Girl Out of Water(38)

After I make her promise to send pictures of the boys every hour on the hour or text if she wants me to come back and then also get approval from Dad that it’s fine to leave them at the park for a bit, I feel slightly more comfortable about the whole “abandoning my cousins to hang out with a hot guy” thing. I leave them the majority of the food stash, keeping a few sandwiches and water bottles in my backpack for Lincoln and myself. I have no idea if this adventure will include food, and I want to be on the safe side.

“Ready to go?” Lincoln asks after we go over the stay-safe instructions one more time.

“I guess so…” I feel anxious about leaving my cousins. I mean, they’re nine and twelve. Nine-and twelve-year-olds stay by themselves all the time. But these aren’t any nine-and twelve-year-olds—these are my nine-and twelve-year-olds.

I turn toward Emery. I must have the most expressive face on the planet because she says, “Anise. Seriously. We’re fine. Go.”

And she looks fine, content with her phone. And the boys look fine too, already ignoring me and trailing Austin around the park like he’s a world famous skater.

“Are you fine?” Lincoln asks, his hand brushing against my shoulder again. It feels natural, and I wish it lasted more than a half second.

“Yeah. I’m good. Okay, let’s adventure. Where are we adventuring to?”

“That’s a surprise of course.” Lincoln shoots me a scheming grin. “Part of the adventure.”

? ? ?

“Downhill coming up!” Lincoln shouts.

I brace down, knees locked, blood pulsing, eyes fastened on the giant decline in front of me. Lincoln took me through some practice runs on a smaller hill before we started our journey, but it didn’t fully prepare me for these steep gradients. On the first hill, I backed out halfway through, grinding my board to a clumsy halt. On the second hill, I made it to the bottom, but my stomach wouldn’t stop churning at the thought of my imminent death. This time, I’m going to treat it like any towering wave and conquer it with confidence instead of submitting with fear. This time I’m going to enjoy it.

Lincoln flies down the road, body angled, board swerving back and forth in calculated cuts, as if looping around invisible traffic cones. The hill is monstrous, the grade as deep, if not deeper, than the hundreds of overhead waves I’ve ridden over the years. The wind rushes past me as my board picks up speed, gaining enough momentum that the wheels shake beneath me, rattling over every pebble and crack in the road.

And yet—despite the rattling, despite the knowledge that one wrong move and I could crash, a thousand tiny lacerations shredding my skin—I feel no fear. Because this unfiltered adrenaline, this surrender to the wind and the ride, this is my comfort, and this is my love.

As the hill tapers off into flat ground, the tension eases from my shoulders and knees, leaving me a bit disappointed. I’d rather feel scared than bored. Lincoln breaks in front of me, almost coming to a full stop before hopping onto the sidewalk in one fluid motion. I follow his move, managing to do so without falling or even stumbling.

“How was that?” Lincoln asks.

We’re both breathing heavily. My body already aches, and we’re not even to our destination yet, which according to Lincoln is six miles from the skate park. But I’m grinning. “Not bad.” I pause. “Okay, kind of awesome.”

“Thought you’d like it—a little more exciting than flat turf.”

I bend down to relace my sneakers, and as I do, the hot sun bites at my neck. “Crap,” I mutter, rubbing the exposed skin, already feeling the telltale signs of sunburn. “I really should’ve brought some sunscreen.”

“Here, use mine.” Lincoln digs through the pockets of his jean shorts and pulls out a tiny bottle. He tosses it to me, and I catch it—and then I stare at the bottle, and then at Lincoln, and then back at the bottle. He sighs and shakes his head. “Quick black people lesson: we get skin cancer too.”

“Oh,” I say. “Right. Of course. I knew that.” But actually I didn’t, probably because Cassie is my only black friend, and she spends her days slathering on tanning oil for optimum color.

Before I can embarrass myself further, I pop open the cap and coat my arms, legs, and face as quickly as possible.

“Hey, leave some for me,” Lincoln says.

I look up when he speaks, because that’s what normal people do, look up when someone is talking to them. But the thing is, at that exact moment, Lincoln is unbuttoning his sleeveless plaid shirt and stuffing it in his bag, his defined abs on display. I am doing very little to keep from staring at said abs; as in, I’m literally staring, and there might be the tiniest bit of drool dripping from the corner of my mouth.

Then my vision shifts, and I follow his chest up to his left shoulder. Even though Lincoln wears sleeveless shirts, I’ve never had a full view of his left arm. The sight unsettles me for a moment, kind of like taking a sip of water to find it’s ginger ale. It’s not bad, just different. I force my gaze away from his nub, which means back to his abs.

Lincoln smirks. “I’d think you’d be used to shirtless guys, living on the beach and all.”

I blush (blame it on the sunburn) and toss him the sunscreen. I’m tempted to ask about his arm—his lack of arm—but I struggle to form words in my mind that don’t sound rude, so instead I say, “Hurry up with that sunscreen. If I have to burn out here much longer, I’m going to give up on our adventure.”