How It Feels to Fly(56)

Andrew sits next to me. Bare arm to bare arm. “Sam, talk to me.”

“I can’t do it,” I say softly. “I have to go back. You can say I forgot something.”

“Because you don’t want to wear your swimsuit in front of us?”

I don’t respond, but he takes it as the yes it is.

He exhales in frustration. “Sam, you can’t let how you feel about your body ruin your life. You can’t let it keep you from doing things. Do you want to go swimming?”

I nod.

“Then swim.”

“I can’t.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “When I was thinking about quitting football, I almost took the chicken way out.”

“You almost didn’t quit?”

“No, I almost—I thought about—” A pause. “If I got injured, I could stop playing without having to tell my dad and my coach I was done with football. It would have been so easy: get in the way of the wrong linebacker, not catch myself when I fell, whatever. I could’ve had an out, and never had to say anything. Never had to let anyone down. But that wouldn’t have been honest. I needed to be honest. Dr. Lancaster taught me that, even if when I was here, I didn’t know I’d eventually want to quit.”

I’m not sure where he’s going with this, but I’m willing to let him make his way there. Besides, it feels like it’s just the two of us. With Andrew’s voice in my ear, his arm touching mine, I feel like we couldn’t be more alone.

“I know it’s not the same thing at all,” Andrew says, “and I absolutely don’t want you to take this as a suggestion. But why haven’t you tried to starve yourself until you’re as thin as you want to be?”

There it is. The question I hoped he’d never ask.

I stare at the ground. “I’ve thought about it. A lot.” I don’t tell him about the things I did try. I can’t. “I’m not that brave.”

“But that’s my point. I don’t think hurting yourself to get what you want is brave. I think it’s braver not to take that route.”

I sigh. “I guess you’re right. Anyway, what if starving myself didn’t help? What if I kept wanting to be skinnier and skinnier? What if I’m destined to always feel . . . wrong?”

He cringes. “I wish you could stop thinking of yourself as being ‘wrong.’”

“You and me both.”

“So . . . take the first step. Walk to the end of the dock, in your swimsuit—that I bet you look great in, by the way—and jump in. In front of everyone. Act confident, and maybe you’ll see that there’s nothing to be afraid of after all.”

I look at him. “Fake it till you make it?”

“One way to put it.”

There are only a few inches separating our faces. We’re close enough to kiss. Such a small movement would bring us together. And he’s looking at me with his eyes wide and his lips barely parted. . . .

“Are you two coming in or not?” Zoe calls from the water.

Andrew pulls away. He stands and tugs his T-shirt over his head, and I lose my breath. He looks down at me. “Come in. Please.”

“I—” I inhale. It’s shaky. And not just from the anxiety butterflies. I feel his nearness, our almost-kiss—if that’s truly what it was—all over my body. “Okay.”

He holds out his hand and pulls me to my feet.

“Can you turn around?” As much as I want him to like what he sees—to like me—I’m not ready to get undressed in front of him. Or anyone.

“Of course.” He turns his back.

I slide my pj pants down and pull my tank top over my head. And then I’m standing there in my black one-piece, and the roar in my ears drowns out the water lapping and the June bugs humming. I take another deep breath.

And I run. Past Andrew. Along the length of the dock. I’m in the air, floating for a fraction of a second, and then I hit the water with a loud splash.

Andrew splashes next to me a moment later. He comes up out of the water smiling at me. I smile back. The water is cold and dark, but the moon and the stars are reflected on the surface and only my head and shoulders are visible, so I feel safe.

“What took you so long?” Zoe is swimming a backstroke circle around the others.

“I just—I had to—”

“We just had to talk about something,” Andrew cuts in. “My fault.” He swims closer to me. “Do you want to tell them about it?”

“I want to not talk about it. I want to enjoy this, now.” Still feeling the rush I got from jumping in, I add, “With you.” Then, because I can’t believe I just said that, I quickly add, “With all of you.” And then I feel stupid, so I shut up and paddle toward the rest of the group.

The water slips over my skin. I’m here. I’m swimming. It’s scary, and not actually that scary at all. I flip onto my back, looking up at the dark sky and the bright moon. I let the water cradle me. I feel weightless.





twenty


WE SNEAK BACK INTO THE HOUSE AROUND TWO a.m. It’s dark and silent and still. I’m afraid to make a single creak, for fear of waking Dr. Lancaster, and I don’t take a full breath until Zoe and I are back in our bedroom. But no sooner do I change out of my wet swimsuit and climb into bed than she’s standing by the door.