by McKayla Box
“He pretty much broke up with me yesterday,” I tell him. “I'm not sure he's going to listen to me.”
“Shit,” he says. “I didn't realize that.”
That, somehow, makes it hurt even more that he didn't bother to tell Brett.
“I shouldn't have texted you,” he says. “You can go. I'll figure something out.”
“I'm here,” I says. “I might as well try.”
“You sure?”
I nod. “Yeah. What do we do?”
He looks at the pier again. “We need to get out to him.” He glances at me. “But I guess I didn't tell you to bring your suit, did I? Fuck.”
“Gimme ninety seconds,” I say.
I turn and sprint back up the sand to my car. I open my trunk and pull out the small duffel bag I keep in the trunk. I read somewhere that surfers are always supposed to be prepared to hit the water and that most always keep a bathing suit or wetsuit in their car. I'd packed a bag with a towel and an extra suit in it and left it in the trunk all summer. This is the first time I'm using it.
I hop into the back seat, wiggle out of my clothes, and pull on the blue bikini. I jog back down the sand to Brett.
“Like Superman,” he says. “In the phone booth.”
“Superwoman,” I say. “In the backseat of a Jetta.”
He tries to laugh, but can barely get it out.
I understand.
Nothing seems very funny anymore.
“Can I take his board?” I ask.
He picks it up and hands it to me. “He's not using it.”
We walk down to the water. The sun is right on the horizon, creating it's nightly kaleidoscope of colors. They are orange and yellow tonight. I drop his board into the water and lower myself onto it. I shiver when the water washes over me and start paddling. Brett points out past the break and I nod and follow him.
The waves are mostly small and it's not hard to get beyond them. The breeze is strong, though, and the water is choppy. The water is churning beneath the pier and I see what Brett means about how dangerous it would be to fall into it. Even for the strongest of swimmers.
I hear a hyena-like laugh and look toward the pier. A shadow swings from one piling to the next, hugging it like a tree.
“That's him,” Brett says. “He's been at it for almost an hour now. He has to be getting tired.”
“And he's drunk,” I say. “Great.”
“We can get up next to it, but you really don't want to get inside of the pilings,” he says. “There isn't enough room and you'll get tossed against them. Smack your head or an arm or a leg or something.”
“Okay,” I say.
I pivot so that I'm parallel to the shore and paddle toward the pier.
Trevor's hair is wild and I can see red welts on his arms, probably from banging them against the pilings. I sit up on the board and bob in the water.
“Trevor!” I yell.
He turns, surprised.
Then he grins. “Presley Baxter! The fuck are you doing out here?”
“Just checking up on you,” I say. “Can we talk?”
He laughs. “Yeah, we can. Come on over.”
“I mean out here,” I say. I knock on the fiberglass stick between my legs. “I'm on your board.”
“That's a nice ride, isn't it?” he says. “I love that fucking thing.”
He's maybe twenty feet above the surface of the water. The ocean crashes into the wooden stilts, splashing upward. The water beneath him is a bathtub full of foam.
“Can you just come down?” I ask. “Please?”
“I'm having fun, Presley Baxter!” he yells. “Watch!”
Before I can tell him not to do anything, he launches himself to the piling closest to the one he's hugging. He spreads his arms wide, then hugs the pole when he slams into it. He slides down just a fraction, but he manages to hold himself. He wedges his feet against the wood, then smiles at me. “See? It's fucking awesome!”
It's not fucking awesome, but he's drunk and he's messed up and he's flirting with danger.
“Trevor!” I yell. “Look at me!”
He wobbles a little on the piling and looks at me.
“I need you to come down,” I tell him. “Please. I need you to come talk to me. Right now.”
“Why?” he yells. “Just yell it to me.”
The words all run together.
“And don't listen to Brett!” he yells. “He doesn't want me to have any fun, either.”
Brett's watching the horizon. “Swells are picking up a little bit. It's gonna get nastier under there.”
I look back at Trevor. “You know I can't climb up there. I'm not strong enough. And I'm gonna get smashed under the pier. But if you're not coming down, I'm coming over there.”
He laughs and throws his head back. “Bullshit! You won't come over here! You hate this pier!” He stops and looks at me. “Except for that time we had sex under it. You didn't hate it then. I meant when we jumped.”
“Jesus christ,” Brett mumbles. “He's out of his fucking mind.”
I lay down on the board. “I'm serious, Trevor. I'm coming over there. If I get hurt, it's gonna be your fault.”
He frowns and then watches the horizon. “Presley Baxter. You are a badass. But you probably shouldn't do that.”
“Too late,” I say, paddling toward him. “I'm coming.”
“Be careful,” Brett says. “I'm right behind you. If it gets rough, just bail out and point the board to toward shore and angle hard left. Waves will push you in.”
The water rises and falls beneath me as I get closer to the pier. The water is darker, blacker beneath the long shadow of the wooden structure.
“Hey, Pres,” Trevor calls. “That's close enough.”
“I told you I was coming!” I yell back. “Get down or I'm coming all the way inside!”
I'm maybe twenty feet off the pier now and it feels gigantic when I get that close to it.
“Seriously, Pres!” he yells. “Don't!”
“Then get the fuck down!” I yell.
He doesn't move.
I keep paddling.
Fuck him.
He wants to act like a lunatic and like he doesn't give a shit about anything?
So can I.
I'm within ten feet now and I the spray from the water hitting the wood covers my face. The water is rougher and I'm bobbing up and down in the water like a toy boat.
“You're fucking crazy!” Trevor yells.
“So are you!” I say, still paddling.
A swell rises up on my right and rolls me hard toward the shore. I try to balance myself out, but it flips me and I'm off the board, treading water. I reach for the board and try to get it back, but another wave hits me and pushes the board past me. The leash pulls hard on my ankle and I'm yanked backwards toward the pier.
Brett pivots and starts paddling toward me, but he's having trouble cutting through the rough water.
I see another wave coming and I try to duck under it. I manage to get under the water, but it pulls me again on a diagonal, toward the shore and the pier. I'm just a few feet from smashing into the first set of pilings. I can't get myself turned around and I see the next wave coming. It will absolutely throw me into the wood posts when it hits me.
Then Trevor splashes down into the water in front of me.
He reappears quickly and grabs hold of my arm. He spins me around and shoves me hard to the left just as the wave crashes into us. We're thrown forward, but he's moved us just enough to the left that we skirt that outside set of pilings. He yanks hard on the leash, jerking his board back to us. He holds it still and I scramble on top of it. He angles me away from the pier and toward the shore, latches onto the back of the board and starts kicking. His strong legs propel us through the water. I'm paddling but he's doing the bulk of the work. When the next hits us, it lifts us up and we slide down the front of it toward the shore.
As if that's what we'd meant to do all along.
When we reach shallow water, I slide off the board, and my feet hit the sand. He pushes himself up out of the water and staggers forward. His chest is bleeding, a result of cuts from the rough pilings he was climbing on. If he notices, he doesn't show it.
I can smell the rum from five feet away.
“The fuck were you doing out there?” I ask.
He laughs. “I could ask you the same thing.”
“I was out there because Brett was afraid you were gonna die,” I tell him. “You wouldn't listen to him. He thought you might listen to me.”
“I wasn't gonna die,” he says, still staggering toward the shore. He's listing to the right and has to stop himself for a second to make sure he doesn't fall over. “He's a big baby. And a liar.”
“He's neither of those things and you know it,” I say. “What the hell, Trevor? This is what you're doing now? Drinking yourself into a stupor and doing stupid shit where you can die?”
“Why not?” he says, grinning. “Everyone's doing it.”
“Everyone is not doing it,” I say. “Jesus. Is this how you honor Jake? Acting like a jackass? You think that would make him happy?”
His grin fades. “Don't talk about Jake like that.”
“We need to talk about Jake!” I yell. “We need to! But what you don't need to be doing is pulling some suicidal kamikaze bullshit that's gonna end badly. And you sure as shit don't need to be spending the whole day with Captain fucking Morgan!”
He glares at me. “Fuck you. You don't know what you're talking about.”
“Yeah, she does,” Brett says, coming out of the water with his board. “She does, Trev. That shit was stupid and you know it. Or you will when you sober up.”
“What?” Trevor says. “You're on her fucking side now?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Because she's on your side, but you're too drunk to see it. We're all on the same side, Trevor.” He throws his board to the ground. “I miss him, too, man. It's not just you. I miss him, too. And it fucking sucks and I don't know what to do about it. But that shit?” He points to the pier. “That ain't fucking it, dude.”
Trevor frowns. “Stop being such a pussy.”
“I'm being a pussy?” he says, stomping toward him. “Really? Me? I'm not the one drinking all of my meals. I'm not the one that was climbing the pier like a goddamn monkey. I'm not the one pretending that getting fucked up will make me forget everything that's happened.” Brett stops just short of Trevor. “Don't talk to me about being a pussy, dude. You're the one who's hiding from everything.”
Trevor takes a step toward him and swings wildly. Brett steps easily out of the way and shoves him to the ground.
“Now you wanna fight?” Brett asks. “That's how you wanna solve this? You can barely stand and now you wanna fight me?”
Trevor gets on all fours and pushes himself up, his body now half-covered in sand. He lunges at Brett again and Brett easily steps out of his path, letting him crash to the sand.
“Fuck this,” Brett says. “Presley, I'm sorry I called you. I should've let him die out there. Would be better than watching this shitshow.” He walks back and picks up his board.
“You don't mean that, Brett,” I say. “I know you don't.”
He tucks the board under his arm and stares down at the ground for a moment.
Trevor is still lying in the sand.
Brett shakes his head. “I already lost one best friend. I don't want to lose another.”
He walks up the sand to the parking lot, past our cars, and disappears.
Trevor rolls over on his back and sits up. Now, half of his face is covered in sand. Blood is smeared across his chest.
The sun is gone now and it's dark, the only light coming from the big lights in the parking lot.
I sit down next to him, hesitate for a moment, then brush some of the sand from his cheek. I expect him to pull away, but he just sits there, his arms wrapped around his knees.
I brush some more of the sand from his face.
He sits still, staring at the ocean.
I'm using my index finger to push it off of his skin, careful to not get any of it in his eyes.
And then I realize he's crying.
“When I was ten,” he says, his voice hoarse and tired. He pauses, trying to find the words. “When I was ten, Jake and I went out to the pier. We waited until sunset when everyone had gone home and we paddled out there. We saw guys shooting the pier and we wanted to do it, but everyone always told us to stay away from it. Too dangerous, too scary. We were ten.” He laughs. “So, of course, we wanted to see it up close. I remember hearing it groan for the first time. It just got mashed by a wall of water and everything just...groaned. Like it was all gonna come down.”
I keep my hand on his face. His tears are still coming.
“So we paddle out and I just get drilled by this wave,” he says. He points. “We were all the way out at the end. Way too fucking far for us then. I get drilled and launched off my board. I banged my head on one of the pilings. It hurt like hell and it was bleeding. I'm freaking out. My head hurts, the water is just churning like a motherfucker, we're too far out, and now I'm getting thrown into the pilings.”
I sit next to him, waiting.
“And then Jake, he just paddles in out of nowhere,” he says. “Just swoops in like a badass. Pulls me onto his board and gets us the fuck out of there. He even got the leash off my ankle so the water could take it in and I wouldn't get dragged.” He pushes his feet against the sand. “We got to shore and I'm crying like a baby. My head's bleeding and I just feel like such a dumb, weak kid.” He laughs. “Jake sits down next to me and he puts his arm around my shoulders. And you know what he says?”
I shake my head. “No. What did he say?”
“He says 'don't worry, Trevor. I won't tell. And next time we do it, it'll be cool.'” He laughs again. “That's literally who he was. Loyal like a motherfucker and always looking ahead. He never told anyone. Not anyone. We told my dad that my board caught me in the back of my head. No one ever knew.” He looks down at the sand.
“That's sweet,” I say. “Incredibly sweet. He was a good friend.”
“He shouldn't be dead,” he says. “He shouldn't be dead.”
“I know,” I say, putting my arm around his shoulders.
“He's barely been gone and I miss him so fucking much,” he says, his body shaking. “I just want him to come back. I wanted to swim out there and see him. I wanted him to be out there under the pier, like when we were kids.” He looks at me, his eyes filled with tears. “But he's gone. He's just...gone.” He leans into me and puts his head on my shoulder. “He's just gone, Presley. And he's not coming back.”
I don't say anything because there's nothing that I can say that will help. Not a single word.
So we sit there for a long time. I keep my arm around him and let him lean into me.
And he just cries.
He just cries.
THIRTY THREE
The sun is warm on my face.
I turn away from it and open my eyes.
It's the next morning and I'm on the floor of Trevor's bedroom, a blanket pulled over me, a couple of his shirts folded up for a makeshift pillow. I push the blanket off of me and sit up.
Trevor is still in his bed, flat on his stomach, his face buried in his pillow.
I'm not sure how long we sat on the beach, but I know it was for at least an hour. I manage to get him into my car, strap his board to my roof, lock his truck, and drive to his house. He mumbles incoherently most of the way. No one's home when we get there, so I go down to his room and enter through his door. I go back up the stairs and drag him out of the car. I get one of his arms around my shoulders and it's all I can do to lug him into the house. He's on his feet, but barely, the rum finally taking it's toll. I get him down the stairs and drop him into the bed. After I catch my breath, I get a towel and get as much sand off of him as I can. I pull off his wet trunks and push him into the bed so he won't roll off.
I pull the blankets over him and sit down on the edge of the bed.
I text my dad to tell him I'm staying at his house. I'm quick to tell him why so he doesn't assume anything else. He asks if I'm okay, I tell him I'm fine, and he tells me to text or call if I need him.
I take a shower in Trevor's bathroom, pull on one of his old T-shirts to sleep in, and find a blanket in the closet. I think about crawling into the bed with him, but I'm not sure where we are and I don't want to assume anything. So I grab a couple of extra T-shirts from his dresser and lay down on the floor by the bed. I'm out within minutes.
Until the sun wakes me up.
I yawn, run a hand through my hair, and stand up. I fold up the blanket and put it back in the closet. I re-fold the T-shirts I stacked under my head and put them back in his dresser. I use the bathroom and walk back into his room.
And he's sitting up in the bed, rubbing his head.
“Morning,” I say, walking to the dresser.
He grunts. “Morning.” He grimaces. “My fucking head.”
“Yeah, I'll bet it hurts,” I say. “Think there was more rum than blood in your body.”
He looks down at his chest. It's ugly. There are cuts and bruises and some dried blood. “Jesus.”
“Uh huh.”
He grunts again and looks around the room. “How did I get home?”
“I drove you,” I say.
“How'd I get down here?”
“I carried you,” I say.
He looks around like he's still trying to figure out where he is. “Really?”
“Really,” I say.
He lifts up the covers. “I don't have any clothes on.”
“You were a mess when we got here,” I say. “I tried to clean you up. I didn't think you should sleep in wet trunks. Probably want to change your sheets.”
He rubs at his forehead. “I assume we did not have sex then?”
I laugh. “Uh, no. You were in no condition. I think we're broken up. And I slept on the floor.”
“You slept on the floor?” he asks.
I nod.
“Why?”
I shrug. “I don't know. I didn't want to leave you alone. Your dad wasn't here when we got here and I didn't think you should be alone. But I also didn't think I should get in bed with you.”
