Of Poseidon

answer.”
    The realization that we could have had the same conversation with my mother makes this pretty porch spin. Then this pretty porch gets black spots all over it. When we were little, Chloe and I used to spin each other around and around in my father’s office chair. One time, she whirled me so fast and for so long that when I stood up, I walked in the exact opposite direction I meant to. As kids, we found that hilarious, like inhaling helium to talk like a chipmunk. Now though, it’s just not as entertaining. Especially since Galen’s face just disappeared behind a black spot. “Oh, no.”
    “Emma? What’s wrong?”
    The rest of the porch is sucked into the black hole of my vision. The welcome mat beneath me pitches like a rowboat during a hurricane. I reach for the door or the wall or Galen, but somehow I miss all three. Suddenly, my feet are swept out from under me, and my face smacks into his chest for the second time in my life. This time, my only option is to cling to him. I hear the door open and shut. The inferno of his touch is the only thing I’m sure of. Everything else—like up, down, left, and right—all seem to run together. “I … I might pass out. Sorry.”
    He squeezes me. “I’m laying you on the couch. Is that okay?”
    I nod that it is, but I won’t let go of his neck.
    “Tell me what you need. You’re scaring me.”
    I bury my face in his chest. “I can’t see anything. I don’t want to lie down because … because I won’t know where I am.” Already, the world has stopped spinning. I decide his arms are the healthiest place to be right now.
    Until I start to fall. I scream.
    “Shhh. It’s okay, Emma. I just sat down. You’re on my lap.” He strokes my hair and rocks me back and forth. “Is it your head? Tell me what I can do.”
    When I nod into his chest, the tears on my cheeks bleed onto his shirt. “It’s got to be my head. This never happens to me.”
    “Please don’t cry, Emma.”
    He stiffens when I snicker into his shirt. As punishment, my head throbs. “Bet you’re regretting bringing me over here,” I say.
    He relaxes. “I wouldn’t say that.”
    His tone is like a balm. Within the confines of his capable arms, my body relaxes beyond my control. The panic flows away from me like water from a shattered vase. My eyes refuse to open. “I’m kind of tired.”
    “Should you sleep, though? Everything I read about head injuries said you shouldn’t go to sleep.” Even as he says this, he allows me to pull my legs closer, to nestle my shoulder into his armpit and scoot higher on his lap. He secures my new position with tight arms. The heat simmers between us and wraps around me like a winter coat. Snuggling up to a sculpted block of granite just shouldn’t be this comfortable.
    “I think that’s right after you hurt it. I’m pretty sure I’m okay to sleep now. I mean, I slept last night, right? Actually, I’m not sure I can even stay awake right now.”
    “But … you’re not passing out, you’re just sleeping? There’s a difference.”
    I yawn again. “Just sleep. Maybe I just need a nap.”
    He nods into my hair. “You did look tired today after school.”
    “You can put me on the couch now.”
    He doesn’t move, just keeps rocking me. Staying alert is a slippery slope right now.
    “Galen?”
    “Hmm?”
    “You can put me down now.”
    “I’m not ready yet.” He tightens his hold.
    “You don’t have to hold—”
    “Emma? Can you hear me?”
    “Uh, yes. I can hear fine. I just can’t see—”
    “That’s a relief. Because for a minute there, I thought maybe you didn’t hear me when I said I’m not ready yet.”
    “Jackass.”
    He chuckles into my hair. “Go to sleep.”
    It’s the last thing I remember.
    * * *
    The bad thing is, he’s not holding me anymore. The good thing is, I can see. I glance around the room but don’t try to sit up yet. If I had to guess, I’d say I’m still at Galen’s house. Everything about this room screams luxury. Art that you know is expensive because it’s so ugly. Odd-shaped furniture made for looks instead of comfort. A huge flat-screen TV mounted on the wall over the fireplace. The cashmere blanket draped over me, so soft it wouldn’t bother the worst sunburn. And yep, it overlooks the beach. The entire back wall of the house is a glass window. No dunes block the view. Even lying down, I see the waves rolling in, a storm percolating in the distance.
    Sitting up is a big mistake