Page 63 of The Way We Touch

“Yeah, but you’re from a family of great athletes. I know it doesn’t impress you. But if I could play golf…”

“Not that again!” She covers her face, but her eyes glow.

She’s so pretty. I think about what it would’ve been like to have her cheering for me in high school. I think about her in a cheerleader uniform, and damn, that’s a new fantasy.

Then I think about her in my box watching me play, maybe even wearing my jersey. I wonder how it would feel to look up to see her there. It’s something I’ve never had or even really thought about, but I like it.

I like it a lot.

It’s only a few miles down a narrow, two-lane road until you reach the end of land and the start of the ocean.

I pull the Jeep into a public parking lot near an abandoned beach bar one of the hurricanes ruined. It was never rebuilt, and now it stands as a monument to the past.

Taking her hand, we walk down the sand to where the water rolls gently onto the shore. It’s a constant, soothing rush, like the ticking of a clock or the swinging of a pendulum.

The wind is stronger here, right on the front lines of the Gulf, and when we reach the end of the dry sand, I drop to my knees, pulling her down to my lap. She sits in front of me, her legs wrapped over mine, bare feet in the sand. We left our shoes and her denim jacket in the Jeep, and I’m thinking about that zipper on her dress.

She’s so beautiful with the briny air turning her hair to waves. She’s so sweet and funny and unexpected and fucking sexy. I can’t deny it any more. Dylan Bradford is in my blood. She’s in my veins, and all I want to do is make her happy.

Tonight is the start of something—or I really want it to be. Yet, a growing frustration churns in my chest when I think about what she’s told me and how she feels.

My feelings for her have grown so fast and so strong, but I can’t ignore the truth. We have a problem, and no matter how I turn it over in my mind, I can’t find the solution.

We laugh and joke about it, but I see the sincerity in her eyes when she talks about her father. She doesn’t want to be with a football player, but I can’t give it up.

Not that she’s asked me to give it up. She doesn’t ask anything from me, and that almost makes it worse. I want to give her everything. I want to make her as happy as I am when I imagine us together.

At the same time, I can’t just turn off what’s driving me, my unfinished business.

Reaching up, I thread my fingers in her hair, but when our eyes meet, her brow furrows. She can see it in my gaze. I’m as turbulent inside as the waves being tossed about by the wind and gravity and the pull of the moon.

“What’s wrong?” she asks over the sound of the surf.

“I told you before I don’t want to hurt you.”

“How would you do that?”

“I’m not ready to quit, Dylan.” I cup her face in my hands. “It’s still inside me. I still want to play.”

Her lips part, but I don’t give her a chance to speak as I continue. “I have to prove to him that I’m better than what he thinks. That I’m the best, and he missed out on not wanting to spend time with me.” I look up at the black-velvet sky full of stars. “Inside I’m still that dumb kid wanting him to love me.”

The waves crash, and I exhale heavily. These are words I’ve never said out loud to anyone other than my therapist. To be honest, I can’t believe it still matters so much to me, but it does. To this day.

Soft hands cup my neck. Slim fingers thread in the back of my hair. I swallow the thickness in my throat and meet her pretty eyes. They’re full of acceptance and warmth.

Her lips press together, and she smiles. “Okay.”

I blink several times before repeating it back to her. “Okay?”

“I understand.”

“You do?”

“You’re not a dumb kid, Logan. You’re so much more than that.” Her fingers tighten on the back of my neck, and she scoots a little closer. “I want to say forget about your father, but I also understand needing to prove yourself—if only for yourself. We’re a lot alike in that way.”

She blinks a few times, and I reach up to touch her chin. The moon is full tonight, and I see the sparkle on her lashes. It’s like a punch in the chest.

“Are you crying?”