High Tide

  How do you let go of the person who touched your soul?

  This novel is a work of fiction and intended for mature readers. Events and persons depicted are of a fictional nature and use language, make choices, and face situations inappropriate for younger readers.

  Names, characters, places and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover Design by Ampersand Book Covers

  Copyright © 2019 Alyson Santos

  All Rights Reserved

  High Tide Contents

  Chapter One: List Whores and EU Conventions

  Chapter Two: Siren Songs and Jellyfish Stings

  Chapter Three: Wet Conversations and Caterpillar Frauds

  Chapter Four: Vultures and Shipwrecks

  Chapter Five: Sunset Rendezvous and Sheep Farms

  Chapter Six: Lists and Stars

  Chapter Seven: Cuddles and Confrontations

  Chapter Eight: Five Feet and a Million Inches

  Chapter Nine: Bonfire Regrets

  Chapter Ten: Palm Tree Pacts

  Chapter Eleven: Cold Shower Connection

  Chapter Twelve: Poolside Lies

  Chapter Thirteen: Mr. Nice and Explosive Supernovas

  Chapter Fourteen: Firework Truths

  Chapter Fifteen: Devastating Introductions

  Chapter Sixteen: Homes and Hospitals

  Chapter Seventeen: Leave and Letting Go

  Chapter Eighteen: Virgin Apologies

  Chapter Nineteen: Odpustiť.

  Chapter Twenty: Beneath the Stars

  One Year Later

  More from Alyson

  Stay in Touch

  Acknowledgements

  Excerpt from YOUNG LOVE

  Chapter One: List Whores and EU Conventions

  “You’re such a list whore.”

  1. L

  2. I

  3. S

  4. T

  5. W

  6. H

  7. O

  8. R

  9. E.

  So what if my brain prefers information sorted and vertical? A girl’s gotta get shit done, and these days, even the shit’s got shit that needs a three-ring binder. Nerd, tight-ass, Type A shrew—I’ve heard them all, and that’s from my BFF and roomie, Harper.

  I feel her impatient stare as I arrange my tote and survey our two-bedroom apartment one last time.

  “Yo, Madeline Albright. We’re going to the beach for a few hours, not an EU convention,” she moans from the open doorway.

  I quirk a brow at my politically-challenged friend. “The United States isn’t in the EU.”

  “It’s not? Isn’t that the United Nations thing?”

  “No. That’s the United Nations.”

  She rolls her eyes and adjusts the messy bun of platinum blonde hair on her head. “Whatever. NATO, then.”

  “That’s something else.”

  “Oh my gaw-ahd.”

  She grabs my arm and tugs me toward the door so hard I barely have time to snag the well-packed tote I’d prepared. A beach trip without my Abnormal Psychology text and packet of journal articles fresh from the university library? The horror. A shiver runs down my exposed back as Undeclared Barbie shoves me toward the car. Opposites attract in love and besties it seems, because the girl who drives me crazy is also one of my favorite people on the planet.

  “I can’t believe you’re taking a summer course,” she mutters as she slides behind the steering wheel of her jeep. “It’s our last summer of freedom as college students and you’re going to spend it—”

  “As a college student?” I adjust my sunglasses and wrap my own long dark hair in a coil on my head. “I’m taking my work just in case.”

  “In case of what? You get called upon to induce a coma?”

  “Har har.”

  “At least you look hot in that bikini. Seriously, how do you get your abs like that?”

  I huff a laugh. “Like what?”

  “All six-packy.” She waves her hand between us.

  “Oh please. My abs are not six-packy.”

  “You totally have the lines.”

  Shaking my head, I bite back a smile. These are the conversations I will only have with Harper Benson. Everyone else gets awkward, shy, and overly pensive Emma who can’t get out of her head enough to converse like a normal person.

  How about that weather?

  Where did you get those amazing shoes?

  Did you make this spinach dip? Tell me everything!

  So many simple sentences my tongue refuses to say. Also, I do not have swimmer abs. If anything, it’s just that the middle looks small in comparison to my butt and boobs. Harper says she’d kill for my “hourglass” figure. I’d kill to be able to wear a spaghetti strap tank or bandeau top.

  “Ooh, I wonder if that lifeguard will be on duty again,” she says when we pull up to a stoplight.

  “Which lifeguard?”

  “The tan, blond one!”

  She gets a look for that. “Well, the odds are in your favor,” I say dryly.

  “Not just any tan blonde. You know the one I mean. Mr. Dragon Tattoo?”

  “Ah right. I’m pretty sure it’s an iguana.”

  “Oh my gosh, will you stop? Who would even get an iguana tattoo?”

  I shrug. “Someone who really loves iguanas? I don’t know.”

  “You just don’t like him because he didn’t know who Dostoevsky was.”

  “I never said that. Just that I probably won’t like him.”

  The light turns green, and she shifts into gear. “Yeah, well. Not every guy has to be a rocket scientist,” she mutters.

  The sun is no joke, so while Harper jumps out of the jeep with a towel and romance novel she won’t read, I collect my gear from the back. Beach chair, umbrella, tote with plenty of sunscreen. Wait, did I bring sunscreen? Crap. Digging through the bag, I breathe a sigh of relief when I find both the wet-skin spray and the standard lotion. Yes, I had a list for that. Yes, I checked it twice. Harper says I could always work for Santa if my scheduled career path doesn’t pan out.

  It will, though. I have plenty of lists for that as well.

  By the time I make the trek from public parking, over the dunes, and to the beach, Harper has already claimed our usual spot—close to the lifeguard chair, but not too close. A smile twitches on my lips as I approach from behind, her perfect ass already on display in her sprawled-out-pretending-to-read position. I almost feel a twinge of disappointment for her when my gaze flickers to today’s prey, a decidedly non-blond guy about our age. Cute, but definitely not iguana-boy like she’d hoped.

  “Sorry,” I tease as I drop my belongings beside her.

  She follows my discreet glance to the lifeguard and shrugs. “I can work with that. In fact, maybe it’s your turn. He’s more your type.”

  “My type? What does that mean?”

  No iguana tattoos for one. I take another peek. Nope, just a single inked image running from his chest to back shoulder that I can see, and it’s fairly abstract.

  “He looks smart,” she explains.

  I snort a laugh as I open my chair. “You’re ridiculous. Also, he can hear you.” Yep, there’s definitely a smile playing on his lips. I can’t read more due to the sunglasses and ball cap shading his eyes, but he’s doing an impressive job at pretending not to notice us. Must get this a lot. By his deep tan, he’s been on the job for a while this summer.

  “Really? You think he hears us?” Harper twists her head back for a direct look.

  “Uh, yeah.” I lift my hand when his attention slides our way. “Sorry,” I mouth to him.

  A stunning grin breaks on his fa
ce. Yep, this guy definitely gets this a lot. “It’s okay,” he calls over. “Enjoy the beach.”

  Harper leans close when I finally situate myself on the chair. “Ooh that accent.” At least she’s whispering now. “What do you think? Swedish?”

  “What’s with you and Swedes?”

  “Swedes are hot.”

  “Stereotype much?”

  “What? They are!”

  I shake my head, tugging the book from my bag. “Anyway, he doesn’t sound Swedish.”

  “No?” Is she disappointed? As if that actually makes a difference in their fantasy relationship. “Where do you think, then? Oh maybe one of those ‘Stan’ countries.”

  “I don’t know, Harp. Why don’t you ask him?” My tone holds more irritation than I intended, but there are a lot of countries in the world, and I have zero interest in debating our lifeguard’s involvement with each one.

  “Maybe Finland then. Or Norway?”

  Why does she even bring that stupid book if she’s not going to read it? “Just go talk to him. I have to learn about Phineas Gage.”

  “The actor?”

  “The rail worker who had a metal rod shot through his head.”

  “Ew.”

  “Didn’t you study that in Intro to Psych your sophomore year?”

  Another shrug. “Maybe I will.”

  “What?”

  She looks back. “Talk to him.”

  I nod, anticipating the solitude. “Do it. Ask if he knows Dostoevsky.”

  “Oh wow,” she breathes out, clearly absorbed by something behind me. Not Dostoevsky, I’m guessing.

  I pull in a calming breath and remind myself we’re at the beach. We’re supposed to be enjoying the sun and ogling hot lifeguards. Harper is the normal one, here: the beautiful, extroverted dreamer who takes risks and shares her life with those around her. Me? I’m Emma. The List Whore.

  In an effort to dial back any Type-A-shrewness, I close my book and pretend to share her interest in whatever magic is occurring behind us. I turn, and yeah, should have known it was hormone-related. Our favorite non-Swedish lifeguard has descended from his throne to take watch from the sand. Leaning back, his body stretched in relaxed power against the chair, the guy forms an image straight off one of Harper’s erotica book covers.

  “Just talk to him,” I mutter, shifting back into irritation. Maybe at her. Maybe because my own heart is beating a little faster. I’m still a human female after all. I rip open my book and force my attention back to the unfortunate Mr. Gage whose bad day has done so much for my area of study.

  “I will. When the time is right,” she says, totally serious.

  Right, because clearly he’s busy.

  A drop of sweat lands on my notes, puckering “frontal lobe” into an illegible web of blue ink. Dang, it’s hot. I slam the book shut again and shove it in my bag with conviction. “I’m going in.”

  Harper raises her head. “In the water?”

  “Yep.” Jumping up, I pull the cover-up over my head and enjoy the breeze against my sweaty skin. Any small relief melts into another kind of heat when I catch the unexpected glance in my direction. His sunglasses and hat are off now, revealing dark hair, slightly bleached from the sun, and a serious gaze that pulls me in more than sculpted pecs and perfect abs could do. Did Harper even notice the way his eyes hold a story we’ll never know?

  By now my heart is pounding, as if pushing against my chest to escape. For what purpose? To rush toward this sudden, strange connection? To know. To understand why this stranger is watching boring you when Harper rests inches away, half-naked and eager. I’m happy as “The Friend,” invisible and shy, the responsible one who pulls Harper back from the edge. And suddenly, I’m the one teetering on a precipice, wanting to yank my cover-up back on.

  It’s pathetic, this insecurity at being seen, so I pretend I don’t notice the attention and continue my path to the ocean. Still, my mind keeps reaching back with each step, wondering if he’s tracking my journey, wondering what colored his to this place.

  “You know, maybe if you actually dated, you’d loosen up a little,” Harper grumbled the other day.

  “I don’t want to date and I don’t want to loosen up. I made a promise to my sister and I’m going to keep it.”

  “What promise? To be an old spinster?”

  “To work my ass off to make something of my life.”

  She hadn’t understood. She never will. She has two wealthy, loving parents and an adorably annoying brother. She makes choices, not sacrifices, and can afford the comfort of a backup plan. Deepsilver University is an end at this stage of her life, not the means to survival like it is for me. No, she’ll never understand why hooking up with a hot lifeguard can’t be part of my summer agenda. Flirting is as pointless as the false connections it creates. Harper can have him, and every other guy in Deepsilver as far as I’m concerned. Harper can afford a broken heart.

  I wake to a scream. My name. That’s my name! Shaking the sleep from my head, it’s several seconds before I realize the dark haze is external, not remnants of the nightmare fogging up my mind. My lungs are heavy from the effort of breathing, and I turn to wake my twin sister sleeping beside me. She doesn’t stir.

  I shake her harder, and then the name slicing through the darkness is hers. The voice, mine. Still nothing.

  A cough doesn’t expel the thick air from my lungs, but only seems to invite more desperate gasps.

  “Maddie!” My seven-year-old voice sounds so small in the darkness. “Maddie, wake up! Fire!”

  I roll out of our bed and tug her arm. It falls limp when I let go. I grab her with both hands and pull as hard as I can. Her lifeless body barely moves. Tears etch streaks down my face as my shakes become slaps and my screams become sobs. I can’t leave her. I can’t! But the room is now black with smoke. Maybe if I find Mom and Dad... Yes.

  Pain as dense as the air lodges in my stomach when I force myself to crawl from the room. “I’ll come back for you,” I whisper. “I promise!”

  I promise I promise I promise.

  Chapter Two: Siren Songs and Jellyfish Stings

  I wake to a laugh, sweat chilling my skin in the darkness. Remnants of the nightmare still batter the recesses of my mind, and I push myself up to steady my breathing. Harper giggles on the other side of the wall in perfect synchronicity with a deep, male grunt. Tanner is still here. Fantastic.

  Dropping back to the mattress, I close my eyes and pull up the next day’s list in my head:

  Finish reading Chapter 7

  Grab milk and bread

  Laundry. Whites. Colors need to wait until tomorrow so I can include—

  “Yeah, baby. Just like that! Oh yeah…”

  I roll my eyes and turn—loudly—away from the wall. Not that the small chirp of my bed will compete with the thunder of theirs. Still, I feel slightly less of a participant in their spectacle if I’m facing the opposite direction. And yes, spectacle is the right word, because like everything else Harper does, she crushes big, hard and freaking loud. Tanner, the latest boy to catch her attention, served us flatbread pizza and mixed drinks at Bistro Bill’s two weeks ago.

  “Yes! Tanner! Ooh.” That moan must be a siren song for college dudes because I swear they get crazy once she releases it.

  Okay, new list:

  Their first date was the night after she left her number on the receipt.

  Second? Hmm… Does eating at Bill’s again on Thursday so we could stalk him count? I’m almost one hundred percent sure they made-out in the bathroom when Harper excused herself halfway through the meal, so yes.

  Third date was the outing to the Smother dance club where she got so drunk Tanner had to call me to help bring her home.

  That makes this number four. Wow. I don’t think we’ve hit four since her three-month fling with Skeevy Steevie (the nickname was my artistic contribution to their ill-fated relationship).

  I wonder what will happen with Tanner when she finally snags lifeg
uard iguana boy. A smile tugs at my lips, remembering the time a Current Crush had a late-night run-in with New Crush. Harper makes men crazy, a fact that’s served me well in my quest to avoid similar distractions and focus instead on mining the chaos for potential thesis ideas. Which reminds me…

  I scroll back to the other list in my head and add, “finalize senior project thesis and begin proposal.”

  A door slams, followed by another giggle.

  “Shh! You’ll wake Emma!” Harper whisper-shouts.

  “Oh shit. Sorry,” Tanner says.

  “No worries,” I yell back. “You kids have fun.”

  “Oh hey, Em! You want to watch a movie with us?”

  I glance at the time. 2:54 AM. “Uh, no thanks.”

  “Okay. Still on for the beach tomorrow?”

  “Sure.”

  “Shit, I have to work tomorrow,” Tanner shouts down the hall.

  “It’s fine, babe. It’s a girls’ thing anyway.”

  I shake my head, almost feeling bad for the guy.

  We’re late today thanks to Harper’s all-night date with Tanner. Even now, I’m not sure she really wants to be out of bed—especially when our favorite beach spot appears to be occupied.

  “Um, excuse me. Who are those bitches?” Harper hisses from our position on the bridge over the dunes.

  I survey the crowded beach with slightly less resentment. “It’s almost three o’clock. What did you expect?”

  Her mood seems to lighten when she spots today’s lifeguard—“Eh, he’s not here anyway”—and starts moving toward an open area on the sand. I take a look also, my rebellious stomach twisting in recognition at the guy leaning against the chair. As stupid as it sounded then, Harper was right. Something about him seems different. Intelligent. Deep. And that longing returns for a story that’s more than two-week flings with aggressively-muscled bistro employees.

  Stupid. You’re projecting. He’s probably admiring asses and boobs like every other guy Harper notices.

  Those girls crowding his line of sight are obviously counting on it.