Page 42 of Unlocked Dive

You feel important.

“You’re not underage,” he continues. “You’re not auditioning for Cirque. I’m on sabbatical. There’s no real reason for them to care unless someone forces them to.”

Some of the tension drains from my body.

“What brought this on?” he asks, dragging his knuckles up the back of my arm and sending shivers over my skin.

“I guess twenty-one is the magic age where I finally grow up,” I say around the lingering ache in my throat. He chuckles softly.

“Elke get under your skin?”

“She didn’t get under yours? I know she’s been trying to talk you out of this. Me.”

“She tried. I listened. And then I made my own choices.”

“Are you sure you made the right ones?”

He lets people inwhen he shouldn’t.

I don’t think I could bear to be something he regrets.

“Yes.” He says it without hesitation, and my heart gives one of those sudden, swooping throbs. “What about you? Is this still something you want?”

I think I want it forever.I can feel the words taking shape on my tongue, vast and terrifying. But I don’t want to scare him, and I don’t want him to start talking about August again, and if I open my mouth, I have no idea what might tumble out.

So I roll on top of him and answer with bold hands and languid kisses, and this time, he doesn’t tell me to stop.

18

Echo

Byrd is late.

He texted me when he was leaving Santa Rosa, and the two hours it should have taken him to return have come and gone. I’ve thought about calling him, but it’s not only the lack of cell service on the 128 that holds me back.

I’ve spent half the morning pacing the stairs between the kitchen and the living room, arguing with Elke in my head. Arguing with Byrd, too, although in those, I’m never sure if he’s trying to get me to leave or to stay.

And arguing with the small, selfish part of myself that saysit’s my birthdayand wants to stuff my pockets with condoms and lube.

By the time the 4-Runner pulls up the driveway, I’ve sweated through two tank tops. Giving up, I finally throw on a loose band tee—one of those cheesy eighties bands Byrd loves—that I’ve stolen and repurposed, with the sleeves cut off down past my ribs. I’m still sweating, but at least it doesn’t cling to my skin.

Since it’s a party, I’ve paired it with designer jeans—the ones with the artful tears across the thighs and the strategic holesabove the pocket rivets at the back that Byrd can’t resist sliding his fingers into.

It’s possible selfish Echo won out where my wardrobe is concerned.

“Sorry it took so long,” Byrd says when he finds me standing useless in the living room. “I had to drive back through Mendo to pick up this.” He hands me a wrapped box about the size of a deck of cards.

“You got me a present?”

“Not the one you were hoping for, I know.” He smirks.

My cheeks flush, which is apparently something I do now, although it’s not for the reason he thinks.

I hold the box carefully in my hands, and it feels monumental. There’s some meaning trapped inside the shiny paper, and I’m caught between hope and horror that it will be too much. Or not enough.

“Are you going to open it?” He’s watching me, lips quirked in amusement.

“Okay.” My hands are clumsy as I tear through the ribbon and the wrapping, and I should have done it sitting down, because the small box inside falls open in my rush, and something brown and glittering tumbles free.