“You get a guitar without stealing it, and I’ll sell my art.”
They stare each other down before shaking on it. It’s not what we need as a group, but if it gets them thinking about how to survive for a while, I’ll take it. I’m good at little plans, like getting Walker the supplies he needs to get us out of the country, but big plans, like the one I’ll need to wipe the slate clean and get us back to our regularly scheduled lives?
That kind of plan will take longer than we have the funds to support.
But we’ll get there.
I have to believe it.
I’ll make it true.
SEVEN MONTHS LATER
Chapter 37
Clara
The sea breeze almost cuts through the heat of the day as I run along the beach, my feet bare, my legs working harder than they ever did in the years of racing at home. Sweat drips down my spine as I kick into a sprint, the power of my strides strong enough that I feel invincible. Passing the pile of rocks at the end of the beach tells me I’m done for the day, and I try to ignore the tightness in my chest that gets stronger daily. I wade into the cool waves, letting them lap at my burning thighs while I watch the sunlight twinkle over the water.
It’s beautiful here.
Stark, sandy, blues and tans instead of the seasonal greens and grays I’m used to. So many unfamiliar smells, sounds, and such a change in the pace of life. It was all so different when we first came. But now, these differences are approaching something that could be as familiar as home.
The urge to dive under the waves, to stay, consequences be damned, floods.
I don’t fight it. I dive into the next wave, coming up sputtering on the other side, swimming as far as I dare, not wanting to risk this area’s ever-changing and vicious riptides. One caught RJ when we first got here, and if he’d been a weaker swimmer, he wouldn’t have made it back to shore. It was terrifying.
Now, even that danger is familiar and avoidable.
Treading water, panting, I start my goodbyes. Everything is set, every risk and probability analyzed late into the night, all our steps laid out in front of us. We have a plan. A real one.
One that will change everything not just for us, but for those around us, too.
It’s the best option. The only one.
We told our families we’d been admitted last minute into study abroad programs scattered around Europe. RJ paid people with unlaundered funds to travel with our IDs, which tricked Trips’ dad just long enough for our trail to run cold. And with weekly emails to our families—because everywhere we ‘visited’ had terrible phone service—we hid our true purpose: buying time to come up with a plan.
Paddling back to the shore, for a moment I regret not stripping off my shirt and shorts, not liking the gritty feeling of dried salt on my skin. But what’s done is done. I slip my feet into the sandals I left hidden in a crevasse in the rock pile, moving quickly and shaking them off before slipping them on. Yet another lesson learned the hard way.
Walking home, a commotion from the end of an alley have me turning from the main road. I follow the sound to a circle of teenagers and kids shouting as two men circle each other. Sweat leaves one man’s white shirt plastered to his skin, the other man shirtless, ridges and valleys of muscles on display. I lean against the wall behind me, happy to enjoy the show.
With no obvious tells, one man pounces on the other, a series of slices, punches, ducks, and twists looking more like a dance than a fight, and then, with a well-placed knee, they’re on the dusty ground, rolling, wrestling, working to pin the other. The shirtless man gets an upper hand, and the other man, after a brief struggle, taps out.
Then they’re helping each other up, the kids laughing and cheering, chattering as RJ and Trips catch sight of me behind the crowd.
Trips wipes his face on his shirt, his gaze dark, but he doesn’t approach me.
We’ve hardly touched each other since we arrived, safe behind a boundary I’m not sure either of us want up, or that either of us is happy with. But it’s stayed up—I’m still uncertain I should trust him. And he knows he’s still far from proving he’s worthy of my trust.
Every time his eyes glaze over in fury, but he breathes through it, coming back to the present, is a step in building that trust. And each success improves the likelihood that I’ll give in to the electrical storm that’s building between us.
But not yet. Neither of us are ready for that step.
The test will be when we go back home.
Only then will I know for sure he’s gained enough control to not endanger me again. To not endanger us. Or our plan.
RJ leans down, pressing a kiss to my temple, his smile soft. “Sugar, you smell like the ocean.”
