Left Drowning(14)

I’m smiling, and I turn onto my side and swallow hard as I catch my breath. Holy shit, I needed that. I so, so needed that. It occurs to me that what I felt just now was so crazily awesome that I may never leave this bed again. I might just stay here and masturbate all the time, classes be damned. Then I am laughing, almost giddy, because I am persuaded that, to at least some degree, my body is my own again. Perhaps my mind will follow?

What’s certain is that I feel better than I have in months. Years, really. I think of Sabin, with his exuberance and charm; and of Estelle, with her enviable physical beauty and her self-assurance. And Chris. Chris with his … magnetism. His stability.

I try to coax myself into thinking about something besides Chris. Sure, he stayed with me at the lake, took me to lunch, and walked me back to my dorm—our dorm, as it turns out—before heading to his basement single. So what? I laugh out loud as I confront the truth: There’s no way he’s lying in bed right now, obsessing over his day with me. Well, or masturbating himself into a frenzy. Today was probably a completely ordinary day in his life. Even if I never speak to him again, I am grateful for this day, this one day when my misery lifted, even if just for a little while.

Later, in the depths of my sleep, I dream. A new, unfamiliar dream this time.

I’m on the shore somewhere. It’s a long stretch of pebbly sand, and I curl my toes into the little rocks until it hurts. Until I start to bleed. I look down and wonder why I’m doing this. It occurs to me to look around to see if someone will help me, but the rest of the beach is empty. Miles to the left and right are silent. Still.

Then I look in front of me. There is a boy standing on a sun-bleached dock. I guess that he’s about … I don’t know. Twelve? I can’t quite tell. He is wearing swim trunks and a sleeveless shirt. Deeply tanned, the wind in his hair. A beautiful child. Then I see that he is skipping stones. The water is rough, so I can’t see if his stones end up skipping. When I try to call to him to ask if he will help me stop digging my feet farther into what are now shards of rock, I can’t make a sound. Nonetheless, he turns to me. As if he hears me despite the silence. The peaceful, content look on his face calms me, and I’m able to take a few steps forward and my pain eases.

Without warning, fire erupts around him, and the boy is engulfed in leaping flames. I start to choke. I can’t move now; I can only watch and scream. I’m confused because he doesn’t struggle, he doesn’t jump into the water, he doesn’t do anything. I watch as his figure fades and then the fire subsides. The dock is now empty, as though he was never there. As though it never happened.

But soon I’m smiling, and I throw my head back, laughing. The boy emerges from the water, unscathed by the fire, and climbs back onto the dock. He puts his hands on hips and looks at me, an unmistakably determined expression on his face.

The boy is a fighter.

He nods once at me, and I nod back with some sort of understanding that I can’t identify. I have no explanation for the clear connection between us because we are nothing alike.

He is a fighter. I am not.

And yet, we are unquestionably linked.





CHAPTER SIX


A Long Way to Run


The workout playlists that other people listen to do not hold a whole lot of appeal, but I continue scrolling through the music app. It seems that the 80s are a great source of adrenaline for many people—alas, the era of neon leg warmers and stretchy terry headbands doesn’t seem to rock my shit.

After settling on a song collection of remixed Top 40 hits that seems slightly less offensive, I start warming up. My neck cracks as I lean over my outstretched leg. Given that I haven’t done anything yet and my body is already producing audible noises, this is in all likelihood a very stupid idea. I am probably going to pass out about twenty feet from here. But I continue trying to coax my body into awareness by going through the handful of stretches that I can think to do. Because my calves already hurt after a handful of toe lifts, I do not feel confident.

My goal today is to exercise for forty-five minutes. It just can’t be that hard. People do it all the time. The sun is out, the air is cool and sharp, and it is perfect weather for running. When my earbuds are firmly in, I look at the time. It is 8:17 a.m. At two minutes after nine, this will be over, and I will have accomplished something.

After only six minutes, I am miserable. Trying to match my pace to the rhythm of the songs has only resulted in a fierce burn ripping through my lungs. Everything about my existence feels uncomfortable. My baggy sweatpants are chafing my thighs and my breasts are jostling uncomfortably since I didn’t think to change out of my regular underwire. Clearly, a good sports bra is going to be in order if I plan on doing this again.

I slow down to a stride that feels more natural, even though it’s against the beat. The commitment to forty-five minutes has been made, and I am going to honor it, damn it. Even if my outfit sucks and the songs I chose aren’t right.

Minute eighteen is not good. I am breathing too hard.

Minute nineteen makes me near suicidal. A sharp cramp stabs continuously on the right side of my waist.

Minute twenty. I stop and drop my head down while I rest my hands on my legs. My breathing evens out quickly enough, and the cramp dissolves. I stand up and put my hands on my waist, assessing the route in front of me. The grass-lined path ahead will take me to the lake. A good destination? Maybe. But I’m feeling too indecisive to move. It’s then that I realize what’s stopping me in my tracks is not indecision. It’s heartache. It is f*cking heartache. Nonsensical, yet distinct. Today, without Chris, it would just feel lonely to see that rocky shore.