Beautiful Graves(7)

“Joe.”

“Joe.” I test his name in my mouth. Joe! Good ol’ Joe. Such a simple, unassuming name. I’m a little disappointed at his parents. That’s all they could come up with? Do they not know how rare and special their son is?

“Thank you for saving me, Joe.”

The Spanish man, whom I’ve forgotten all about in the last few minutes, salutes him. He stands up and ambles toward the promenade, disappearing into a cloud of people. I look around us, finally remembering that we are a part of a larger universe. We’re under a tree, somewhere secluded. The party is still in full swing. They’re doing the limbo now.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Ever.” I drop my hand from his face, realizing that it’s not cool to randomly grope strangers. “Everlynne.”

“Thank you for saving me, Everlynne.”

“I didn’t save you . . . ?” I say.

“Yet.” His smile is slow and teasing and screams trouble. “But now you owe me one. And I always collect.”

“I’m glad we’ve met again,” I say, before I forget. “I’ve got an important question, and it’s been bugging me ever since I saw you.”

He blinks at me, waiting for more. I take a deep breath. “Guns N’ Roses or Nirvana?”

He tips his head back and laughs. “What kind of question is that?”

“Not a tricky one if you have good taste.” I grin.

“Nirvana had ‘Lithium’ and ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ and basically nothing else. Guns N’ Roses are living legends.”

I stare at him blankly. This is exactly how I feel. How can we be thinking the same things?

“How did I do?” Joe wiggles his eyebrows.

“Disturbingly good,” I admit. “I’m sure we’ll find some things to disagree about musically, but so far we’re on the same wavelength.”

There’s a brief silence. We’re just basking in the pleasure of staring at one another. We breathe in the same rhythm, huddled closely together.

“What were you doing out there, Everlynne? Besides the obvious, which is giving me a heart attack at age nineteen.” Joe brushes wet hair away from my face gently.

He is a year older than me. My heart twirls like a belle getting ready for her first soiree. It doesn’t care that my body is going through an adrenaline crash. It’s happy and hopeful and dumb.

“I wanted to look at the statue up close.” And then, realizing something is amiss, I add, “I’m still wearing nothing but my bra and panties, aren’t I?”

“And the panties are see-through,” he confirms, biting down on his lips to catch his smile.

Closing my eyes, I whisper, “When I imagined being in your arms naked, it looked pretty different.”

My ears feel hot. I don’t know where this honesty is coming from. I never say what’s on my mind. Especially to strangers. Especially boy strangers. But Joe feels familiar.

“You imagined being in my arms, naked?” He raises an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Hmm, maybe once or twice.”

“And you thought a good way of indicating that to me was by running for the hills the first time we met?”

I don’t miss the irritation in his voice. Cinders of what must have been anger.

“I thought you and Pippa were hitting it off. I couldn’t stand the idea of watching you two . . . I don’t know, flirting. Because I liked you. And I never like anyone. I came back to look for you a few minutes later.”

I’m still in his arms as we’re having this conversation, wrapped in a fuzzy plaid orange-and-purple blanket.

“You thought I was hitting it off with Mainstream?” He sounds surprised . . . and a little smug.

“Well, yeah.”

“Dare I ask if you were jealous?”

“I plead the Fifth.”

“We’re not in America right now,” he points out.

I shrug.

I want him to tell me that he likes me, not Pippa. Instead, he says, “I went after you too.”

“The pharmacist told me.” I nod.

“And now you’re here.”

“And now you’re here.” I sit up and turn my body toward him so I can look at him properly. My butt hits something on the sand, and I pluck it from underneath me. It’s the black canvas bag that was sitting by the fire earlier this evening. I pick it up. My fingers are shaking. My breath catches in my throat.

“Of course.”

“Weird reaction to a bag.” He frowns. “I’m going to need some context.”

“I read some of your story.” I pass him the backpack, feeling myself blushing. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. It was—”

“Terrible?”

“—exhilarating,” I finish at the same time.

He studies me a little warily, drumming his long fingers on his knee.

“It needs some work, but the bones are there, I think. It’s why I’m here, actually. In Europe. To write a novel.”

“You can’t write a novel in America?” My question comes out like an accusation. It sounds like he is going to be here for a while, and I’m flying back in less than twenty-four hours. Nice work, fate.