“How did you know?” I ask him suddenly, and he cocks his head in confusion. “That I wanted to go to that club?” Because I hadn’t said anything. I hadn’t done anything except follow him around like a loyal puppy dog as he walked along the beach and drank tiny bottles of Jack Daniel’s he’d stolen from a stranger’s minibar.
David’s shoulder lifts in a half shrug. “I saw your face when that girl reminded you how old you had to be to get into that cheesy teenie club.”
I keep my gaze trained on the broccoli in my chopsticks. “But you didn’t take me to that cheesy teenie club…” I remind him. No, David snuck me into the eighteen and over club, by tricking a busboy into letting us in through the back.
David scoffs. “Fuck that. I heard that bullshit techno music coming from that place. No way was I going to subject you to that shit.” He practically oozes self-satisfaction.
“Oh yeah? And how were you so sure we wouldn’t get caught, huh?”
David shakes his head in mock reproach. “She has the nerve to doubt me. Tsk, tsk, tsk…”
I meet his laughing gaze. “Maybe you have a little too much confidence. Has anyone ever told you that?” It’s utter bullshit, and I suspect he knows it.
“I seem to remember you calling me the bravest person you know.” David’s self-satisfaction grows to epic proportions before imploding in on itself, and I know he’s recalling the rest of that conversation as vividly as I am, because it’s written all over his handsome, bemused face.
David had led me past the teen club and around to the back of the one we were supposed to have needed ID to get into. He hadn’t let me in on his plan, but I’d gone along with him implicitly—excitedly. He’d angled me away from the door, pulling me too close, as if he’d brought me back there not to sneak into a dance club, but for something else entirely. It had sent my heart racing to match the hip-hop beat emanating from the venue.
“Just stand like this,” he’d whispered. “Pretend we came out here for—you know—privacy.”
Pretend. Right. Duh.
“Good girl,” David had praised quietly. “Just relax.”
I’d blown out a long breath. “How do you never get nervous?” I’d whispered a little resentfully.
David had stared down at me. “Not never, Bea,” he’d rumbled. His voice had begun to grow deeper in those days, and it would strike me every time.
“Please,” I’d scoffed, “you’re the bravest person I know.” I remember wincing inwardly. ‘You’re the bravest person I know’? What am I—his groupie?
But David’s brow had furrowed. “Like I said,” he’d breathed, “not always.” The back of the building hadn’t been as brightly lit as the rest of the resort’s pavilion, but David’s hazel eyes had seemed to be struggling with an uncertainty that seemed like it couldn’t possibly belong to him.
“I find that hard to believe,” I’d admitted softly.
“Believe it.”
I’d frowned up at him, and his brow creased even more.
“Remember what I told you outside the temple that time? About my parents?”
I’d blinked at him for a moment, stunned not only that he was bringing up telling me about his adoption—which hadn’t been spoken about since—but equally stunned at the suggestion I might not remember.
Was he freaking insane?
“Of course,” I’d breathed.
David had nodded, satisfied. “Not brave enough to meet them,” he’d murmured, as if to prove his point.
“I thought you said you didn’t want to?”
David had stared a beat, as if surprised I’d remembered that, too, before shrugging.
“Then meet them,” I’d said matter-of-factly. But hadn’t it been a matter of fact for David? Hadn’t it been as simple as doing what he wanted, because he wanted to? That’s what he’d always told me.
The corner of his mouth had twitched and his forehead smoothed. “Maybe I’m nervous, Bea.” He’d given me a small, halfhearted smirk, teasing me, not unlike he’d been doing just seconds ago. “Maybe I’m not brave enough.”
“Then maybe you should be.” It’d just slipped out, and I hadn’t meant to sound insensitive—I just couldn’t reconcile the idea that David March could not find the courage to do something he wanted to. “Unless you don’t really want to.”
I swallow anxiously. I hadn’t meant to come off so callous, and I can’t help but wonder if David is thinking about those words, too. I watch him cautiously over the cartons of food. We haven’t spoken about his birth parents or his adoption since, and it takes every ounce of courage I can muster to bring it up now.
