Girl Out of Water(60)

? ? ?

I can’t sleep that night. All these weeks and I still haven’t adjusted to the stillness of Nebraska—no hum of the ocean to smooth out the world’s creases. Emery’s light snores help cut the quiet, but then they remind me she’s getting rest while I’m wide awake. Sighing, I push off my covers and climb out of bed, being careful not to wake Emery.

I make my way downstairs. The kitchen light is on, and there’s a faint chopping sound. I find Dad slicing thin strips of peppers and onions. “Umm, Dad?” I ask. “You know it’s like three in the morning, right?”

He turns to me and shrugs. “I have trouble sleeping some nights. Too silent.” Oh, of course. If it’s hard for me, it must be even worse for him. The ocean has lulled him asleep for forty years now. “Making some veggie fajitas. Want some?”

“At three in the morning?”

He grins at me. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

As Dad prepares the food with calm and measured hands, I drift back to my earlier conversation with Lincoln—Surf Break.

My nerves tighten despite all logic. This is Dad, the person I’m most comfortable with on the planet. The person who made me chocolate chip pancakes when I lost my first surfing competition. The person who slathered me with oatmeal and calamine lotion when I had the chicken pox. The person who let me skip school that one time because the surf forecast looked that good.

“Anise?” he prompts. “You okay?”

“Umm, yeah.” I scratch behind my ear. And then I scratch my forehead. And then I scratch my arm. “I have a question. I know the answer is probably no, or definitely no, but canLincolnandIdrivetoSurfBreaktogether?”

Dad picks up the knife and continues to slice vegetables, the sharp chop against the wooden cutting board synching with the thumps in my rib cage. I expected him to say no. I was okay with no. Of course it’s a no. I’m asking to abandon my responsibilities and to go off, chaperone-free, with a guy for days. But I wasn’t expecting silence.

I disappointed him. It was selfish of me to even ask.

I’m about to apologize when the chopping stops and Dad says, “Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“Okay you can drive to Surf Break with Lincoln.”

“Oh,” I say. And then it sinks in. “Oh.” A week from now I’ll be back in Santa Cruz, back to the waves, back to my friends, back home. And then it sinks in further. “Wait, why?”

Dad wipes his hands on a dishcloth. “I was thinking about letting you go back early anyway. Jacks is healing faster than expected. We’ll be able to manage fine without you, and you deserve it. You sacrificed a lot this summer.”

I know I should feel happy. And I do. But I also feel guilty, like I’m getting a reward for helping my family.

“Not to mention,” Dad continues. “I’m happy you’re doing something out of your comfort zone, going on a road trip, seeing some new places. You’re such a thrill seeker—you always have been, ever since you were a little kid, going for the biggest wave, always ready to challenge anyone. But, I was getting worried you’d be too scared to leave home.”

I twist the bottom of my shirt. “I’m not home now.”

Dad sighs. “You know what I mean. I’m happy you’re opening yourself to new things.”

I don’t tell Dad that the main reason I want to go on this trip is to get back to the familiar, to get back home. I want ocean sunrises. I want Tess’s quilt. I want my surfboard.

I’m thinking that’s the end of the conversation, but then Dad continues, “Now, I’m trusting you and Lincoln to make responsible sexual decisions and be safe, okay?”

My cheeks flame. Sometimes I really hate how comfortable Dad is with communication. Any other father would get fidgety and horrified at discussing sex with his teenage daughter, but not Dad. He gave me the condom and birth control talk in excruciating detail when I was fourteen. Thankfully we’ve avoided the topic since then, but I guess going on a road trip with a guy you’ve been sucking face with all summer justifies a second round of the talk.

I clear my throat and focus on breathing. “Yep, sure. Absolutely.” I want to escape the kitchen and this conversation, but damn Dad’s cooking smells good.

“Not so fast,” Dad says. He points to one of the kitchen chairs. “Sit.”

“Dad, look I’m not planning to…you know.” My cheeks burn even more. Thank God no one else is around to hear this conversation. “Look, I can’t even say the word, so if that’s not a clear enough indication that I’m not planning on, well, doing it, then I don’t know what is.”

“That’s fine,” Dad says. “And I believe you. But teenagers change their minds very quickly. So we’re going to go over safe sex practices one more time, just in case.”

I groan. “That’s really not necessary.”

“Neither is letting you go to Surf Break.”

We stare at each other, but we both know he’s won and I’m just postponing the inevitable. I place my head on the table. “All right then,” I say. “Get on with it. But I deserve an extra large serving of those veggie fajitas.”

“Yes, you do.” He turns back to the stove. “Now when you’re picking out condoms, it’s important to remember…”