Dual flames

Two years later, at fourteen, I had turned the beach house into a map of secret landmarks.

There was a spot on the upper deck where the floorboard creaked loudest-perfect for listening when the adults thought we were asleep. The narrow gap between the hedge and the neighbor's fence where Simon and I once hid during epic games of sardines. The window seat in the attic bedroom that looked straight down onto the driveway, giving me a perfect view of Daniel unloading his surfboards from the back of his dad's Jeep.

That summer, I spent more time in that window seat than anywhere else.

I told myself it was because the light was good for sketching. I'd brought a new sketchbook, thick creamy pages, and a set of charcoal pencils Mom had surprised me with at the end of eighth grade. I filled page after page with waves, seashells, the curve of the shoreline. But if I was honest-and I rarely was, even in my own head-half the sketches were of Daniel.

Not that I ever let anyone see them.

Daniel was eighteen now, a full sophomore in high school, with a driver's permit and a reputation that reached even my middle-school hallways. Girls talked about him in hushed, giggling tones-how he'd scored the winning goal in the regional soccer final, how his smile could make you forget your own name.

I soaked it all in like a sponge, storing every detail.

The beach house had four bedrooms. The parents took the two big ones on the main floor. Daniel always claimed the attic room with the slanted ceiling and the ocean view. Simon and I were stuck sharing the bunk-bed room on the second floor, the one with the faded sailboat wallpaper and the window that stuck when you tried to open it.

Simon didn't mind. He never minded.

"Top or bottom?" he asked the first night we arrived, tossing his duffel bag onto the lower bunk like it was already decided.

"You take the top," I said. "I don't want to hit my head if I sit up too fast."

He grinned. "Scared I'll drool on you in my sleep?"

"Terrified."

We laughed, easy and familiar, the way we always did. Simon had grown over the school year--shot up at least four inches, his voice cracking less often but to me he was still the same boy who used to trade me his Oreos for my carrot sticks at lunch. The same boy who'd once spent an entire afternoon helping me bury a dead seagull we found on the beach because I couldn't stand leaving it for the gulls.

That night, after the adults had gone to bed and the house settled into its creaky quiet, I lay in the bottom bunk listening to Simon's breathing even out above me. Moonlight striped the room through the half-closed blinds. I waited until I was sure he was asleep, then slipped out of bed in my oversized T-shirt and shorts.

The hallway was cool under my bare feet. I tiptoed up the narrow stairs to the attic, heart hammering so loud I was sure it would wake someone.

Daniel's door was cracked open, a sliver of light spilling out.

I didn't go in. I never went in. I just stood there, hidden in the shadow of the stairwell, and watched.

He was sitting on the edge of his bed, headphones on, scrolling through his phone. The blue glow lit his face in sharp angles-strong jaw, straight nose, the little scar through his left eyebrow he'd gotten from a skateboard accident when he was twelve. He wore a faded black tank top, and his hair was still damp from the shower.

I don't know how long I stood there. Long enough for him to yawn, stretch, pull off his headphones. Long enough for him to glance toward the door-and for me to duck back into the darkness, breath caught in my throat.

I fled downstairs, heart racing, and dove back into my bunk like I'd committed a crime.

Simon stirred above me. "You okay?" he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

"Bathroom," I whispered.

He made a soft sound of acknowledgment and rolled over.

The next morning, I found something on my pillow.

A small, smooth shell-perfectly spiral, pale pink on the inside. It hadn't been there when I went to sleep.

Simon was already up, out on the deck doing push-ups with his dad. I turned the shell over in my palm, confused. I hadn't brought it in. No one else had been in our room.

I slipped it into the pocket of my shorts and didn't mention it.

The days blurred into a rhythm I came to crave. At the beach Simon dragged me into the waves, teaching me how to body-surf, laughing when I wiped out. Afternoons on the sand, me sketching while the boys played volleyball with some local kids. Evenings around the fire pit, roasting marshmallows, the adults telling stories while we pretended not to listen.

Daniel started joining us more. Not all the time, he still disappeared with his surf friends some days but enough that my stomach flipped every time he walked toward our blanket.

One afternoon, Simon dared me to climb the big rock at the north end of the cove. It wasn't that high, but the tide pools below made it feel dangerous.

"You first," I said, eyeing the jagged surface.

"Ladies first," he countered, bowing dramatically.

I rolled my eyes but started climbing. Halfway up, my foot slipped. I yelped, arms windmilling.

Strong hands caught my waist from behind.

"Careful," Daniel said, voice low in my ear.

He lifted me the last few feet like I weighed nothing, setting me on the flat top beside Simon, who had already made it up.

I was breathless, cheeks burning. "Thanks."

Daniel shrugged, but his hands lingered on my hips a second longer than necessary. "Can't have you breaking your neck before dinner."

Simon watched us, expression unreadable. Then he turned away, staring out at the horizon.

That night, I added another shell to my collection. This one was white, with tiny brown spots. It appeared on the windowsill while I was brushing my teeth.

I started finding them everywhere. Tucked into my sketchbook. Under my pillow. Once, wedged into the strap of my sandal.

I never saw who left them and I never asked.

But I kept every single one.

The last night of vacation, we had a bonfire on the beach. The adults stayed up on the deck with their wine, giving us space. Simon brought his old guitar-the one he was teaching himself to play. He strummed random chords while we fed the fire driftwood.

Daniel lay on his back, arms behind his head, staring at the stars.

I sat cross-legged between them, roasting a marshmallow with intense concentration.

"You still drawing?" Daniel asked suddenly.

I glanced at him, surprised he remembered. "Yeah. All the time."

"Let me see."

My stomach dropped. "They're not... they're just sketches."

"Come on." He sat up, brushing sand off his hands. "I wanna see."

I hesitated, then pulled my sketchbook from my bag. I flipped past the dangerous pages-the ones with his face hidden among waves and shadows-and stopped on a safe one: the view of the cove from the rock we'd climbed.

Daniel took the book, studying it in the firelight. "Damn, Lis. This is good."

Warmth spread through me, brighter than the flames.

Simon leaned over to look. "Told you," he said quietly. "She's gonna be famous one day."

Daniel flipped another page before I could stop him. He paused.

It was a sketch of the three of us from the first night-me and Simon roasting marshmallows, Daniel in the background walking away. I'd captured the way the light caught his profile perfectly.

He didn't say anything for a long moment.

Then he closed the book and handed it back. "You've got talent."

Simple words but they lodged in my chest like a promise. The fire was dying and Simon had gone inside to grab more wood, Daniel stayed.

I was packing up my pencils when he spoke again.

"You're not a kid anymore, Lisa."

I looked up. He was watching me with that same knowing smile from two years ago.

My voice came out small. "I'm fourteen."

He laughed softly. "Yeah. I know."

Then he stood, ruffled my hair like I was still little, and walked back to the house.

I sat there long after he left, staring at the embers.

When I finally went inside, there was one last shell waiting on my bunk.

This one was different-larger, with a perfect hole through the top, like it was meant to be strung on a cord.

Simon was already asleep on the top bunk, breathing slow and steady.

I held the shell to my chest and made a wish I didn't understand yet.

That one day, Daniel will look at me the way I looked at him.

The summer ended too soon, and that when we drove away the next morning, I pressed my forehead to the car window and watched the beach house shrink in the rearview mirror.

Daniel waved from the driveway.

Simon sat beside me in the back seat, quiet for once.

And in my pocket, warm against my fingers, were seven shells. And for some reason, I planned on keeping them forever.