Page 35 of Adrift

“Rani.” Darian’s voice sounds awfully close, like he’s a mere step away.

Oh, boy.

I look up, hoping to appear less mortified than I feel and praying he can’t see my damn nipples through my shirt. I already know that’s a pipe dream.

His irises darken to an almost espresso color instead of his regular cappuccino ones. The irony isn’t lost on me, given he doesn’t drink coffee.

I wonder if there’s a story behind that. Does he have preconceived judgments for those who partake in caffeinating themselves? Does his bigotry also percolate to chocolate?

Percolate. What an appropriate word, given the whole coffee conversation I’m having inside my head to distract myself from his ridiculously overwhelming stare. I’m pretty proud of my effort, actually, and I barely notice him there.

“Hmm?” I hum.

Darian’s lips twitch. They do that a lot whenever I’m around, but he’ll never give me the benefit of just letting them curve up all the way. It’s as if he thinks once he does, I’ll come to expect it. And maybe I would. “Are you nervous-rambling again?”

I shake my head, almost imperceptibly. “No. Was I rambling?” My chin tilts up. “It’s rude, you know, to tell someone they’re rambling, even if they are. Social norms dictate that you should allow people to ramble and find an excuse to flee instead of telling them they ramble.”

He blinks, biting the inside of his cheek. “Noted. It won’t happen again.”

I straighten, still feeling my nipples rub against the back of the cold, wet fabric of my tank top. It’s fine. It’s the twenty-first century, and nipples are in sight practically everywhere. So what if he can see them? It’s not like mine are anything special. Just another garden-variety set of nipples. Nothing more. “Good.”

Placing the cap back on my bottle, I skirt past him, hoping to make a less mortifying exit, when he speaks. “Thank you.”

My back faces him so I’m not sure if he’s turned to look at me or not. “It was nothing.”

“It was something to me,” he murmurs. “But even if I talk about it, like you asked, it won’t make it any less real.”

I turn, no longer worried about my chest . . . or his, for that matter. “What do you mean?”

He looks away, like he’s weighing if this is a conversation he wants to have or not, before his eyes swing back to mine. His Adam's apple bobs against the smoothest, creamiest skin I’ve ever seen.

Creamiest? Wrong adjective; obviously, I meant mediocre . . . unremarkable. His Adam’s apple bobs against the most unremarkable skin I’ve ever seen.

“Fifteen years ago, my best friend and I took our kayaks out to the river.”

“The Truckee River?”

He nods once. “It was our summer routine. We were both strong swimmers and had kayaked a hundred times before.”

Fuck, I can only guess where this is going. My hand slides up to my ribs as I press against the wet fabric to rub out the constriction that’s suddenly appeared.

“We knew we’d chosen a particularly challenging part of the river, but we were ready. It was just going to be a normal day in the water but uh . . ..” His jaw clenches and I know it’s to thwart the emotion in his voice. “Jude’s kayak rolled over when we hit a particularly powerful current. It moved him downstream so fast, I couldn’t catch up.”

“Oh, Darian . . .” I know I’ve closed the distance between us again, I just don’t know when I did it. Somewhere in the same ten seconds, I’ve also done away with the bottle I was holding. My hand finds his forearm and I squeeze, unsure whether I’m comforting him or me.

He stares past me as if he hardly registers my presence. “I looked everywhere for him, but the current was so strong and I lost time.”

I squeeze his arm again, urging him to continue.

“I found his body, facedown, a half mile downstream, shoved between rocks. It seemed like he made his way out of the kayak at some point, but the autopsy report said his neck was broken.”

My eyes prick as a rush of tears well inside my lids. “Darian.” I reach up, not giving a shit about my warring senses and thoughts, not giving a shit about right or wrong, surrounding his neck with my arms. There is no right or wrong when all you’re offering is friendship and comfort. “I’m so sorry.”

Darian stands there motionless, his hands hanging by his sides. His body feels warm and strong–albeit stiff and unyielding–against mine and I almost don’t want to let go. But as I gain my composure–and the realization that maybe my comfort was unwanted and unwarranted–I lean away from him.

It’s then that his hands find my back.

Sliding up my torso, in a torturous sail over my pebbled skin, his arms cross behind me. I hear–feel–his inhale against my hair before he relaxes in my embrace.

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