Ocean Jewel by Cassie Mint

Three

Roxy

When I was in high school, Damian used to crash at our place on some nights. Our apartment is small—cozy, as Jake puts it—with nowhere for a guest to stay except the couch. But Damian lives out of the city, no doubt in some manly retreat in the mountains, so on days when he lingered long after dark, he’d crash for the night instead of drive home late.

Jake told him he was always welcome. Damian still asked my permission every single time. I told him Jake said it was okay, and Damian smiled at me and said it was my home too.

That was the start of it, I think. Those little generous moments, when he asked what I thought and really waited for the answer. I was still a gawky school girl, coltish and not fleshed out yet. And I was so freaking nervous around him, always stuttering and forgetting my words.

Knowing he was out there, a single bedroom door separating us at night…

He’d never shown any interest. He looked at me with kindness, but that was all. I knew surer than I knew my own name, that if I tiptoed out there, if I told him how much I loved him—he’d be horrified.

So I never told him. I never spoke my crush out loud, even though every night he spent in our shadowy apartment, the longing grew so fierce it was almost too much to bear. My crush grew heavier inside me, squashing my lungs and stealing my breath, and as I matured, it took on a new darkness.

I didn’t just want the kind, smiling Damian. I wanted his gruff, moody side too. The side Jake teased whenever it came out, but that made goosebumps ripple down my arms.

The night after my high school graduation, Damian happened to crash at our place. And I lay in my bedroom, so close to him I could hear his steady breaths through the door, and touched myself. I imagined that it was his hands smoothing over my bare stomach, his fingers pinching my nipple. Dipping into my core.

I touched myself the way I thought Damian might touch me. Rough and urgent and wild. With all the pent up frustration he never lets anyone see. Anyone but me, and only because I watch him when no one else does.

Since Jake has been crazy busy with work, Damian has stopped coming too. There’s no draw for him now, after all—now that it’s only me at home. He came knocking one night early on, and I invited him inside anyway.

Damian shook his head so firmly, I’m surprised his neck didn’t snap.

I told myself that it was okay. That it made perfect sense that Damian didn’t want to see me, only Jake. That it didn’t hurt me that badly—my raw, sandpaper heart was because I missed my brother too.

That’s all.

Still, I’m not prepared to finally sleep one wall away from Damian again. I sit in my narrow bed—more of a cot than anything—and chew on my lip, staring at the wall I’ll share with Damian for two whole weeks. The boat rocks gently in the harbor waves, the crew shouting to each other up on deck. We’re heading off soon, out into the ocean, and then it’s too late to turn back. To think better of this. And maybe I have awful self-preservation, but the thought of leaving now—it’s impossible.

It doesn’t matter how much it hurts. How much it tightens my chest and makes my heart throb.

I need to be near him. It’s been so long since I heard his low breaths through the wall.

The boat lurches to one side, the rumble of an engine vibrating through the floor, and I grab the bed covers for balance. My backpack crashes to the floor, tangled clothes and sketchpads and pencils exploding everywhere, and I let out a cry before dropping to my knees. I don’t care about the clothes—I didn’t even fold them—but my art supplies—

The door to my cabin crashes open. Damian stands in the gap, a scowl etched on his face and his chest heaving. I blink up at him from my knees, a sketchpad in one hand and a box of charcoals in the other.

He scans my body, frowning. Peers around the cabin.

“I heard a noise. Did you fall—”

“No.” My voice comes out in a squeak. I raise the box of charcoals, rattling the contents uselessly. “My stuff fell off the bed.”

He huffs, something flickering in his expression, but Damian steps inside my tiny cabin and crouches beside me. He gathers my things quickly, placing them back in my bag with care, his hands so much bigger than mine. Able to grip twice, three times as much.

I picture those big hands on my body. Squeezing my hip; kneading my breast. I whimper, shifting on my knees.

Damian glances at me quickly, his eyes raking over my body then away. A muscle tics in his jaw.

“And you’re not hurt?” he asks quietly.

I shake my head, my throat too tight to speak. Damian nods once, curt, then pushes to his feet and places my repacked bag on my bed. When he straightens up, he fills almost every inch of spare space in my cabin. It’s a tiny room—just a cot and a shelf with a string across it to keep books from falling. A closet fixed to the wall, smaller even than me, and a porthole, showing off the sparkling waves.

“Be careful,” he mutters. “We’re about to pull away. It’s only going to get rougher.”

I manage to nod, unsticking my tongue to whisper, “Thank you.” But he’s already gone. The rhythmic thud of his boots echoes back through my cracked doorway, and I stare after him with ringing in my ears.

I’ve made a mistake. Two weeks with Damian?

I’ll never keep my crush secret that long.

* * *

As soon as we’re out of the harbor, Jake gets to work. He sets up shots of the shrinking shoreline; gets footage of the whole boat; interviews the captain and half the crew. He’s in filmmaker mode, which means he won’t resurface now until his body is on the brink of collapse. Only then will he let me shove a bowl of food into his hands before he crashes into fitful sleep. Then he’ll wake up and do it all again.

I’m happy for my brother. He’s found his passion, and what’s more, he’s great at it. So brimming with talent that people line up to work with him.

But I’d be lying if I said I’m not a teensy bit jealous. Of his passion; his single-minded direction; of every second of his time. All of it. Here I am, halfway through the year out I took to figure out my next steps, and I still have no more clue than six months ago.

Only some half-filled art school applications that make my stomach flip when I think about them.

I push all those ugly feelings down and carry a sketchpad and two pencils up to the deck. I’m bundled up in a padded coat, but even with the thick, downy layer, the icy breeze still steals my breath. I blow on my knuckles as I wander around the railings, searching for the perfect place to sit. Somewhere sturdy and sheltered, with good views to draw.

That part is easy. Every view here is breathtaking, whether it’s the majestic boat bearing us into the ocean, or the silvery waves, getting rougher the further we get from the shore.

“Drawing?” Just his low voice—just that one word—makes me shiver. I turn and find Damian in the shadows, arms crossed as he watches me.

“Uh-huh.” I raise the sketchpad like an idiot. “I, um. I love to draw.”

I love to draw?Kill me. Someone throw me overboard. What is it about this man that turns me into a complete fool? Not only is that fact really freaking obvious by the art supplies I’m carrying, Damian has seen plenty of my work firsthand. Jake has an embarrassing habit of displaying my sketches and paintings in our apartment, even buying special frames for them.

“I know.” The corner of Damian’s mouth ticks up. “Might be a challenge. The trip will be rocky.”

I nod again and escape, fleeing to the other side of the deck and clambering up onto a flat surface out of the worst of the breeze.

This trip will be rocky?

He has no idea.