Left Drowning(9)

“Chris?”

“ … one time I tried to show someone else how to skip, and he completely sucked. You’re so much better—”

“Chris.” Without thinking, I lean my head back, resting it just below his shoulder. He is so tall and … somehow familiar. I roll my head to the side and take in the sunlight, stronger now, which hits the small ripples in the water and turns them bright white. My vision seems sharper, my thoughts less muted, than just an hour ago. This near stranger is inexplicably giving me more safety and security than anyone else ever has.

“Yeah?”

For no discernible reason, it feels unfathomable not to tell him. “My parents are dead.”

He doesn’t move away. He doesn’t even tense up at my words.

It is the first time I have said this out loud in … well, ever. Could it be possible that I have somehow managed never to say this? Yes, I accept, it’s true. People from home didn’t need to hear it directly from me. They all knew. News like that spreads quickly. And no one at college has needed to know. I say it again. “My parents are dead. They died four years ago in a fire.” I step forward, suddenly shocked at how blunt I am being. “Oh God. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I just told you that. I’m so sorry. It’s not your … I shouldn’t have…”

I wait for him to do what everyone else did after my parents died. Spout off some conventional words of sympathy like, I’m so sorry. How awful. You poor thing. Terribly sad… and then run. People always do. Nobody knows what to say after the initial words of supposed comfort. Death and grief make everyone around you vanish because death and grief are intolerable.

But Chris does not run. Instead, he slides his arm around my waist and pulls me in close until my back is tight against his chest. “It’s okay. Breathe into it.”

“I have a brother. James. He hates me because of it. I hate me because of it. I am so tired.” I close my eyes and press my cheek into Chris’s shirt. His arms cross in front of me and hold me gently while flashes of that night roll over me. Flashes are all that I have. I remember sections of that night, but I haven’t pieced it all together. Maybe because I can’t or maybe because I don’t want the full memory. I can barely stand the pieces. The days immediately before and immediately after don’t exist for me either. They are entirely empty, and I prefer to keep it that way. I shudder in Chris’s arms. Right now I cannot control what is showing in my head, although I wish I could. The flashes of memory I’m getting now are more vivid and intense than I have ever experienced. I am remembering in a way that I have not before.

Heat. Water. Glass. Dirt. The dock. The swim to the dock. The colors on the patchwork quilt.

I am starting to choke. Why is this happening to me now? Why, when I start to have one vaguely tolerable morning, am I plagued by the past?

His fingers tighten on my arms. “Breathe into it,” he says again. His voice helps; his touch helps. “Let it happen. I’m here.”

The smell. The pictures on the quilt. Red. Red. Red. Trees. The ladder, the sound, the hero. The hero. My hero.

It is enough. I can’t take anymore.

Think about the dock, I tell myself, my eyes still closed. Think about the dock. This always calms me. I don’t know why, but when I picture the dock, it always helps me to stop spiraling. I imagine rowing to it, over and over. I am safe on the dock, and I feel stability and safety there, although I have no idea why.

My eyes open and I feel my breathing slow.

“I think,” I say slowly, “that we’re out of stones.”

“There are always more. You want to keep skipping?”

“Yes.”

“Then we will.”





CHAPTER FOUR


Breaking the Rules


My sunglasses do little to block out the sun’s strength, so I shut my eyes. Part of me is scared to do this because I’m totally convinced that he’ll be gone when I open them. I test my theory and roll my head to the side for a quick peek. Chris is still there, lying next to me on the sand, both of us on our backs while we talk—or rather, while he talks. I make him do most of the talking since I’m so out of practice. Good thing that Sabin gave me a warm-up this morning.

It takes everything I have to look away from him again, but I don’t want to be caught staring. I love his imperfect nose, his full lips, and the way he runs his hands through his black hair every so often, tousling the soft waves. Every time he does this, the muscles in his arm flex slightly, and I am disarmed.

More than my undeniable physical attraction to Chris is the fact that I feel something else for him that I can’t explain. It’s more than a little confusing. I’ve read countless literary works that detail the longing and ache that characters have for someone they love, and over time, I have developed a strong belief that it’s just dramatic bullshit meant to entice readers. Today, however, I understand that it’s not bullshit. It’s very strange the way my stomach and chest are tight and fluttery and how his presence is so entirely magnetic. While it’s a decidedly wonderful feeling, it’s also terrible because I know that I am alone in this; there is no way that Chris can possibly feel what I am feeling. I push aside that thought because I’m not exactly in a position to barrel into any serious romantic entanglement anyway, even if he were interested. Which he’s not. I can tell by the way he’s just lying next to me on the beach chattering. So I will just enjoy this time with him.