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Chapter Two
Nala
The first time I saw Malcolm Brady, he had a black eye and a split lip. I still thought he was the most darkly beautiful person I had ever seen in my entire life.
I was at the beach with Ashton and Brooks. When I got out of the water, I was dragging the surfboard Brooks had lent me since mine had broken. Malcolm was there; long, defined arms crossed over his broad chest, staring at me with those piercing-blue eyes that made even the water look just a shade dingy in comparison. It wouldn’t take me long to realize what the bruises were from, or that those wouldn’t be his last.
But this day, all I could see was him—that face, with cheekbones so sharp I wondered if they were real, the dark brows and straight nose, the heavy lids and inky-black lashes. It took me forever to get past his face, and while I stared, he stared right back. My heart was thumping by the time I got to his shoulders and below—even at twelve, I knew those weren’t normal shoulders—but I kept coming back to his face.
Somehow, I knew he was strong and powerful, but I also knew he was someone who could do serious damage without moving a muscle. My mom’s boyfriend told her he loved her, right before he walked out of our lives forever. That kind of damage—the kind where no one sees the bruises, and maybe because of that they take a lot longer to heal.
“Your board’s too big.”
Those were the first words he said to me, his voice clipped and a little gravelly. It may as well have been poetry, though I gave him sass and promptly turned back to the water to prove to him exactly how wrong he was. When I got out again, he was there still, arms crossed, eyes serious, but there was a slight curve to his lips, and my stomach dropped just knowing it was for me.
“Not bad,” he said. “Bet I can do better.”
And then he took the board, fingers brushing over mine and zapping sparks into me until I stumbled back and hit the sand, butt leaving and imprint while I worked to untangle the ankle strap.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t,” I rushed out. And then I handed him the strap, noting that he was careful to keep his hand from touching mine again... something he would be careful about doing for the rest of our relationship. But I remembered how it felt, and my twelve-year-old heart held onto that feeling, knowing instinctively that he was a vital part of my world now.Of me.
It’s dangerous to know that—to accept it—when you’re twelve and the boy you love is fourteen, already a man in so many ways. I was a young girl; one who knew what love could be like, and how it could hurt. More than that, though, looking at Malcolm showed me what it meant to truly feel alive, deep inside, where it felt like stars shimmered and light danced, all because of him.
Almost nine years later, I know that stars don’t burn forever, and even the brightest can shatter into a million, burning sparks before falling from the sky.
My love for Malcolm hasn’t dimmed with time or pain; in some senses, it’s become a festering wound, one I have become determined to ignore, no matter how much it festers. For a lot of years, I wouldn’t see him. It was easy. He was busy traveling the world, becoming one of the greatest skaters there is—and I was at home in San Diego, working on becoming no one.
Then, one event changed my life; it altered everything I am and was. The hurt Malcolm caused didn’t seem like so much in comparison. Where he had broken my heart, I had allowed someone else to break my spirit. I never truly found it again until I left, graduated from high school, and spent a year traveling the world. I learned from people of all cultures about what it truly meant to rebuild myself from pain, harm, and degradation—and still find pride in who I am.
What that trip didn’t fix, Jordan Richards did the day she and I became roommates at USD.
I’ve been home for over a year now. I’ve seen Malcolm many times because we’re friends with the same friends, and I’m learning that living with a broken heart isn’t so hard when I have the love of family. Especially when parts of that family have taken some hard hits lately, and need me to be the strong one.
My phone buzzes, bringing me back to the present. Swiping my finger over the screen, I smile and shake my head when I read Brooks’s message.
You good?
He’s asked me the same question ten times since Hunter called to tell us Mal didn’t just blow his run, but his entire leg. Mal flipped a lid when Hunter tried to cut his own tour short and fly back with Mal to San Diego.
Brooks and Jordan are in Europe until after New Year’s. They left right after finals, and will be spending Christmas and the New Year abroad traveling and being together. It’s a huge step for both of them—a necessary one where they get to actually spend time just the two of them, experiencing something new, where nothing else takes their focus. I’m not about to rain on that because I’m scared of being alone with Malcolm Brady.
Fingers flying over my keyboard, I do my best to portray confidence.
I’m fine, Dad. Relax. I’m waiting at the airport right now.
Brooks is persistent, though, which tells me Jordan is beside him, worrying, too. In some aspects, they’re worse than parents.
We can come home right now.
I roll my eyes before responding.
Don’t make me hurt you.
And then I think of what he’s been through in the past year, and how long he and Jordan have been planning this.
Jordan needs this time away from her family. Don’t take it away from her.
