Page 20 of A Not-So Holiday Paradise

The two of us are huddled against the side of the research facility, the red brick sturdy and anchoring. We’re facing each other but looking at our feet, our arms folded over our chests as we attempt to make ourselves as small as possible.

We did try to break one of the ground floor windows, but it wasn’t as easy as they make it look in action movies. They chose tempered glass for this building precisely for this reason: so it wouldn’t shatter in severe weather.

Good call on their parts. Those windows aren’t going anywhere anytime soon.

I can’t help but think of the soft, fluffy snow that’s probably falling at home as I huddle here, being pelted by bruising rain, talking feverishly about the mating habits of the common goldfish. My backpack is hanging like dead weight off my back, my mind only half intact as I speak.

And I hate it.

I hate the way my voice sounds to my own ears, laced faintly with the anxiety I’m trying to outrun. I hate the twisting in my gut, the adrenaline rushing through my veins as the sky is revealed time and time again through the flashing lightning. I mastered my fear of water a long time ago; why am I still affected by lightning like this?

“But you know, the common goldfish is actually considered an invasive species in North America,” I babble, my voice growing louder as another roll of thunder sounds around us. “They compete with local populations for food, and their feeding habits reduce the clarity of the water which then affects plant growth because of the lack of light that reaches the bottom—”

But I break off when Beckett speaks for the first time in probably ten minutes.

“For thelove,” he says, quietly enough that I barely hear him. Then he steps closer to me and, in a move that completely obliterates my personal bubble, clamps one hand over my mouth.

Over. My. Mouth.

My jaw would be gaping open if it weren’t being held closed by Beckett’s warm, work-roughened hand. I glare at him, reaching up to pull on his wrist, but it’s like trying to break that stupid window all over again. No matter how I tug, he doesn’t budge—because while one hand is over my mouth, the other is at the back of my head, holding me in place.

“There was this kid your brother and I were in school with,” he says to me, his voice low. There can’t be more than six inches between us, and for a moment I just watch in fascination at the way his lips move when he speaks.

“And this guy was nice enough, I guess, but whenever we were about to take a test, he would start running his mouth about all the things he’d studied. It was like a compulsion; he couldn’t sit quietly. He did this thing where he tapped his fingers on his desk too. It made your brother laugh, but it drove me nuts. All that nervous energy made me feel twitchy.”

I pull my eyes away from his lips just in time to see his brown eyes boring into me.

“So I know you’re scared, Baby O’Malley,” he goes on, and his voice is gruff, though not unkind, “but I need you to calm down. Okay? Please.”

I stare up at him, stunned, at a complete loss for words. He stares at me expectantly, though, his hand never moving. I can just smell him over the scent of the rain, now that he’s so close; something fresh and clean, a sharp, soapy scent.

Because he’s still looking at me, still seemingly waiting for my answer, I nod once.

“Good girl,” he murmurs in a low voice.

My stomach flips at his words, which is categorically stupid, but I gave up trying to control my responses to him a long time ago. I wince, though, when another shock of lightning laces the sky overhead. I flinch into his hand, which is still over my mouth, and he lets it fall away.

Except he doesn’t move his other hand from the back of my head. No, he uses that hand to pull me closer, and I stumble forward as my head collides with his chest.

I shiver as I hear another crack of lightning, and his hand tightens in my hair.

“I—yeah,” he says, sounding resigned. “Just stay there for a bit. Don’t look at the flashing light.” His chest rumbles against my face as he speaks, his shirt wet against my cheek. The thin linen is plastered to the planes of his chest—something I’ve done very well not perusing up until this moment, thank you very much. But now that my forehead, nose, lips, and chin are all squashed up against him…well. I can’t help but notice.

Along with the muscle, though, I am also keenly aware of how stiff his body is, tense and coiled. He’s clearly uncomfortable having me this close. I don’t blame him, I guess; he hasn’t exactly been acting like my biggest fan. I would move away, except his hand is still holding my head to his chest. Not to mention…I do feel a little better having my eyes shielded from the lightning.

I wasn’t lying to him earlier; I’ve had seizures for years, since I was thirteen, and they’ve never once showed any response to flashing lights. I’ve done several EEGs—a neurological test that involves dozens of little sensors attached to my scalp with goopy glue, while I’m exposed to different triggers—and strobe lights have never affected the electric signals my brain is putting out. The only thing that seems to trigger my seizures is sleep deprivation. So it doesn’t really make sense that I’m so wary of lightning or strobe lights or anything like that.

It doesn’t make sense, but it happens anyway.

I used to be afraid of water, too; a bit more understandable, perhaps, but still something I wasn’t happy about. So when I went to college, I started my own form of desensitization therapy. I swam with friends in the university’s pool. I learned cool stuff about the ocean and marine life. That’s what led me to ichthyology. It wasn’t because I was a clownfish in my past life—although hey, who knows?—it was because I spent so much time trying to get over my fear that I ended up falling in love with that world.

When will I fall in love with the stormy sky?

I don’t know how long we stand like that, my head buried against Beckett’s chest, the rest of my body awkwardly keeping its distance. It’s a weird pose to be in, uncomfortable and comforting all at the same time. He never relaxes, not once, even as the minutes drag on for what feels like forever.

At some point the storm picks up even more, turning downright violent. I’ve never seen rain or winds like this, except for one time when we were visiting family in the midwest during tornado season. Now is when Beckett and I finally give up trying to keep our distance; although we don’t say anything—I don’t think we’d be able to hear each other over the roar of the elements—we both move at the same time, our bodies colliding as I step into him while he simultaneously pulls me closer. He yanks at the straps of my backpack, pulling it off of me and tossing it to the ground beside the wall. Then he shuffles us around so that my back is to the brick, shielded almost completely by his body. I’m soaked to the bone, and he is too; I can feel him shivering just as violently as I am.

“Can you breathe?” he says, his voice muffled as he speaks into the top of my head.

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