Eclipsed: A High School Bully Romance (Del Sol High Book 3) Read online

  I miss the wave.

  I fall off.

  I slip.

  Everything that could go wrong does. It's like I'm learning all over again. I'm nowhere near as good as the guys near the pier, but I sure as hell know how to get up on the board at this point.

  But, for some reason, I can't do it today.

  I finally slam my hand against the surface of the water and paddle in. I tear the leash off of my ankle, pull the board out of the water, and stomp up the beach. I toss the stupid board to the sand and collapse next to it. My heard is pounding, my eyes and nose are burning from all of the water I've just spent the entire afternoon ingesting, and my arms and thighs ache.

  I look at the board, as if it might be broken or something and that's the reason I can't get up.

  But it's not. It's the same board I've been using for months and there's nothing wrong with it.

  It's me.

  I'm the one that's broken.

  I reach over and push it further away from me, like I can't stand to be near it. I shove my wet hair away from my face and wipe the ocean from my skin. I take a deep breath.

  And it catches.

  I take another one and it catches again.

  And I can feel it coming.

  All of the anger and frustration and sadness and disappointment that's been sitting inside of me for months is rising up inside of me. It's not just about the surfing. It's about everything. The inability to get up on the stupid surfboard just feels symbolic to me and it's bringing everything to the surface.

  I look down at the sand as the tears sting my eyes and then slide down my cheeks. My chest heaves and my body shakes as the sob forces its way out of me. My hands are shaking and my tears are racing off of my face, forming a pool in the sand between my knees.

  I try to catch my breath, but I can't. I pull my knees to my chest, lay my arms across my knees, and tuck my head downward as I cry harder. If I'm going to ugly cry, I can at least try and hide it.

  I stay like that for a while, my body racked with sobs, tears flooding the sand below me. I'm doing my best not to make any sound, but it's hard because I'm gasping in between sobs. I'm just grateful that it's not crowded on the beach.

  The tears gradually stop, but my body is still shaking, almost like I'm dry heaving. I focus on trying to catch my breath, trying to get everything back under control.

  At least the things I can control.

  I'm taking long, slow, deep breaths, when I feel a hand on my shoulder.

  I wipe hard at my face and nose. I can't imagine how awful I look, given how hard I've been crying.

  Then I turn and look up.

  And it's Archer.

  Chapter 14

  It takes me a moment to realize he's actually standing there and that he's not some hallucination brought on by my nervous breakdown.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  He still takes my breath away. The ocean breeze lifts his wavy brown hair, teasing it away from his face, and the sun glistens on his tanned, chiseled jaw.

  I clear my throat. “What?”

  “Are you okay?” he asks again. “I parked up in the lot and started walking down to the water. I saw you and...I just wondered if you were alright.”

  I wipe again at my eyes. “Oh. Yeah, I'm okay.”

  He takes his hand off my shoulder. He's wearing black board shorts and no rash guard. His year-round tan seems like it's already started shifting toward the deeper summer brown.

  “You don't look okay,” he says.

  I look away. “Thanks.”

  “That's...not how I meant it,” he says. “I just meant that you look pretty upset.”

  I shrug.

  “I saw you struggling out there,” he says. “Is that's what's wrong?”

  “I thought you just got here.”

  He pauses. “I was in the lot for a little bit, I guess.”

  “Watching me eat shit out there for an hour?”

  He chuckles. “Not for an hour, no. But maybe for a few minutes.”

  I sigh. It's ragged and my throat hurts. “No, it wasn't that. I mean, it was. I couldn't get up. I sucked. But it's just...everything. But I'm fine. I'll be fine.”

  “Okay,” he says.

  “Why do you care anyway?”

  He looks out at the ocean. “I saw you crying. I wanted to make sure you weren't hurt or...whatever. That's all.”

  “I don't need you to look after me,” I say.

  “Didn't say you did. Just not sure you're actually okay.”

  My laugh is harsh. “Because I lie, right? So I must be lying about this?”

  He shrugs. “Could be. I dunno. You're the only one who knows.”

  And it occurs to me that I am lying to him.

  Because I'm not really okay.

  And I swore I wasn't going to lie to anyone again.

  “Fine,” I say, looking at him. “You're right. I'm not okay. Not even a little bit. So that massive ugly cry I just had? Yeah, that was pretty much a nervous breakdown on my part.”

  He takes a step away and I think he's going to leave. But, instead, he sits down in the sand.

  “Breakdown over what?” he asks, leaning back on his hands. “Forgetting how to surf?”

  I frown. “Yes. I'm totally distraught.”

  “You were a mess out there, so I'd believe it.”

  “I wasn't a mess,” I tell him. “I just wasn't...focused.”

  “You say so,” he says. “Why weren't you focused?”

  “Do you really want to hear this?” I say. “I mean...we haven't talked in months.”

  He shrugs.

  “So I don't wanna dump all of my issues on you if you aren't interested in hearing them,” I tell him.

  “I'm sitting here, aren't I?” he says.

  “Yeah, but why?”

  “I need a reason?”

  I shake my head. “No. It's just weird.”

  He stretches his legs out. I'm not totally sure but his shoulders look bigger, broader.

  “I'm listening,” he says. “If you don't wanna talk, that's fine. I'll go surf. I won't have any issues standing up.”

  I can't tell if he's trying to be funny or if he's just being an asshole.

  I pick up a handful of sand and let it fall through my fingers. “My mom lied to me for years about who my dad was. Not even who he was, because she never told me any real details about him. Just his name. For my whole life, I thought his name was one thing and I just out it's something totally different.”

  He nods slowly.

  And then I just spit it all out. Thinking I knew what his name was, the conversations with my grandmother and my mother, learning that my name literally had no story behind it, and then the frustration of looking through the yearbooks. I let it all out in long sentences with too many words, like I can't hold them in any longer. I don't cry because I'm all out of tears at the moment, but my stomach hurts the entire time I talk. Archer doesn't say anything while I ramble on. He doesn't even nod or shake his head or make any movements.

  He just listens.

  “So,” I say when I've finally gotten it all out. “That is what's wrong. That is why I'm sitting here on the beach, crying like an insane person. And that's probably why I couldn't stay up on the board for more than two seconds because my head is someplace else right now.” I shrug. “That's it.”

  He purses his lips. “I'm sorry. That sucks.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “It does.”

  “And it definitely explains why you couldn't stay up,” he says.

  “What do you mean?”

  He looks at the water. “You're still new at this. You have to be able to focus. The water will own you if you can't focus.” He looks back to me. “It owned you today.”

  I sigh. “No doubt. It totally did.”

  “But I'm not just sorry about the surfing,” he says. “You'll bounce back and next time you're out, you'll be fine.” He pauses. “I'm sorry about the other stuff. With your parents.�
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  “Thanks,” I say. “And I'm sorry I just dumped it on you like that.”

  He shrugs. “I asked for it. It's okay.”

  I look down at the sand for a long time, then look up. “And I think I get it now.”

  He tilts his head to the side. “Get what?”

  “How you felt,” I tell him. “When you found out about your mom and that your parents hadn't been honest with you about everything. I thought I understood before, but I don't know that I really did.”

  He turns and looks out at the ocean.

  “And I think I understand what it was like when you found out about my mom,” I say. “I mean, about my dad, too. But the thing with my mom was...it is a bigger deal. And I think I get it now. Why it feels the way it does.”

  He digs his toes into the sand, but avoids my eyes. “Yeah. Maybe.”

  “Makes me feel dumb,” I say. “Like I should've known, so it's my fault for not knowing. Makes me question everything my mother has ever told me. Makes me think I'll never believe another word that comes out of her mouth. And makes me wonder if I'll ever trust anybody again.”

  He lifts his toes out of the sand and pats it back down with his feet. He grabs a handful of the sand and lets it cascade between his fingers. Then he looks at me.

  “That sounds about right,” he says.

  “I know I already told you this at the dance that night,” I say. “But I really am sorry. And it's not an excuse that I didn't know how it felt or anything like that. It's really not. I just want you to know that I'm really sorry that it came out the way it did. I never wanted you to find out like that. I'm sorry that you did, and I'm sorry that it hurt. If it did.”

  He stands up and claps his hands together, shaking the sand off, then looks down at me. “I wouldn't go back out today.”

  “Why not?”

  “You're tired,” he says, squinting into the sun. “Your body's probably cooked at this point. And your head has all that shit going on. That's a bad cocktail. You don't wanna get hurt out there.” He pauses. “There’s always tomorrow. Water will still be here.”

  I nod. “Okay. Got it.”

  “I mean, you can,” he says. “You can do what you want. I'm just telling you it might frustrate you even more.”

  “Okay.”

  It's quiet for a moment, save for the ocean doing its thing in front of us.

  “You're okay to drive?” he asks. “Get yourself home?”

  “Why wouldn't I be?”

  “Because of the fucking nervous breakdown.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Yeah. I'll be fine. I have a car now.”

  “I know.”

  “You do?”

  He shrugs. “Sure.”

  I wonder if that means he's watching me or that someone told him or what. I want to ask, but something holds me back because I'm not sure I'll get the answer I really want.

  “Gonna get out there,” he says, lifting his chin toward the water. “Nick and Aiden are probably wondering where I am.”

  “Okay.”

  He stands there, but doesn't make any motion to move.

  “Thanks,” I tell him. “For listening. And for checking on me.”

  He looks down at me, his eyes really locking on mine. The intensity of those green eyes still thrills me like it did the first time I saw him.

  “See ya around,” he says.

  He turns and walks away without saying another word.

  Chapter 15

  I go home, shower, eat dinner with my grandparents, and go to bed early, the exhaustion brought on by the emotional roller coaster of a day finally catching up with me. I wake up early the next morning, get ready for school, and eat a bowl of cereal for breakfast, even though I'm not terribly hungry. I brace myself for a flurry of questions from my grandmother about why I was asking about my father yesterday, but she doesn't ask me anything and just tells me to have a good day at school. My grandfather is blissfully ignorant, poring over the business section of the paper and muttering about the stock market.

  I've probably underestimated how much she actually gets me.

  When I get to school, I'm walking across the parking lot when I see Ricky standing near the front door, his head moving back and forth between his phone and the parking lot. When he sees me, he raises his eyebrows and makes a beeline in my direction.

  “Hey,” he says, a bit out of breath. “I wondered if I'd missed you or something.”

  “I just got here,” I say. “What's up?”

  He tugs hard on the brim of his cap and purses his lips. “Did you...do any more research last night?”

  “About my father?” I ask. I shake my head. “No. I told you yesterday. Wild goose chase. I'm done.”

  “Don't you wanna know, though?” he asks. “I mean, you were pretty upset yesterday. And I totally get why. So do you really wanna just leave it all hanging?”

  “What does it matter to you?” It comes out more harshly than I mean it and his cheeks color. “I didn't mean it like that,” I say. “I just mean...does it even matter?”

  “It matters to you,” he says. “Doesn't it?”

  “Yeah, but so what?” I answer. “We don't always get what we want. Oh well.”

  “Do you give up on everything so easily?”

  “You don't even know me,” I say, now irritated with myself for feeling bad about snapping at him.

  “Sorry,” he says, holding a hand up. “I just mean, this is a big deal for you. At least, I thought it was when we talked yesterday. I wouldn't be able to walk away from something like that. And when people don't wanna talk to me, I keep pushing.” He pauses. “You know that from dealing with me. So I just mean that if it means that much to you, why are you quitting after basically one try?”

  He's diplomatically calling me a quitter.

  And maybe that's fair; I don't know.

  I'm just not sure what he's looking for.

  “Because it's not like I have a bunch to go on,” I tell him. “I don't know his last name, and I know he didn't go here. So that's all I have to go on. That doesn't feel like a running start. It feels like a dead end.”

  “I mean, it might be,” he says. “I won't lie. It might be a dead end. But there are some other things you can do to make sure it's a dead end before you walk away from it.”

  “Like what exactly?”

  He tugs on his cap again. “There are a couple of things. Are you in?”

  “Am I in on what?” I ask, frowning.

  “Are you in to keep looking?”

  “There's nothing to look—”

  “I'm telling you there is,” he says. “If I have some more to look at that might help, are you in?”

  “Some more what to look at?” I ask. “I'm totally confused.”

  The first bell rings and people start streaming toward the doors.

  “Let me worry about the what,” he says. “Are you in?”

  I throw up my hands. “Sure. Whatever.”

  He points his phone at me. “Okay. Meet me in the library at lunch. Same table. I'll be there.”

  “Yeah, but why?” I ask.

  But he's already heading for the doors, gone before he gives me an answer.

  Chapter 16

  Ricky is already waiting for me in the library at lunch.

  I manage to focus on my morning classes for a change and I actually feel like I can breathe a little bit. I'm not sure exactly why that is, but it feels good to be able to concentrate and pay attention and not keep looking over my shoulder to see if anyone is out to get me or if some other part of my past is about to explode.

  But when I get to the library, Ricky is already sitting at the back table, and I suddenly tense up. The good feeling is gone, replaced by a rising anxiety.

  “Hey,” I say when I get to the table.

  He folds his arms across his chest and looks pretty satisfied with himself. “Hey.”

  I look at the stacks of books piled on the table. “What's all this?”

 
; There are five thick books stacked neatly together. There are two nearly identical stacks next to that one. The only difference is the color of the books and the logos on them.

  They are yearbooks.

  “Sun Valley,” he says, pointing to the first stack. Then he points at the middle stack. “Sunset.” Then he points to the last one. “Canyon.”

  I frown at the stacks. “Uh...okay?”

  He frowns back at me, like he can't believe I'm not getting it. “The three closest high schools to Del Sol?”

  “Oh,” I say, still not sure where we're going. “I...don't know all of the schools.”

  “Right,” he says. “Yeah, so these are the three closest schools to Del Sol by distance. And each stack has the yearbooks from those schools for the years your mom graduated, plus the two before and the two after.” He looks at me. “What we want to do is draw a circle around your mom. Your dad should be in the circle.” He nods at the yearbooks. “And I mean an actual physical circle. This is the first circle. If he's not in this circle, then we draw the next one.”

  “The next one?” I ask, incredulous, still looking at the yearbooks on the table.

  “Sycamore, Pine Beach, and Mt. Torrey,” he says. “Those are the next three in distance from Del Sol after these three.”

  I look at him and can't find the words.

  “I had a rough idea of the distance to each school, but I Googled it to make sure,” he says. “I actually thought Sycamore was in the first three, but it's a mile further than Canyon. Didn't know that.”

  I sit down in the chair across from him. “How did you get all of these?”

  “Each school library keeps them,” he says. “Like we do here. So I called the editors at the papers at the other schools last night and told them I was working on a long-form piece that involved their high school and I wanted to get a feel for their school.” He raps his fist against the middle stack. “During these years. I managed to go grab the set from Sunset last night, then got the other two this morning during my journalism period. We can do shit like that when we're working on something and our advisor doesn't really answer questions.” He looks at the books. “And I've already called the other three schools and I can pick those up tomorrow if we need them.”