ocean boulevard | 5sos | michael clifford

v.

chapter five.

“We’re going to have a lot of time on our hands. You know that, don’t you?” Michael asks after we secure our peace treaty with a pinky promise.

“Yes.” The motion sickness pills are definitely working, but my back is beginning to hurt, so I lie down. “What are you implying?”

“It’s pretty obvious,” Michael smiles and for a second I forget that we’re caught in a tangle of misfortune as the aftermath of a shipwreck.

“Your lips are going to dry up,” I say absentmindedly. I mentally kick myself straight after the words come out of my mouth. Great. Now he knows that I’ve been staring at his lips. “I hope you have some lip balm.”

He laughs. “Damn. I left my Burt’s Bees back on the ship. Wanna go back for it?”

“Very funny.”

“You’re smiling, so it must’ve been.” He scratches his head and it is then that I notice that although the bulk of his arm accessories are gone, one wristband still remains. “Anyway, as I was just saying,” he pauses to make sure that he has my attention, “we’re going to have a lot of time on our hands.”

“You said that already,” I point out, stifling a yawn.

“But I never got the chance to get my point across,” he fires back. “We’re not going to be spending every waking moment making sure there aren’t any sharks around.” True. “And you already know a little about me, so what about you?”

“All I know is that you’re from Sydney, your taste in music isn’t half bad, you game like your life depends on it, and you use Burt’s Bees lip balm,” I say, covering my mouth as I yawn. It’s stuffy inside the liferaft, not to mention warm.

“What about you, though? I don’t know anything about you.”

“There’s not much to know.”

Which is true; I don’t have huge secrets or an entire novel’s worth of sob stories. I don’t come from a broken family. I wasn’t abused by my father or neglected by my mother. I wasn't raped by my uncle or born into brothels. I don’t have anger management issues or a physical disfiguration or a psychological disorder. And I’m certainly not a witch, a wizard, a vampire, or, for that matter of fact, a two-toed, three-fingered furry blue mutant with a Neomorphic physiology that just so happens to allow teleportation (although, given my circumstance, this would definitely have come in handy).

“Come on. Don’t be modest.” There’s an edge in his tone and I begin to wonder if he’s flirting with me or if I’m just flattering myself.

“Okay, how’s this: You ask me whatever you want and I’ll answer it honestly.”

“I like it.” There is a shuffle and the raft rocks gently and the next thing I know, Michael’s lying beside me. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly.

“It’s fine,” I tell him, but it’s really not, because although there’s a gap between us, I can practically feel myself soaking in his body heat, and the craziest thing about that is that it makes me feel sweaty and flustered and hot on the inside and out. I am insanely aware of how close our hands are, so I rest them on my chest to be sure that I don’t accidentally touch him.

“Okay, tell me about your family.”

“That’s not a question,” I say. I know I'm being a little annoying, but I have all the time in the world, and if I’m going to be roughing it out in the ocean with this guy, I’ve gotta learn to not give a shit, right?

“Fine. Share about your family?”

I laugh at his feeble attempt but cooperate anyway. “Alright. My dad’s from South Dakota so we go there every year for Thanksgiving, and my mom’s from California, born and raised. But she lived in San Francisco before her family moved to LA.”