Coming Up For Air | ✓

15 | undertow

Over the course of the next three days, it seems both Jake and Stella have decided—on each their end—to forget all about their almost-kiss on the beach and continue on as normal. In other words: as if nothing ever happened. As they were before.

Friends.

Which, admittedly, has proven more difficult than Stella thought it'd be.

Because she did want to kiss Jake that night.

And part of her fears—no, not fears, knows—she still does.

She wanted to kiss him the other day, while they'd been laying side by side upon their wide striped beach throw, warm rays of sun shining down on them and the sound of waves rolling onto the shore in the faint distance. Droplets of water lingering on the bridge of his nose, across his tan cheekbones, in his brows. Her damp hair heavy with salt and sand. The two of them, enveloped in a cloud of sunblock tickling their noses.

Peering down at a crossword, their elbows pressed together, she'd stolen the pen out of his hand—his fingertips warm as they grazed against hers—and scribbled across the four boxes following the clue 'annoyance' in her italic scrawl: J. A. K. E.

He'd rolled his eyes with a chortled breath, chin resting atop his knuckles as he turned to glance at her with a small smile. And as he did, for one brief moment, the rest of the world seemed to cease into nothing but a blur of background noise: the wails of the seagulls soaring above them on the blue canvas of the sky, the sound of Nic flipping through a ruffled paperback on the beach towel next to theirs, Ethan and Avery sat down by the shore—building a sandcastle.

A few hours later, as they'd split into teams at the beach volleyball court, she wanted to do it again. Heartstrings pulled tight as Jake pouted—having flickered his dark gaze to hers, he'd thrown the ball lazily between his hands with a "But I want to be on the same team as Stells,"—at Lea's suggestion of playing a game in teams of the girls against the boys.

She wanted it as they floated around on the surface of the cool ocean water—eyes closed against the warm rays of sun—, laughing as they occasionally drifted into one another.

She wanted it as he attempted a butterfly stroke but instead inhaled an involuntarily gulp of ocean, intertwining his fingers through hers while he treaded water, grinning even through his choked coughs.

She wanted it as she stumbled over her own feet on their way back from the ice cream parlor, having Jake folding over in his chortled wheezes. She wanted it even more as he made sure she—as well as her waffle cone of chocolate ice cream—was okay.

She wanted it yesterday night as the two of them set out on cooking dinner for Angelina and Geoffrey. Sidestepping one another, elbowing one another out of the way as they reached for green cupboard doors and drawers. The soft, mellow tunes of music drifting into the air from the radio stood atop the kitchen island. Fingers lingering around the spatula a moment too long while letting it pass between their hands, stupid small smiles curled on their lips.

She wanted it this morning as they were sat out on the balcony and his gaze flickered to her lips as she applied her cherry chapstick. Or maybe she imagined that one. Maybe the flutter she sensed as she caught him staring was nothing but her projecting her own—admittedly confusing—feelings onto an innocent breakfast between friends.

Stella did want Jake to kiss her that night: enveloped by salt air, dizzy anticipation in the space where their breaths melted together, her dress fluttering against her skin in the light wind, his palms warm on her hips.

She had wanted it then. And she wants it now.

Sat in the soft glow of this crowded restaurant, with its dark interior and narrow rectangular tables, her knee absentmindedly leant against his.