he doing here?"
Jake's voice mirrors hers as he slowly shakes his head. "I don't know."
Falling back into his embrace, Stella loops her arms around Jake's waist and holds on tight—maybe, if she anchors herself to him, the earth won't seem as tilted.
Warmth flushes her from within as the ocean chill prickles her skin, having her run both cold and warm at once, the nausea once again climbing up her throat until it becomes unbearable.
Gaze widening, she jumps back—heart stampeding in her chest. "Oh no,"
The heels of her sandals wobble in the sand as she runs toward the boardwalk, reaching one of the trash bins stood along it.
"No, no, no."
Stella falls over the bin, tears trailing down her cheeks as her fingers grip its dirty, worn, gray edges. And heaves.