Salt and Skin

The sand was still warm from the day, that specific heat that only happens after sunset on the coast, when the ground remembers the sun long after it's gone. I felt it through the thin cotton of my dress, seeping up into my thighs, my ass, the small of my back. Lucas was beside me, close enough that I could smell the salt on his skin and something else underneath, sunscreen and sweat and the faint green of the caipirinha he'd been nursing for the past hour.

We hadn't said anything for a while. Not since the last couple walked past with their dog, a scruffy terrier that had stopped to sniff at my feet before being tugged away. The beach had emptied out slowly, the way it always does in Itamambuca, families packing up coolers and umbrellas, surfers dragging their boards out of the water with that tired, satisfied slump in their shoulders. Now it was just us and the sound of the waves and a few lights flickering on in the houses behind the dunes.

"I don't want to go back yet," I said.

Lucas turned his head. His eyes were dark in the low light, but I could see the shape of his smile. "Who said anything about going back?"

That was the thing about him. He never pushed. He just left the door open and waited to see if you'd walk through it. I'd known him for six weeks, which in the grand scheme of things is nothing, but in the compressed timeline of a vacation romance it felt like a lifetime. We'd met at a hostel in Paraty, both of us traveling alone, both of us pretending we weren't looking for anything. Two days later we were sharing a room in Ubatuba, and now here we were, lying on a beach at midnight with the tide creeping closer and neither of us willing to be the first to say what we both wanted.

I sat up. The movement made my head swim a little, the caipirinha catching up with me, and I laughed at myself, at the clumsiness of it. Lucas reached out and put his hand on my knee. Just rested it there, warm and heavy.

"You're beautiful," he said. Not like a compliment. Like a fact. Like he was reading it off a map.

"Stop."

"I'm serious."

"I know you are. That's why I'm telling you to stop."

He didn't stop. He moved his hand up, slowly, just a few inches, and I felt the heat of his palm through the fabric. My breath caught somewhere in my chest, and I looked out at the water instead of at him. The waves were phosphorescent, that weird glow you get sometimes when the plankton bloom, each break in the surf lighting up electric blue for a second before fading back to black. It looked like the ocean was dreaming.

"You ever done this before?" I asked.

"Done what?"

"Anything. This. Whatever this is."

He was quiet for a moment. Then: "No. Not like this."

I didn't know what that meant. I didn't ask. The wind picked up, cool off the water, and I shivered. Lucas noticed. He always noticed. He pulled his hoodie off, the one he'd been wearing earlier before the heat got to him, and draped it over my shoulders. It smelled like him. I pulled it tight around me and felt something loosen in my chest, some knot I hadn't realized I'd been carrying.

"I have to tell you something," I said.

"Okay."

"I'm not... I don't usually do this. Hook up with people I just met. I mean, I have. But not like this. Not with someone I actually like."

He laughed, low and easy. "Is that supposed to be a confession?"

"It's supposed to be a warning."

"Of what?"

I didn't have an answer for that. I looked at him, really looked, the way you do when you're trying to memorize someone. The curve of his jaw, the way his hair curled behind his ears, the small scar above his left eyebrow that he'd told me came from a skateboarding accident when he was twelve. He was beautiful in a way that felt unfair, like he'd been designed specifically to make me do stupid things.

"I don't know," I said. "Forget it."

He didn't forget it. I could see him filing it away, adding it to the list of things he knew about me. That was the other thing about Lucas. He remembered everything.

The tide was getting closer. I could feel the edge of the water now, cold against my toes, and I pulled my feet back instinctively. Lucas did the same, and we both laughed, that nervous laughter that comes when you're trying to pretend you're not thinking about what you're thinking about.

"Come here," he said.

I went. I didn't even hesitate. I crawled over to him and he pulled me down, and then I was lying on top of him, my face inches from his, my hair falling around us like a curtain. He smelled like salt and lime and something deeper, musk and skin and the faint sweetness of the rum. I could feel his heart beating through his shirt, fast but steady, and I pressed my palm flat against his chest just to feel it.

"I want you," he said.

The words hung in the air between us. Simple. Direct. No games, no pretense. I could have said no. I could have laughed it off, made a joke, pulled away and suggested we go back to the hostel and sleep it off. That's what the old me would have done. The me who was careful, who kept people at arm's length, who had a thousand reasons why not.

But the old me wasn't here. She was somewhere else, back in São Paulo, back in her apartment with its beige walls and its sensible furniture and its complete lack of anything that might surprise her. I didn't miss her. Not even a little.

"I want you too," I said.

And then I kissed him.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was hungry, desperate, the kind of kiss that says everything you've been holding back for weeks. His hands were in my hair, pulling me closer, and I was pressing myself against him, feeling the length of his body under mine, the hardness of him through his shorts. The sand was in my hair, in my clothes, everywhere, and I didn't care. I didn't care about anything except the feel of his mouth on mine and the sound of the waves and the way the whole world seemed to shrink down to just this, just us, just this moment.

He rolled me onto my back. The sand was warm under me, almost hot, and I gasped as he moved on top of me, his weight pressing me down. He kissed my neck, my collarbone, the hollow of my throat, and I arched into him, my hands gripping his shoulders, his back, anything I could reach.

"Wait," I said.

He stopped immediately. Pulled back just enough to look at me. His eyes were dark, his breathing ragged, and I could see the effort it was taking him to hold still.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I just..." I laughed, breathless. "I just wanted to make sure this is real."

He smiled. That smile. The one that made me feel like I was the only person in the world.

"It's real," he said. "I promise."

And I believed him. God help me, I believed him.