Sweet Romance11 min read
The Boy Who Pulled the Sea into My Hands
ButterPicks11 views
I never expected to find trouble in an empty classroom, and I certainly didn't expect it to be shirtless.
"Who are you?" I said, though my voice trembled more from staring than from fear.
He blinked slowly, like someone waking from a pleasant nap. "You shouldn't be in here. This is our club room."
"You're the one who's not wearing a shirt," I shot back.
He smiled then, and it landed somewhere like a physical thing inside my chest. "Is that your excuse?"
I should have left. I tried to move, to shove my way past him, but his hand slammed against the door and he pinned me in. "Where did you come from? Peeking at me while I sleep?"
"I'm practicing my English speech," I said. "I need a quiet place."
He snorted. "Is that what that stuttering mess was?"
I gasped. "Hey! It's better than your boasting."
He bent forward, close enough for me to see the tiny red on his ears. "Names?"
"Leslie Conley. Physics, senior," I said.
"Elio McCormick," he answered, glancing over my speech pages. "First year."
He took my paper, read a line, and said, "Not bad."
"Not bad?" I folded my arms. "You heard only the worst part."
"Then let me teach you." He smiled and, for an instant, his grin made the whole room warm. "You give me your data. I give you English."
"Deal," I said too quickly.
"Next time," he said softly as he let my hand go, "don't use that smile on me. It makes me soft."
I rolled my eyes and left, but I carried his words like a small, bright stone in my pocket.
"You're pretty brave, Leslie," he said the next day when he came to the breakfast shop where I worked.
"You keep following me," I accused.
"Only because I need to check if you really help at the shop." He folded his long legs on the chair, watching me work. "And because your smile only fits in one place."
"You can say that while I throw eggs at you," I muttered.
He laughed. "I don't mind being egg-splattered."
"You're impossible."
"Maybe I like being impossible." He reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers brushed my cheek. "You sure you don't like someone younger?"
I choked on the egg I was carrying. "What?"
He leaned very close then, every inch of his face near my ear. "Try someone younger. Maybe you'll like that more."
"I—" My brain short-circuited.
Later, when he teased me for my English, I realized he wasn't only teasing. He was sharp, the kind of sharp that cut into the truth.
"This isn't English," he said, tapping a phrase. "Say it again."
I tried, and he corrected me patiently, quietly. "Sound out the vowels," he said.
"You make it sound so easy."
"Because it is," he said, calm. "You just let it be."
He smiled at me in class once, and a teacher's passing compliment later made a crowd flock to his lectures. He was famous by the second week, and I was the one who felt proud and irritated.
"Why are you so good?" I demanded one day.
"Because I practice," he said. "And because sometimes I think about things too much."
"You're not allowed to be both pretty and clever."
"Who made that rule?" he asked, and his grin was dangerous.
A group of boys once tried to humiliate me in the shop. They said my family's place was dirty. They shoved forks, shouted, and pointed.
"You smell like rotten bread," one of them sneered.
Elio appeared like a shadow. "I filmed all of you," he said. "Making accusations, planting lies. Did you think no one knew?"
They went pale. "You're lying!" one spat.
Elio held up his phone. "You want to see the footage?"
They left without clean exits, shoulders hunched and guilty.
"You're dramatic," I told him later.
"Someone had to stop them." He looked at me and his eyes softened. "You're not just anyone to me."
He lived in a huge house, much bigger than my family's small apartment above the breakfast shop. He said his parents were often away. He called his younger brother by name with a fond, distracted tone that showed he was used to filling in.
"He's a handful," Elio said of his brother, Sawyer Hall. "But Sawyer's honest."
Sawyer became the pupil I tutored. He loved to yell "Sister!" in a high voice when he was embarrassed, and it was awkward and cute in the kindest way.
"Stop calling me that," I told him once.
"It's practice," Sawyer said, wide-eyed. "My brother said it's practice."
Elio's help wasn't always gentle. "You're making it sound terrible," he would say with mock horror when I read aloud. "You can't make it sound like you're swallowing the words."
"You're mean," I replied.
"Only because I like you," he said.
He teased. He cajoled. He pushed. And once, he pushed too far and nearly kissed me. I slammed the door on him then because my brain couldn't decide if it wanted to run or melt.
"I can't be that easy," I told myself.
"You're avoiding me," he accused calmly once. "You know I can wait."
"Can't you go to the beach with someone else?" I asked, trying to be sharp.
"You said you wanted to see the sea," he reminded me.
"That wasn't a promise."
"It sounded like one." He grinned, and I felt stupid for wanting it.
The beach day was slow and warm and ridiculous. He dug sandcastles with me and laughed like a child. At one point he took my hand tighter than usual.
"Leslie," he said into my hair. "Next time, let's go watch the sea properly."
"Okay," I said. "We'll go."
There were small moments that hit me like a physical thing. He once handed me his jacket because the night had turned cold. "Wear this," he said, and the jacket smelled like him. My face warmed.
"You're not supposed to be so thoughtful," I whispered.
He shrugged. "I am allowed to be thoughtful to you."
Another time, after I fell in a race, he ran and scooped me up without hesitation. "You're okay?" he asked, fingers checking my ankle. His voice shook for a blink. "You scared me."
I had never been so aware of anyone's presence.
"You're like a sonnet," he told me, ridiculous and earnest. "Complicated and sweet."
"You're a cliché," I said back, both furious and glad.
He taught me to brave things I had never tried, like performing and public fights. He stood for me when others whispered behind my back and when girls stole at the edge of my life.
When my speech dress was ruined—someone had cut a seam backstage—I had no one left to trust but him.
"Who did this?" I asked, my throat raw.
"Let me handle it," Elio said. "Change. I'll get you something."
The auditorium buzzed. I slipped into the suit he had rented and walked to the stage. My legs trembled, but I remembered his face in the crowd, bright and steady. I spoke, and the room listened. After I left the stage, the truth needed to be seen.
Elio took the stage soon after, guitar in hand. He had not planned to perform, but he had other plans.
"Before I sing," he said, eyes finding mine, "there's something that needs saying."
A group of girls in the third row stiffened. I recognized the leader by her smirk, Angela Ferreira, the one who led the rumor about my family. Two of her friends, Gillian Coppola and Carolina Pena, also sat with faces like painted masks.
"You cut Leslie's dress," Elio said slowly, letting each word hang.
Angela's laugh came like a bark. "We didn't—"
Elio pointed to his phone and to the hall monitors. "You did it in the wing. Cameras showed you. You can deny, but footage keeps its promises."
The auditorium held its breath. I watched Angela's face lose color, then flush, then harden into denial.
"We didn't—" she started.
Elio had already turned a video toward the crowd. The footage played the scene in slow, humiliating detail: hands moving, scissors glinting, whispers and glances. The whole auditorium saw it.
"What is that?" someone shouted.
Angela's mask cracked. She lunged to stand, face contorting. "You can't—this is edited!"
"It isn't," Elio said. "You cut a girl's dress to embarrass her. You pushed her in front of people who wanted to see her fall."
"I didn't—" Angela's voice collapsed.
"Show them your messages," Elio said, unhurried. "Or is the truth harder to manage than lies?"
A chorus of whispers broke out. People scanned each other's faces. The three girls shifted like trapped animals.
Angela tried to save herself. "Leslie, I—this is such a misunderstanding."
"Why would you humiliate me?" I asked, but it was thin. I wanted to say more, but my voice failed.
Elio held up his hand. "Let her speak," he said. "Let her own it."
Angela's attempt at explanation turned to incoherent excuses. "It was a joke. We wanted to... we thought she'd laugh."
"You thought cutting a seam and sending someone onstage would be funny?" someone cried.
"But she—she's always like that," Gillian chimed in. "Acting superior."
"It's bullying," Elio said. "And it's also cowardice in three acts."
The crowd shifted. Some faces hardened in anger. Others softened in sympathy. The teacher who had organized the event came forward, cheeks flushed. "This behavior is unacceptable," she said. "Leslie, we owe you an apology."
"You will apologize now," Elio said, voice low, heavy with control. "In front of everyone. No messages. No private words. Say the truth and say it now."
Angela's eyes darted, and all the bravado drained from her. "I'm sorry," she said, too loudly, racing for the smallest out. "I'm sorry I did that."
"Say it clearly," Elio insisted.
"I cut Leslie's dress backstage," Angela said, words stumbling. "I wanted to humiliate her so she'd be embarrassed."
A hundred thin voices filled the room like a ripple. "Why?" someone asked.
"I didn't like how she acted," Angela said, trying to pin blame on a feeling. "We were angry. We thought it'd be funny."
"How did that feel?" Elio demanded.
Angela's laugh was a broken thing. "Bad. I feel—"
"You think you're the victim now?" Gillian tried to squeal defiance, but the crowd's attention fixed like heat. "We were just—"
"Enough," Elio snapped. "You recorded that. You you chatted. You thought the quickest way to humiliate a person was to ruin their clothes. You treated someone like an object."
The auditorium's temperature changed. People moved closer. Someone took out a phone. Murmurs turned into shouts.
"Leslie," Elio said, turning to me. "Do you want to speak to them?"
I walked forward on wobbly legs. The lights made my face feel hot. "You thought this would be a joke," I said. "It wasn't. It frightened me. It made me smaller. You don't get to decide who I am by tearing me."
Angela started to cry then. "I didn't mean—it wasn't supposed to go that far."
"It did," I said.
Elio stepped between us. "Here's what happens next," he said evenly. "You apologize publicly, and you come to the student union and help Leslie for a month. You will learn what dignity means to the people you hurt."
Angela's posture crumpled. The family's old nasty voice of rumor had to be reversed. Her cheeks were wet. Voices in the crowd softened, some even clapped, but most looked stunned and ashamed.
It lasted long enough.
"You'll post an apology on the forum and read it out loud," Elio added. "You will not hide. The truth isn't a weapon. It's a mirror."
Angela repeated the apology more carefully, each word forced and brittle. "Leslie Conley, I publicly apologize for cutting your dress, pushing you into embarrassment, and for every rumor I spread. I will do my best to make restitution."
Sawyer, who had been standing near the back with a face much too serious for his years, finally breathed out and wiped his own eyes. "Good," he said softly.
The gaze of three hundred people was not a private thing. It was a pressing, communal judgment. Angela's composure fell into pieces.
After the formal apologies—after cameras clicked and whispers moved like a tide—Angela tried to explain away her actions as one foolish moment. The truth hung heavier than explanations.
The public reaction had the stages I had only seen in novels: shock, denial, anger, then the slow, inevitable collapse.
Faces in the crowd moved from curiosity to disgust. A boy snapped a photo. A girl shook her head. Two teachers exchanged looks of relief that the truth came out.
Angela's face moved through colors. She first tried to look strong—her nostrils flared, her chin lifted. Then the color left, and she blinked fast.
"No," she said weakly. "This can't be happening."
"I filmed it," Elio repeated. "I did not have to. I chose to when I saw your faces."
"I was recorded?" Angela whispered.
"Yes."
Her friends circled her like sheep. Gillian's lips trembled. "We are sorry too," she said without conviction.
The spectacle cleaned the air like rain washes dust. I stood there quiet but steadier, and in my chest a small, stubborn seed of strength grew.
Later, when the crowd thinned and the lights dimmed, people came up to me to say small things. "You were brave," a classmate muttered. "No one should do that to anyone," another said.
Elio brushed my hair behind my ear. "You did great," he said, soft.
"Thank you," I said. "For everything."
He smiled, that smile that could tilt the world. "You hurt for too long," he said. "Not on my watch."
After that, things changed. The girls who had tried to humiliate me walked more carefully. Their apology remained pinned on the student board for a week, and the union required community service. They read their statements in a forum, and a crowd recorded it. The punishment was public and lasting: a real, awkward, public consequence.
We had messy trophies and small celebrations and moments that made my heart stutter.
"You're mine, you know," Elio said once, late at night on a video call while he was half a day away.
"You're dramatic," I teased.
"Only for you," he said, and then his voice caught. "I promised I'd come back early. I promised I'd be honest."
It turned out honesty was the real thing I needed.
He left for an exchange program, a bright chance across the ocean. He kissed me not with bravado, but with a quiet promise, the kind written in the margins of notebooks.
"I'll return," he said. "I won't stay away longer than we planned."
"But you could," I whispered.
"I won't," he answered. "I'll be back."
Distance teaches small cruelties. After he left, the hours ate at me. I was jealous of the girls he worked with—especially Mia Bergstrom, the girl who stood close to him in videos.
"You're making a mess of yourself," I said into the phone.
"I didn't hide anything," he insisted. "I was in the hospital. I didn't want to worry you."
"You didn't tell me," I said. "You let me suffer without telling me."
He talked and paused. "I was trying to protect you," he said finally. "I see now that I made you doubt me."
"I loved you," I said suddenly. "I still do."
He sent me a recording—him playing the song I loved. His voice trembled as he sang. "Leslie, I like you. I like you from the first day I saw you."
I cried then, and we chose the messy, brave thing. We didn't let fear win. We decided—hesitantly, foolishly, perfectly—to try.
But then his hometown pressures came. His parents worried. "You should go," they said. "We'll watch things here."
He caved to force and promises and rules, and he left.
When I thought it would be over, he returned at Sawyer's birthday in the park.
"Leslie," he said, drawing me into a hug at the merry crowd. "I shouldn't have left like that."
"You left," I said.
"And I'm back," he said. "I'm staying. I promise."
He handed me a stack of pages—plans, a letter of intent, a list of things to prove: that he would apply to return, that he would take a serious path, that he would not hide. It was ridiculous, earnest, and true.
He had written, in his clumsy way, a "guarantee": "I will not lie to Leslie Conley." It was satirical and solemn.
I kissed him because this life, full of small gestures and huge flaws, deserved a chance.
We had bumpy days. I had my pride; he had his stubbornness. There were nights we argued across the table and mornings we laughed in bed. There were the sweet little touches that made me melt—his hand catching mine when it brushed for no reason, the way he smiled only at me during a crowded lecture, the time he wrapped his jacket around my shoulders when a wind kicked up near the river.
We promised nothing grand—only things we could keep: honesty, effort, being present for the small things.
On the day of the last chapter—when his guarantee sat in a drawer—we went to the river. The wind made my hair wild.
"Leslie," he said. "Do you remember when you almost kissed me the first time?"
"I remember slamming a door," I countered.
"And then you didn't," he said. "But you came back."
"I did." I laughed. "You sang for me on stage, you fought a gang of bullies, and you drove me to the sea."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny, worn paper with the first line he had written months ago. "I keep this," he said. "So you know I'm trying."
"I see it," I said.
He leaned in, and for a moment the whole river was only the space between our breaths. "I like you like the sea likes the shore," he whispered.
I smiled.
"Then don't leave me," he said, breath hot.
"I won't," I answered.
We stood there, the river moving like a low, steady pulse, and we let the evening close around us. The suit incident, the videos, the hospital nights, the promises written in a jittery hand—everything folded into a handful of moments that meant more than a thousand foolish vows.
He smiled, thinly, and said, "Next time we'll watch the sea when the tide is right."
"Next time," I agreed, and I meant it.
The End
— Thank you for reading —