Page 12 of Spring Tide

There’s no fucking way. Harper St. James is definitely not, nor will she ever be, my girlfriend. The two of us make no sense together. And it’s not only because we’re opposites, like oil and water or fire and ice. No, it’s more than that.

Harper and I,shit, the spaces between us are like the ocean at spring tide. The highest highs and the lowest lows; that’s what separates the two of us.

I’m fairly certain that girl’s spirit is filled with sunshine and rainbows and fucking butterflies. And then there’s ... well, there’s me. I am who I am. And she’s just—

No, you know what? I barely know one real thing about her, other than the fact that we’d probably find each other insufferable. If she’s actually spreading some ridiculous rumor that we’re together, then she must be desperate, even more so than I am.

Fortunately for me, desperate people are willing to do desperate things.

If this girl is truly using me—for some unknown, confusing, and undoubtedly nefarious reason—then hell, she owes me a thing or two. An eye for an eye. Her secret for mine. Nowthatwould be a fair exchange.

5

HARPER

As Eden rambleson beside me, a thin line of sweat breaks out across my brow. My fingers mindlessly drum against the side of my thigh. Tap, tap, tap. Every few beats, the nail on my index finger lightly pierces the skin. It’s not painful, but it’s there. A casual reminder to think positive thoughts.

Fletcher,that arrogant asshole, spilled the beans at practice. Eden’s words, not mine. He brought me up in front of Luca, and she attempted to save face. A shoddy attempt, based on Eden’s version of events, but it worked.

Luca probably thinks I’m ridiculous and irrational, lying about dating him to all my friends. Like I’m some schoolgirl with an unrequited crush and he’s the sexy, brooding football player who barely has a clue who I am. He must think I’m desperate.

Unfortunately, I am. Or, Iwas. Desperate enough to incidentally spread this silly rumor, an untruth that involves a completely innocent party. Oh God, I’ve dragged Luca into my own personal melodrama, haven’t I?

It’s equal parts selfish and unfair.

It’s okay, though, because I can apologize the next time I see him. Luca’s bound to understand; he seems like a reasonable man. Practical. Logical. Perhaps he’s not even giving this a second thought. In fact, he still hasn’t reached out to me after two long days.

Maybe the whole thing has slipped his mind. Maybe everything will be just fine. And maybe, just maybe, this will all be swept away with the tide, caught in the undertow of Luca’s busy life.

* * *

There’ssomething about the ocean at high tide, when it hits directly following the sunrise. The sky glows a soft orange, waves creep up the shore, and the current crests against the rickety posts of my lifeguard stand.

It’s bliss. The sky is alive, and the ocean is full. The beachfront is empty, save a few early risers. It’s a time when I have complete and utter peace, both inside my head and out. My hands are calm. My mind is still. And my heart, it beats slowly and surely inside my chest.

Today, however, my eyes are drawn to the Boyer Inlet Pier. I can spot him from over a hundred yards away. Luca Reynolds, the boy who’s occupied my mind for days. He’s bending over, dipping at the knees, tossing rope off the edge of the pier and tying it down.

And I’m helplessly staring—stalking, really—when his gaze darts up to meet mine.Oh shit. I know he’s seen me now, but I can’t make out his expression from this distance. Is he confused? Angry? Surprised?

Maybe he’s indifferent to the situation. For me, it would be ideal. For him, it would be on brand.

With a phony spring in my step, I hop off my stand and stroll in his direction. I summon years’ worth of false confidence as I approach the pier. My eyes squeeze shut for a quick moment, shoulders retracted and grin perfectly placed.

“Luca, hey!” I call, a few feet from the edge now. “How’s it going?”

“Just fine,” he retorts impassively.

He’s still leaning over, tying off rope after rope as he grits his teeth. Tiny droplets of sweat have pooled on his forehead. Smudges of dirt and sand and grime cover his hands. He’s wearing his signature outfit, a black tee with a faded Boyer Pier logo and a pair of worn Levi’s.

It’s nearing eighty degrees on a Sunday morning. And Luca, hell, he looks completely strung out.

“Why are you here so early?” I murmur, confused. “Didn’t your team have an away game in Pittsburgh, like, fifteen hours ago?”

“We did. Then I drove home.” He ties off one last knot, wiping his damp palms along the front of his jeans.

“Wow, that must have sucked.” My cheeks tighten with an encouraging smile. “Congratulations, by the way. I heard the Ospreys killed it.”

“Thanks,” he mutters.

---