“Will we be safe there?”
“Kendall’s calling the cops. Whoever did that—they’ll be gone by now.”
My knee is still stinging, and I don’t exactly want to walk into my house oozing blood. “Okay.”
The sun has fully set by the time we reach the pool house. Seth lets us in and switches on one of the old wicker lamps. Then he checks the windows and locks the door behind us.
A musty scent hangs on the air. Nothing’s changed from when we were last in here. There are the white wicker couches with their pale blue cushions, the faded framed print on the wall of some New England beach, the pile of pool noodles and deflated rafts in the corner. A bookshelf holds a handful of paperbacks and stacks of board games. There’s a kitchenette I can never remember anyone using, and a full bathroom. We head for the bathroom, where the light above the sink is bright enough to examine ourselves.
I look in the mirror. My skin is white everywhere except where branches scratched at it, leaving fine red lines. There are smudges of dirt on my cheek and forehead, scratches across my arms and hands. My knee is bleeding from whatever I scraped it on when I fell.
In contrast, I only see three tiny scrapes on Seth, but I don’t have the chance to examine him further before he’s out of the bathroom and rummaging around in the main room. He returns a moment later with a dusty box of Band-Aids. “Thought we might still have these.”
I look at the box doubtfully. “You sure they haven’t all disintegrated by now?”
He ignores me, grabs some toilet paper to wipe the layer of dust off the top of the box. I turn on the tap, letting the water run until it isn’t brown, while Seth pulls more toilet paper off the roll and arranges it into makeshift pads. “Sit down,” he says, indicating the closed toilet. “I’ll help.”
He’s surprisingly gentle as he presses the toilet paper to my knee. We use the dried-up soap to wash the dirt off our hands and faces, apply Band-Aids where they’re needed. Seth presses one over a cut on my ankle, then looks up at me from his position crouching on the floor. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I say automatically.
He brushes a lock of hair back from my face. “Good.” His voice is low, hoarse.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
His eyes are huge, looking up at me. “When you tripped, I thought—I thought they hit you.” He swallows. “I thought—” His hand is still hovering near my face. “I’ve never been so scared in my life.”
His face is naked, no armor up, no careful expression to guard his thoughts. He looks the way he did that night almost a year ago. But this time it’s not dark, I can see him by more than just starlight, and his expression makes my heart stutter.
“Are you saying you actually care about me?” I try and make it a joke, but my voice comes out in a whisper.
He lifts a corner of his mouth in that little half smile. “What do you think?”
And then his mouth is on mine.
This kiss is different from the others. It’s burning, almost desperate, like Seth is trying to assure himself that I’m here, that I’m whole. I respond in kind, my arms circling his neck and pulling him to me. Before I know it, my legs are around his waist and he’s rising, taking me with him, out of the bathroom and into the dimness of the main room.
He lays me back against the mildewy-smelling pillows, still kissing me, his hand moving up the side of my body, catching at the spot between my shorts and T-shirt. A flick of fabric, and his hand is on my bare skin. His palm feels hot, like he might be feverish, and I have the sudden urge to put my hand to his forehead to make sure. But then his lips are moving down my neck, and I gasp out loud, tightening my grip on his hair and pulling his mouth back to mine.
He kisses me hungrily, his hand moving up, up, and then he leans away, looks me in the eye. “This okay?” I barely have the time to nod before he’s kissing me again. His hand moves over my bra, gently at first, and then more firmly. I lift my arms over my head as Seth pushes my shirt up and off, then I’m tugging at his buttons. I have a moment to admire his bare chest, broad and muscled and covered in little curling black hairs, before he’s kissing me again, his body pressed against mine.
It’s like that night almost a year ago, and it isn’t. There’s no stale taste in our mouths from the cider, none of the fumbling awkwardness of that first time. Seth tastes clean, feels warm, his movements sure and practiced, fluid. My shorts are gone, then so are his. He leaps up midway, disappears into the bathroom, and emerges with a condom. I don’t even question it. I don’t want to think about how this might be a bad idea. I’m ready, and so is he. There’s pressure—I gasp out loud—and then Seth is hovering over me, grinning, and I can’t help but grin back.
It feels longer this time, or maybe I’m just remembering wrong. When Seth finally collapses on top of me, panting, I look up at the dark ceiling and it feels like we’ve been in this pool house, on this couch, for hours.
After a moment, he drags himself back up, props himself on one arm next to me. “You okay?” he breathes.
“Yeah.” My breaths are shallow. “You?”
“Yeah.” He leans in, kisses me again, smiles. There’s something a little heartbreaking about that smile—like he thinks all our problems are solved, like we’re on our way to a happy ending.
“Be right back.” He gives me another kiss and then heads to the bathroom. I try to conjure up the joy Seth seems to be radiating, but I can’t. A familiar feeling is wrapping around my heart, the same one I had when I woke up that morning, in the gray light of the clearing, in Seth’s arms: guilt.
You didn’t do anything wrong, I tell myself. You have no boyfriend. No one’s dying this time. But no matter what, I can’t shake the guilt.
I’ve put my clothes back on and shoved my phone, which fell onto the floor, into my pocket before Seth emerges from the bathroom.
“Hey.” He’s put his shorts back on, but not his shirt, and he’s running a hand through his hair, like he’s nervous. “You want to, um—”
“Yeah.” I slip past him to use the bathroom and also to just be alone for a few moments, collect myself.
Sitting on the toilet, clutching Fiona’s necklace, I can feel it, in my bones, in my hair, in my skin. The guilt, seeping into every part of me.
I half hope Seth will be gone when I come back out, will have fled over the same feelings; but no, there he is, sitting on the couch, phone in hand. He looks up when I reenter. “Hey.”
I want to run out the door, not stop until I reach my bathroom, throw myself under the showerhead, let the hot water wash me clean. But I make myself walk forward, sit gingerly beside him. “Hey.”
His brows come together. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” My voice sounds artificially bright. I cringe internally, clear my throat. “Yeah,” I say again, trying to sound more normal.
But he’s still looking at me funny. “No, you’re not,” he states flatly.
“I just—” I rub one eye, searching to find the right words. “I just wonder if that’s the kind of thing we should be doing right now? With everything else going on?”
I’m looking at my feet—my sneakers are dirty—and wait for his response. Finally, I dare to look at him. The line between his eyebrows is gone, and his face is filled with a deep sadness.
“You didn’t do anything wrong.” His voice is low.