Girl Out of Water(85)

Does that mean she—

Or Dad could have—

But as the questions rush through my mind, I realize I don’t need to know. I don’t want to know. Basing my decisions off of her choices, living my life off of hers, has only led me down troubled paths. If I’d been thoroughly determined to not be her, just like she tried to not be her mom, I would’ve never left Santa Cruz, would’ve never experienced the world outside of my home, would’ve never met Lincoln.

I won’t spend the rest of my life as a reaction to hers.

I won’t spend the rest of my life wondering, will she, what if—

I won’t spend the rest of my life trying to fill in the blanks she leaves behind.

? ? ?

Ten minutes later, I’m out on the deck with a clean face, empty bladder, and a steaming mug of green tea. The mellow taste makes me think of Dad. The sliding glass door opens. Tess pads outside. Her hair is pulled into a messy bun, and she’s wearing one of my sweatshirts over her outfit from last night. “You look like shit,” she says.

I nod. “You too.”

She comes and sits down on the chair next to me. “Give me a sip of that.”

I hand her my tea and then lean back, trying to get my eyes and mind to focus on the crashing of the waves. But they won’t focus.

“Want to talk about it?” Tess asks as she hands my mug back to me.

“Not really.” I take a sip. “Maybe.” Another sip. “Yes.” I look Tess in the eye. “You really don’t think I’m like her?”

“You are absolutely not like her,” Tess says, then covers my hand with hers and continues, “That said, you are a bit of an asshole.”

“I am?”

“You are.”

“I am.”

Silence passes as we hand the tea back and forth.

“Look,” Tess says. “It wasn’t your fault you had to go to Nebraska. Everyone knows that, but we also know you have this thing called a phone, and a computer, and you used them maybe twice in the past month. I mean, you can’t treat your friends like that and expect to find them in the same spot you dropped them, you know?”

I do know. And suddenly I feel sick. Really sick. Stomach gurgling, throat constricting sick. I jump up from the chair and without time to do anything else, run over to the balcony and vomit off the side into the sand. “Fuck,” I say, spitting out the sour taste in my mouth. There’s a hint of Dragon Berry. That makes me vomit again.

“You okay?” Tess asks. “I’ll get you water.”

A minute later she’s handing me a glass. I take a few sips. “I’m fine,” I say and collapse into my chair. “Sorry. Fine. It’s—”

“Rum?”

“Yeah…”

But it’s not just the rum. It’s this fear that even if I’m not my mom now, I will be someday. Like I’m predestined to be a terrible person or something.

But I won’t accept that. I can’t accept that. Because like Tess said last night, where my mom doesn’t give a shit, I do. I give a shit about my friends and their lives and how I treat them. My stomach churns with how much I give a shit. And alcohol—it’s also churns with alcohol.

“You’re right,” I say. “I kept seeing pictures of everyone having a great summer without me, and it was hard to keep hearing about all I was missing out on.”

“Which makes sense. But if you’d called us, you would have known we were hardcore missing you.”

“I should probably apologize,” I say.

“You probably should,” Tess agrees.

“Want to come with me? Moral support and all that?”

“Hmm, how about I entertain your very attractive boyfriend instead?”

Boyfriend. Another thought I keep avoiding. Lincoln will leave soon, and “boyfriend” has a certain permanence attached to it we can never really have. For now, I’ll avoid it a bit longer. One breakthrough a day seems reasonable enough.

? ? ?

I hesitate when I get to Eric’s house. The one-story clapboard home with dozens of wind chimes dangling off the back porch is almost as familiar as my own house, yet I feel like an intruder. Normally I’d let myself in through the unlocked backdoor, but I pause. I’m not sure if I’m welcome.

I knew I had to visit Eric first. Eric who wasn’t even at Marie’s party last night, Eric who I kissed and then barely talked to all summer, Eric who I’ve been friends with since before I could spell the word friend. I pull out my phone and start to message him. Then I erase what I have and put my phone back in my pocket.

Taking a short breath, I climb the stairs to the porch and walk barefoot on the worn wood slats. The wind blows up behind me, and with the sun perching behind its nest of clouds, my skin prickles. I knock twice before letting myself in.

The house is set up much like mine, so the back porch takes me directly into the kitchen. The room is empty and cool. “Hello?” I call out tentatively.

No response.

“Hello?” I call again.

This time I hear some shuffling. A door opens and closes. Feet pad down the hallway. And then, there he is, wearing no shirt, gray drawstring sweatpants, and a band pushing back his thick blond hair. My mouth grows dry for a moment at how attractive he really is.