Girl Out of Water(78)

Only Dad’s truck sits in the driveway.

“Should I park in the driveway, or is there room in the garage?” Lincoln asks.

“Driveway,” I say. “No room in the garage. It’s all filled with gear.”

My gear.

My surfboard.

And then it hits me. I crack the window and inhale that sharp salt scent. I’m home.

I yank the car handle and push open the door. “Come on!” I press in the code for the garage, and it opens, revealing a mess of gear. My surfboard is at the front. I grab it and head back to the driveway where Lincoln is just getting out of the car.

He’s yawning, which makes sense since we drove twelve hours after only sleeping three, but I still yell, “Hurry, follow me!”

Before waiting to see if he does, in fact, follow, I race around to the old wooden boardwalk connecting our house to the beach. The familiar planks feel odd against my sneakered feet, so I hastily kick off my shoes and socks and leave them behind. My body relaxes at the feel of the dusted sand and worn wood.

I hear Lincoln behind me, mumbling something about, “Twelve hours of driving, Jesus Christ.” But his mumbling stops as soon as we climb past the sandy dunes and approach the ocean, glowing in the light of the moon. “Whoa,” he says.

I turn and grin at him. “Welcome to my backyard.”

And then I run, surfboard tucked under my arm, right into the tide. The salty water drenches my shorts and tank top, but I don’t care—wet fabric can’t weigh me down. Nothing can. I climb onto my board and paddle out to meet the tide. The strain pulls on my arms.

But I push through, because I know I can. A wave pulses forward—a huge one. I know I should probably wait for a milder one since it’s been so long, but I can’t reject the ocean’s first offer, so I paddle around on my board and press to my feet as the water comes hurtling toward me. I falter for a second, but then a lifetime of experience takes over, and I balance perfectly on my board as the wave seamlessly carries me along with it.

Despite the exhaustion, the stress, the worry, exhilaration courses through me. My lungs fill with air. My heart fills with relief. I’m home.





Seventeen


I stay out in the surf for half an hour, then pry myself from the water, only because I know it’ll be here when I wake up tomorrow. As I head back to shore, I notice all the signs of Surf Break in the distance, the temporary stages, the food trucks, the line of portable toilets. Tomorrow thousands of people will flood the beach, but for tonight it’s still just my backyard.

I find Lincoln on the shore, lying on his back, arm tucked up under his head. My board falls to the ground and I collapse next to him. I rest my head on his chest so that we’re crossed perpendicularly. My heartbeat calms as I stare at the expanse of stars above me, the same ones that blinked above me nights ago in Nebraska.

Then Lincoln shifts beneath me, and his hand reaches out to take mine.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “You know, for earlier. You were only trying to help.”

“I forgive you.” His chest hums when he speaks. “Feel better now?”

“I think so. Maybe. I—” I continue to stare at the stars and wonder if they can feel my gaze, wonder if they ever watch back. “I mean, I hate that she’s not here, but I think what I hate more…what sometimes scares me more…is that no one really remembers her, like she’s not even real…and maybe that’s why…” I trail off.

“Why what?” Lincoln asks, his thumb idly rubbing my palm.

“Maybe that’s why I was so scared to leave home, why I’m so scared to be back. What if my friends don’t remember me either? What if I’m just like her, and I disappear into nothing?”

Even now I feel like I’m floating in this half existence. I was too scared to tell my friends exactly when I’d be back. I couldn’t handle the pressure of them being on my doorstep the second I arrived. So I’m home, but Dad isn’t here, or Tess, or any of my friends. Home isn’t really home without your people.

“You know that’s not true,” Lincoln says.

I roll over so my cheek presses against his chest and I can peer up at him. “How?” I ask. “How do I know that? People move away all the time, and people forget about them all the time. I lost touch with almost everyone this summer. I’m exactly like her.” The knot of dread constricts again.

“No,” Lincoln corrects. “People move away all the time, and people remember them all the time. Where do you think we just were?”

“Umm…” I tick off the states, “Wyoming, Utah, Nevada.”

“No, we were at Wendy’s house. My friend who I haven’t seen for what, five years? And we remembered each other perfectly fine.” He pauses. “I think some people choose to be forgotten…or maybe don’t care whether or not they’re remembered.” He meets my gaze. “No one is going to forget you, Anise Sawyer. Not if you don’t want them to.”

He leans forward and our lips meet.

The kiss is slow and soothing, like the lapping of the waves before us.

? ? ?

My mom isn’t here. The house is pitch-black when we enter, and she always leaves most of the lights on, dirty dishes in the sink, hemp clothing on the floor.