Chapter 12: Naked and Stranded
The walk back to the main road through the pine forest was a quiet, shuffling nightmare. The canvas hood scratched their bare shoulders. Every distant car engine made them freeze, two ridiculous statues in the dark, until it passed.
When headlights finally swept toward them from the direction of the houses, Taylor muttered, “If those are the same jerks, I am actually going to murder them.”
The car slowed. Not a random jerk. A familiar, beat-up Jeep. Conrad’s.
It pulled onto the shoulder, gravel crunching. The passenger door of the car behind it—Jeremiah’s convertible—flung open. Jeremiah was out first, his laughter clear and bright in the quiet night. “What in the actual coastal living catalog is happening right now?” he called, striding toward them.
Conrad got out more slowly. He had a white plastic bag in his hand from the market downtown. His eyes found Belly’s first, then took in the absurdity of the whale-covered hood. A flicker of relief passed over his face, so fast she almost missed it.
Conrad just walked forward and held out the bag.
“Here,” he said, his voice low.
Belly reached out, her fingers brushing his as she took the bag. Inside were two sets of clothes: her own denim shorts and a clean t-shirt, and Taylor’s stuff. He’d gone to their house, to their rooms, and picked them out. The intimacy of the gesture, the sheer practicality of it, made her throat tight.
“Okay, operation modesty,” Jeremiah announced, clapping his hands once. He walked back to his convertible and yanked the patterned blanket from the back seat. “Con, help me out.”
Conrad moved to the other side of the hood. Each brother took two corners of the fleece blanket, holding it up like a crude, striped curtain between the girls and the road.
“Change of scenery,” Taylor said dryly, shuffling with Belly behind the fabric shield.
It wasn’t perfect. The blanket wasn’t that wide, and the night air was cool on their skin as they dropped the greasy canvas hood. Belly stepped into her shorts, hopping on one foot, the rough asphalt biting her sole. She could see the outline of Conrad’s shoulders through the thin blanket, turned resolutely away. He was giving them every millimeter of privacy the situation allowed.
Once the last shirt was tugged on, Taylor balled up the awful hood and tossed it into the ditch. “Good riddance.”
The brothers dropped the blanket. Conrad folded it, his movements methodical, not looking at her. Jeremiah tossed it into his back seat.
Taylor cleared her throat and walked directly to Conrad’s Jeep, pulling open the passenger door. “I’m riding with you,” she announced, her tone brooking no argument.
Conrad just nodded, wordlessly circling to the driver’s side.
Belly got in Jere’s car.
The convertible’s interior still held the day’s warmth and the faint, sugary smell of someone else’s perfume. Jeremiah started the engine, the headlights cutting twin paths through the dark pines. He didn’t pull out immediately.
“I’m sorry about earlier with the tournament,” Belly said, the words rushing out. She stared at her own hands in her lap. “I just got into a super competing zone.”
Jeremiah looked straight ahead, his fingers tapping the steering wheel. A slow smile tugged at his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s all good,” he said, his voice unusually light. “Conrad’s the better player anyway.” He finally glanced at her, his blue eyes catching the dash light’s glow. “So I heard he may be taking you to the ball.”
The air in the car felt thin. “Who said that?” Belly asked, though she already knew.
“My mum.” He said it simply, as if stating the weather, and put the car in drive.
The tires crunched on the gravel as they pulled onto the main road. She thought about what Taylor had said, about Jere waiting for her. She thought about Conrad’s text, glowing on her phone in the dark: I did it because I want to take you. The want was a live wire inside her, dangerous and bright.
But maybe this was better, she thought. Safer. Jeremiah was sun and predictable warmth. Conrad was a riptide, beautiful and capable of pulling her under.
“He’s not,” Belly said, the words firm, a decision made out loud.
Jeremiah’s grip on the wheel tightened almost imperceptibly. “Did you want to go with me?” Belly asked, her voice smaller now.
He didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. Of course.”
She looked out the window at the blurred passing night. Why did her chest hurt?
Back at the house, Belly lay awake for hours. Taylor snored softly in the other bed, exhausted from their misadventure. The trophy on the dresser was a dark silhouette. The black bag Conrad had given her, now holding the returned necklace, was a void on her nightstand.
Her phone screen lit up with a soft chime. ‘You up?’
It was from Conrad.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She slipped out of bed, the wooden floor cool under her feet, and pad quietly out of the room, down the stairs, and through the sliding door to the back lawn.
The night air was damp and salty. He was already there, a shadow detaching itself from the bench at the end of the dock. Conrad got up as she approached, standing, looking at her. The only sounds were the water lapping at the pylons and the distant, relentless sigh of the ocean.
“Hey,” he said.
Belly looked at him, at the tense line of his jaw in the moonlight. She couldn’t help herself, and what she felt, but she had to. “Please stop texting me,” she whispered, the words carried away on the breeze. “Bad things happen when you text me.”
He let out a slow breath, his shoulders slumping a fraction. “I know, I know.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I feel like I keep doing the wrong things when it comes to you.”
The admission hung between them, raw and vulnerable. He shifted, then held out the small black bag he got her for her birthday. “Uh, this is yours.”
She took it. The velvet was soft, familiar. She didn’t open it. She just held it, a perfect, heavy little secret in her palm.
The necklace inside felt heavier than it was. He was giving it back, severing the last tangible thread.
“You don’t have to keep it or anything,” he said, the words tumbling out in a rushed, low stream. He took a cautious step forward on the creaking wood. “You could throw it in the ocean, burn it, I- I just…” He walked closer to her, step by step, closing the gap between the past and this unbearable present.
“What?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper over the water.
He closed the final distance, standing right in front of her. The loose plank beneath them groaned. He grabbed her hand, the one not holding the bag, his fingers warm and sure. “I just, don’t wanna lose you.” He said, his voice sounding broken. He looked at her.
The confession hung in the salt air, more real and terrifying than any text. She saw the truth of it in the storm behind his blue eyes, in the desperate set of his mouth.
She wanted nothing more than to say I don’t wanna lose you. She wanted to hug him. She wanted to kiss him and erase every stupid, silent moment that had led them here.
But she thought of Jeremiah’s easy smile in the car, his simple “yeah.” She thought of the promised stability, the uncomplicated sun. She thought of how Conrad’s love had always felt like a cliff’s edge—exhilarating and like she could fall of the edge at any given moment.
She shook her head, the movement sharp, final. She peeled his fingers from her hand and placed the small black bag back into his palm, folding his fingers over it. “It’s too late.” She said.
He looked at her as she walked away, the bag a dead weight in his fist.
His eyes started to water. His throat felt tight, a band of iron closing around it. His chest hurt, a deep, splitting ache that stole his breath. He stumbled back against the bench, the impact jarring up his spine.
Belly didn’t turn around. She knew if she did, she would run to him. Her chest felt tight, a mirror of his pain, a shared hemorrhage no one could see. Each step on the dock was a fresh cut, the distance between them growing into a canyon.
Conrad sat down on the bench, running his hands over his face. He let out a shaky breath, a ragged sound that was half a sob. He stared at the bag in his hand, the velvet now damp from his grip.
The dock felt unsteady, the world tilting on a silent axis. He fumbled with the drawstring.
He pulled the necklace out looking at it his vision blurring. The delicate infinity caught a sliver of moonlight, a ghost of the summer he’d imagined. Its silver chain felt cold, He put it back in the bag and shoved it in his pocket. He wipes his eyes running his hands through his hair tugging at the strands.
A raw sound broke from him, swallowed by the vast, indifferent ocean. He stood up, his legs unsteady, and walked back toward the dark, sleeping house.
Belly was woken by Susannah coming in her room. “Morning Belly.” She said, her voice a soft melody that felt out of tune with the granite weight in Belly’s stomach.
“Oh my God am I late?” Belly said sitting up, the sheets tangled around her legs. Panic was a welcome distraction from the memory of Conrad’s face in the moonlight.
“No you’re fine, are you ready for your big day?” Susannah said sitting on the bed, her perfume a gentle cloud of lilac. She smoothed the duvet with a manicured hand, her eyes bright with anticipation.
“Not at all, what if I trip?” Belly said. The worry was real, a tangible fear she could voice to hide the larger, more terrifying one.
“You won’t, just hold onto Conrad’s arm, he won’t let you fall.” Susannah said, as if it were the simplest, most obvious solution in the world.
Belly looked at her. The name was a jagged piece of glass in her chest. “Conrad, I uh I asked Jere to go with me.” Belly said. The lie felt thick and clumsy on her tongue.
“Ohh I thought you and Conrad were going?” Susannah said, her perfectly shaped brows drawing together in mild confusion. Her smile remained, but it softened, becoming enquiring.
“I, we- no he told Jere he should go with me cause he went last year.” She lied. She looked down at her hands, picking at a loose thread on the quilt to avoid Susannah’s perceptive gaze.
“Oh well they’d both do anything for you.” Susannah said, patting her knee. The statement was meant to be comforting, but it landed like an accusation.
Belly thought about last night at the dock with Conrad she looked away. The feel of his hand, the broken sound of his voice. I just, don’t wanna lose you.
“Everything okay?” Susannah asked.
“Yeah.” Belly said. The word was hollow.
The word was hollow.
Susannah studied her for a long moment, the morning light catching the fine lines around her eyes that seemed deeper this summer. She reached out and tucked a strand of Belly’s hair behind her ear, her touch infinitely gentle. “We don’t need to go tonight if you don’t want to.”
“No, I want to go,” Belly said, the response coming too fast. She softened her voice, forcing conviction into it. “I wanna finish what I started.”
A slow, beautiful smile spread across Susannah’s face, brimming with a pride that made Belly’s throat ache. “I love you so much, beautiful girl.”
“I love you too,” Belly whispered, meaning it with every fractured piece of her heart.
“Meet me downstairs,” Susannah said, mischief lighting her eyes. “There’s a surprise for you.”
Belly followed her down, the wooden stairs cool under her feet. The living room was filled with slanting morning light. And there it was, hanging from the frame of the French doors: the dress.
It was white and stunning, the one she’d pointed out in the boutique window weeks ago, all delicate chiffon and subtle beading that caught the sun like scattered shore frost.
“You got the dress?” Belly breathed, her hands coming up to her mouth.
“Yes,” Susannah said, smiling. “Your mum did.”
Laurel stepped in from the kitchen, a mug of tea in hand, her own smile small and satisfied. Belly crossed the room and wrapped her arms around her mother, burying her face in the familiar scent of lemon and laundry soap.
“Thank you,” Belly said, her voice muffled.
“You’re welcome, sweetie,” Laurel said, patting her back.
A floorboard creaked upstairs. Then the sound of footsteps descending. Conrad padded into the kitchen, his gaze fixed on the counter. He didn’t see any of them.
Belly looked at him. His eyes had dark circles under them, bruised-looking. His hair was a messy, slept-in tangle. He moved with a heavy quiet, pulling the coffee canister from the shelf. Her chest hurt at the sight, the same sharp ache she’d felt last night on the dock, a sympathetic wound.
He poured water into the machine, scooped grounds, pressed the button. He stood there, waiting, his back to the room. He never turned. When the pot had barely dripped enough for half a cup, he filled his mug and headed back upstairs without a word.
“We should get going,” Susannah said later, her voice buzzing with a determined energy. “The flowers won’t pick themselves.”
Belly was checking her purse by the front door when she heard footsteps pound down the stairs behind her. She turned.
Conrad skidded to a halt on the bottom step, his hair still damp from a shower, wearing a clean grey tee. He was breathing a little hard, as if he’d run.
“Hey, Belly,” he said.
She turned around slowly. “Yeah?”
She looked at him, really looked. The shadows were still there under his eyes, but they were clearer now, focused on her. The intensity of his gaze was a physical weight.
“Uhh, break a leg,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets.
A weak, bewildered laugh escaped her. “That’s bad. I’m supposed to be dancing all night.”
“I just mean good luck.” He shifted his weight, his jaw tightening. “It’s a thing people say.” He paused, and the air between them thickened, charged with everything unsaid from the dock, from the tournament, from every summer that came before. He gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug, his eyes not leaving hers. “For what it’s worth, Jere was the right choice.”
Her chest hurt hearing that, a fresh, precise puncture. She looked away, her eyes finding the sunlit dust moats floating in the doorway. “Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
The word tasted like ash. He gave a curt nod, the movement tight, and turned to climb the stairs two at a time.
Belly stood frozen in the foyer. Susannah gave her a searching look before linking their arms and pulling her gently toward the sunlight. “Come on. Big day.”
The florist was a cool, humid cave of green and perfume. Belly moved on autopilot, pointing at pale pink peonies and creamy gardenias. She could still see Conrad’s bruised eyes, the deliberate way he’d said Jere was the right choice. He’d handed her the out she’d asked for on the dock, and it felt like a verdict.
She left headed to get ready.
The country club’s bridal suite was a whirl of hairspray and nervous laughter. Girls in robes dashed between mirrors, blasting music from a phone speaker. Belly sat at a vanity, carefully applying a winged liner.
“Your dress is insane, Belly,” one of Shayla’s friends said, blending highlighter on her cheekbones.
“Thanks. Yours is gorgeous,” Belly replied, the small chatter feeling thin and scripted. Her own reflection looked unfamiliar—polished, poised, a stranger in a white chiffon shell. She fought the urge to rub her eyes and ruin it all.
She fixed the pearl necklace Susannah had given her, the cool spheres a poor substitute for the weight of the infinity pendant now sitting, she assumed, in Conrad’s drawer. The memory of his fingers closing around that black bag made her hand tremble. She grabbed her bouquet of roses from the table, their petals soft and bruisable, and headed to the curtain.
Behind the heavy velvet curtain, the noise of the ballroom was a muffled, expectant hum. Belly adjusted her grip on the roses, their stems damp and thorny beneath the satin ribbon. She could hear the announcer’s voice, tinny through the speakers, calling the names of the girls who had gone before her.
A hand touched her elbow. Jeremiah was there, his hair expertly tamed, his smile bright and fixed. He offered his arm.
She took it. The crisp white of his jacket sleeve under her fingers felt like a costume. The curtain parted.
The light was blinding. A collective, polite applause washed over them as they stepped onto the polished floor. Her satin heels were treacherously smooth. She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, a painted smile on her lips, following the measured steps they’d practiced.
Her eyes, against her will, scanned the blur of tables and faces to her left. She found him almost immediately.
Conrad stood beside Susannah near the back. The black suit fit him with a sharp, unfamiliar elegance, the white shirt and black tie making him look older, severer. He was watching her. His expression was unreadable from this distance, a mask of formal observation.
Then, as if he felt the precise moment of her gaze, his eyes met hers. The mask fractured. Just for a second, a real smile touched his mouth, soft and private, meant only for her. It was the ghost of the boy on the dock, the one who’d spun her in the sand.
She smiled back, a genuine reflex that lit her face before she could remember to be careful. She quickly looked forward again, her heart hammering against the boning of her dress.
They completed the walk. Jeremiah led her to the designated table where the other debutantes were seated, a garden of pastel gowns and nervous energy. He gave her hand a quick squeeze before joining the other escorts assembling near the stage for the men’s dance.
The dance was a spectacle of coordinated silliness, a tradition the guys performed with a mix of embarrassed grins and over-the-top bravado. Steven messed up a turn, shrugging at the laughter. Jeremiah, in the center, sold every move with a wink, the born performer.
When the music ended with a final, dramatic pose, the applause was loud and relieved. The guys bowed, laughing as they dispersed back toward their tables. Belly watched Jeremiah.
He didn’t come to her. He scanned the room, his eyes landing on his mother. Susannah was talking to Laurel, a pleased, absent expression on her beautiful face. Her small black clutch sat on the table beside her elbow.
When Laurel turned to greet another well-wisher, Jeremiah moved. It was quick, casual. He leaned in, kissed his mother’s cheek, said something that made her smile. His hand brushed the tabletop. When he straightened, the her phone was gone, tucked against his side beneath his jacket. He melted into the crowd heading toward the hall, not looking back.
Belly sat, the minutes stretching.
She leaned toward Susannah, who had come to sit with her. “I don’t know where Jere is.”
Susannah patted her hand, her gaze drifting slightly. “He’ll be here in a minute,” she said, her voice airy. “Go get ready for your dance.”
Belly nodded, rising from the table. The rustle of her dress was the only sound in her ears as she walked toward the hallway, her eyes searching the sea of tuxedos for a flash of blonde hair or a familiar, easy smile.