When Everything Is Blue(8)

“Yeah, caught me by surprise is all.”

We swim back toward the shore—Chris keeps me at his bow—and catch up with Ryanne and my board. I thank her for retrieving it.

“That board’s a crazy bitch,” Chris says, spitting into the shallows as we wade out. “You need to give her a rest.”

“Can’t. She’s mine now. Got to tame her.”

“Well, take five for my sake. I almost shit my pants.”

I laugh, which is more like a gurgle, then have a little coughing spell. I must have taken on some water while I was under. Chris thumps my back, and I’m not sure it helps, but it does improve my spirits. Once on the beach, I wrap myself in a towel and lie down in the warm sand. Between waking up at 5:00 a.m. and the near-drowning, I’m pretty pooped. I pass out there on the beach and wake up hours later to find our spot mostly deserted and the sun starting to set.

“Morning, sunshine,” Chris says. He’s sitting next to me, cheeks ruddy from the sun, hair stiff from the salt water but still with that cherubic curl at the ends. The freckles on his shoulders stand out more, like connect-the-dots. Is it strange that I want to lick the salt crust from his skin? Yeah, a little bit.

“Where’s the party at?” I ask, sitting up and rubbing my eyes. That’s the routine. Surf till dark, then link up at wherever the beach rats are holed up for the weekend and drink. Or in my case, watch other people drink. My dad’s a high-functioning alcoholic, so I’m not too keen to go there, even recreationally.

“I was thinking we could grab dinner and turn in early.” He stretches his arms and yawns. I resist the temptation to check him out. I also feel a little bad since I slept the afternoon away. He could have drowned on my watch. “That okay with you?” he asks when I don’t respond.

“Yeah, it’s fine.”

“Unless you and Ryanne had plans….”

“We don’t.”

“All right, then. I picked lunch. You pick dinner.”

We grab a pizza and bring it back with us to where we’re camping. I set up the tent and Chris makes the fire. It’s kind of our routine. We go in for another round of pizza, then sit around and poke at the fire for a while. Chris is quiet, on the verge of moody, which is rare for him. He’s usually the conversationalist. I ask him what’s up.

“Nothing.” He rubs his bloodshot eyes. “Just tired, I guess.”

“I’m ready when you are.” I’m not tired, but Chris won’t turn in until I do. He always has something to prove.

“Yeah, okay.”

We each piss in the bushes and brush our teeth, dump some sand into the fire to put it out. I change out of my board shorts into some dry athletic shorts and a clean T-shirt. I don’t smell too bad, thanks to the salt water, so I skip the shower.

Inside the tent I expect Chris to pass out right away, but he doesn’t. I can tell by his breathing and the way he keeps glancing over at me to see if I’m asleep. It used to be a thing between us, whoever fell asleep first got punked in increasingly bizarre ways—toothpaste mustache, words written on your forehead, Vagisil in your hand. We haven’t done that in a while, so I don’t think that’s what’s keeping him up. But honestly, a part of me still worries I’ll wake up tomorrow morning missing an eyebrow.

“Can’t sleep?” I ask.

“No.”

“Thinking about ways to punk me?”

He chuckles. “Now I am.”

We’re each sprawled out on top of our sleeping bags because it’s hot as hell in here, even with the fly off. I can smell him inside the tent, rising up like heat from the pavement. Salt spray and sunscreen and something sharp and manly. So tangy I can almost taste it. The scent of him is so familiar, even while the desires it triggers are not.

“That girl I was telling you about earlier,” he says, picking up the conversation right where we left it. It’s something he does; he’ll start a conversation, then drop it for hours or sometimes days, until he’s ready to share more.

“Yeah, what about her?” I’d rather not know about Chris’s exploits, but this must be something he needs to get off his chest, and what kind of best friend am I if I don’t let him?

“We were at this party, in some back room. It was dark and we were on the couch. There were other people around, but it wasn’t like they were paying attention. We were making out and she, like, wanted me to finger her. Right there.”

I suck in a deep breath and let it out slowly. When Chris left for summer, he was a virgin, as far as I knew. Maybe not anymore. How do I feel about it? Doesn’t matter. He needs his best friend right now.

“So did you?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“How was it?” I’m mildly curious myself.

“Mmmm….” Chris has a habit of humming while he gathers his thoughts, also while he’s eating. I don’t think he even knows he’s doing it. “It was… squishy.”

I laugh out loud. I can’t help it. “Squishy?”

“Yeah, like a jellyfish.”

“Did it sting you?” I chuckle again.

“No,” he practically shouts. “It just had that… consistency, you know?”

“I don’t know, but that’s a pretty good description.”