Girl Out of Water(41)

We settle down onto the muddy riverbank. I flip over my skateboard to use as an unsanitary serving platter, then set out the sandwiches and water bottles. As I reach into my bag to dig out a final sandwich, I check my phone. There are messages from two people—Emery and Eric. Emery sent another picture of the boys. I hesitate before deciding not to open Eric’s message. I can read it later. It’s not like responding instantly will close the many miles between us.

“Ah, man. I wish these were bánh mì Spams,” Lincoln says as I unwrap one of the PBJs and bite into it.

“You wish they were what?”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Lincoln says, midbite, somehow talking while chewing without making it seem disgusting. “Peanut butter and jelly is great, but I’m just really craving some bánh mì Spam.” I give him another questioning look, so he sets down his sandwich and says, “Okay, I told you my dad is Vietnamese, right? So one of his favorite things to eat are bánh mì. Think of a baguette but better and filled with cilantro, cucumber, jalape?o, pickled carrots, and whatever kind of meat you want. And my mom is like deep Midwesterner American, and she loves Spam. Put the two together and you’ve got bánh mì Spam sandwiches. We used to eat them on road trips all the time because Spam doesn’t need refrigeration.”

“Sounds…interesting?” I say.

“Interesting? Try amazing. I’ll make you one someday. You’ll see.”

I chew over Lincoln’s words: I’ll make you one someday. Lincoln plans on hanging out with me again. My cheeks heat. Eric’s message is in my bag, but I’m in an entirely different reality. And for all I know, at this exact moment, Eric might be sharing fried cod sandwiches at the Shak with another girl, like our kiss never happened. And maybe it shouldn’t have happened because now a constant in my life has turned into a variable.

Life would be easier with less variables.

I look back at my sandwich, then to Lincoln. “Do you come here a lot?”

“I try to, but Austin prefers the skate park, and younger siblings have this habit of always getting their way.”

I think of dinner last night when Emery, despite her bad mood, relented and let the boys have the last two slices of pizza. I’m only here for the summer—Emery has been sacrificing pizza slices for nine years now. “I like it here.” I lean back, propping myself up with one hand, while keeping the other clean to eat my sandwich. “It’s nice, peaceful.”

“Yeah, I love the skate park, but nothing really beats pure Mother Nature.”

“Agreed—surfing is always better early morning or late at night. Empty beaches, empty breaks.” I take another bite of my sandwich. “Thanks for today,” I tell Lincoln. “It was…well, it was perfect. I really needed it.”

He glances at me, squinting in the sun. “I’m glad you had fun. You weren’t half-bad on that rope swing either.”

“Not half-bad? I was better than you.”

“You were so not better than me!”

“Oh, yes I was.”

“Anise, sweet Anise, I’m working with the one-armed handicap, and I was still leagues better than you. Just accept the facts.”

My gaze flickers to his missing arm, and this time ingrained manners can’t keep me from asking, “How did you… I mean, why do you only… Well…” I have a sneaking suspicion he always knows how I’m going to embarrass myself before I do it.

“Just ask, Anise. I don’t mind. I’d rather people ask than awkwardly avoid the topic. I was friends with this one guy for a solid two months—we hung out almost every day—and he never said a thing until one afternoon we were playing basketball outside his house and he just blurted out, Dude, did you know you only have one arm?”

I grin, but I’m still uncomfortable. I pick at the remains of my sandwich, flicking the crumbs to the ground, avoiding his gaze. “Okay, hopefully I’m not as bad as that.” I pause. “Lincoln, why do you only have one arm?”

“Zombie attack.”

“Come on, really.”

“Secret Service op.”

“Lincoln.”

He repositions himself, pulling one leg to his body and tucking his head on top of his knee. “Ever heard of ABS?” he asks. I shake my head. “Amniotic Band Syndrome. When I was a fetus, amniotic bands wrapped around my upper arm and cut off the blood supply. Most of the arm was necrotic, you know, dead, at birth, so they amputated it.” He takes a swig of water and looks out toward the river. “Sometimes doctors can fix ABS in utero, but that would require the mother see a doctor during the pregnancy.”

The way he says the mother makes my skin feel tight. He plays with the leftover plastic wrap from his sandwich, his ever-present grin disappearing. I have so many questions for him, but I’m scared if I ask him, he’ll have questions for me too. And if he shares the story of his mother, I’ll have to share the story of mine.

So instead I simply say, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

We pick at the pebbles around us, haphazardly skipping them into the river. The gentle water sounds remind me of calm ocean days, lounging in the shallows of the water, soaking my feet with my friends by my side. It’s the longest period of silence I’ve ever spent with Lincoln, yet it’s as comfortable as the constant chatter.