“Anise?”
I snap my head up. He looks startled. My expression must show the fury boiling inside me.
“Let’s go.”
“Look, I’m sorry I made you ask, but—”
“You didn’t make me do anything. I was the one who asked to come here. It’s my fault we wasted time on her. Now let’s go.”
“It’s not your fault—”
I throw up my hands. “Fine! Then it’s your fault! You dragged me inside, you got my fucking hopes up, you made me ask that waitress about my mom, and now you get to watch me deal with it. It’s fine. I just want to go home.”
But part of me doesn’t want to go home—doesn’t want to go to yet another place my mom might be. It’s exhausting tiptoeing around my life, both hopeful and terrified she could appear at any moment.
Lincoln stares at me, so I turn and yank open the car door. I slide inside and slam the door shut behind me. After a minute, Lincoln joins me in the car, wordlessly handing over the food. The greasy smell makes my stomach churn, so I stuff the bag by my feet and cover it with my sweatshirt.
Lincoln starts the car, and we pull out of the gravel lot. I sink into the seat, curl up my legs, and lean my head against the door. Anger pulses through me.
I hate her. I hate her for making me hate her.
I hate that she probably doesn’t care that I hate her.
“Do you want some music?” Lincoln asks after we drive in silence for a few miles.
I shrug my shoulders and mumble, “Sure.”
“Do you mind?” he asks.
“Right,” I say. Adjusting the stereo is difficult when your only hand is busy driving the car. I glance over at him. Moonlight bathes his dark skin. His jaw is tense. It’s an unfamiliar sight. He looks tired, grim. Like a different person entirely. I know I should apologize, but the words stick in my throat. Instead, I lean forward and flip on the stereo, flicking through the songs and watching Lincoln’s expression as I do. At the sound of Springsteen’s “Jungleland,” his face softens the slightest bit, so I leave the CD there and lean back in my seat.
• • •
Stars speckle the dark sky. Overarching lampposts light the highway. The roads by home look different driving in from the west. My limited traveling has only ever taken me north and south, never out of or into California. We pass a sign that reads “Santa Cruz 9 miles,” and I grip my seat belt. Home. In minutes I’ll be home.
Surf Break begins tomorrow. I’ll spend all day on the beach, with Tess and everyone else. Unless they’re mad at me. God, please don’t let them be mad at me.
As we get off the highway, I barely recognize the roads in the darkness, like a world I lived in many years ago. And yet I turn off the GPS and give Lincoln directions by memory. I still owe him an apology, but we’ve settled into a subdued silence.
We pass my school. A few lights are on, probably for security. In less than two weeks I’ll be back in class for my senior year. I’ve had the same classmates for twelve years; I know every face I’ll see on that first Monday back, every name, every personality.
And then a year after that, they’ll all be gone. Off to San Francisco, or Hawaii, or New York, or wherever else people go to college when they’re too dense to realize what they already have is so great.
Slowly we pull down my street. It’s long and has a slight curve along the coastline. As I text Dad to tell him we made it here safely, we pass Tess’s house, and then further on we pass Eric’s. His bedroom light is on. I wonder if he’s looking out the window, watching cars pass, wondering which one I’m in. Even Tess doesn’t know specifics about my arrival time, so maybe he’s been there all day, watching, waiting for me. Or, maybe he doesn’t care at all. Maybe he’s night surfing with someone else. In an alternate universe, he’d be next to me right now, and we’d be running out to the water together. If Lincoln and Eric had both lived in Santa Cruz, who would I have ended up with? If a nature-nerd skater with a perfect dimple had approached me at home, would I have even noticed him?
As we near my house, a different anxiety presses in. Will there be an unfamiliar car in the driveway? Some run-down piece of crap with a thousand bumper stickers or a shiny BMW, borrowed from my mom’s latest friend?
I tell Lincoln, “Up on the right. Green paint. Well, greenish. Faded green paint.”
He inches down the road and then asks, “This it?”
Only Dad’s truck sits in the driveway.
“Should I park in the driveway, or is there room in the garage?” Lincoln asks.
“Driveway,” I say. “No room in the garage. It’s all filled with gear.”
My gear.
My surfboard.
And then it hits me. I crack the window and inhale that sharp salt scent. I’m home.
I yank the car handle and push open the door. “Come on!” I press in the code for the garage, and it opens, revealing a mess of gear. My surfboard is at the front. I grab it and head back to the driveway where Lincoln is just getting out of the car.
He’s yawning, which makes sense since we drove twelve hours after only sleeping three, but I still yell, “Hurry, follow me!”
Before waiting to see if he does, in fact, follow, I race around to the old wooden boardwalk connecting our house to the beach. The familiar planks feel odd against my sneakered feet, so I hastily kick off my shoes and socks and leave them behind. My body relaxes at the feel of the dusted sand and worn wood.
I hear Lincoln behind me, mumbling something about, “Twelve hours of driving, Jesus Christ.” But his mumbling stops as soon as we climb past the sandy dunes and approach the ocean, glowing in the light of the moon. “Whoa,” he says.
I turn and grin at him. “Welcome to my backyard.”
And then I run, surfboard tucked under my arm, right into the tide. The salty water drenches my shorts and tank top, but I don’t care—wet fabric can’t weigh me down. Nothing can. I climb onto my board and paddle out to meet the tide. The strain pulls on my arms.
But I push through, because I know I can. A wave pulses forward—a huge one. I know I should probably wait for a milder one since it’s been so long, but I can’t reject the ocean’s first offer, so I paddle around on my board and press to my feet as the water comes hurtling toward me. I falter for a second, but then a lifetime of experience takes over, and I balance perfectly on my board as the wave seamlessly carries me along with it.
Despite the exhaustion, the stress, the worry, exhilaration courses through me. My lungs fill with air. My heart fills with relief. I’m home.
Seventeen
I stay out in the surf for half an hour, then pry myself from the water, only because I know it’ll be here when I wake up tomorrow. As I head back to shore, I notice all the signs of Surf Break in the distance, the temporary stages, the food trucks, the line of portable toilets. Tomorrow thousands of people will flood the beach, but for tonight it’s still just my backyard.
I find Lincoln on the shore, lying on his back, arm tucked up under his head. My board falls to the ground and I collapse next to him. I rest my head on his chest so that we’re crossed perpendicularly. My heartbeat calms as I stare at the expanse of stars above me, the same ones that blinked above me nights ago in Nebraska.
Then Lincoln shifts beneath me, and his hand reaches out to take mine.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “You know, for earlier. You were only trying to help.”
“I forgive you.” His chest hums when he speaks. “Feel better now?”
“I think so. Maybe. I—” I continue to stare at the stars and wonder if they can feel my gaze, wonder if they ever watch back. “I mean, I hate that she’s not here, but I think what I hate more…what sometimes scares me more…is that no one really remembers her, like she’s not even real…and maybe that’s why…” I trail off.
“Why what?” Lincoln asks, his thu
mb idly rubbing my palm.
“Maybe that’s why I was so scared to leave home, why I’m so scared to be back. What if my friends don’t remember me either? What if I’m just like her, and I disappear into nothing?”
Even now I feel like I’m floating in this half existence. I was too scared to tell my friends exactly when I’d be back. I couldn’t handle the pressure of them being on my doorstep the second I arrived. So I’m home, but Dad isn’t here, or Tess, or any of my friends. Home isn’t really home without your people.
“You know that’s not true,” Lincoln says.
I roll over so my cheek presses against his chest and I can peer up at him. “How?” I ask. “How do I know that? People move away all the time, and people forget about them all the time. I lost touch with almost everyone this summer. I’m exactly like her.” The knot of dread constricts again.
“No,” Lincoln corrects. “People move away all the time, and people remember them all the time. Where do you think we just were?”
“Umm…” I tick off the states, “Wyoming, Utah, Nevada.”
“No, we were at Wendy’s house. My friend who I haven’t seen for what, five years? And we remembered each other perfectly fine.” He pauses. “I think some people choose to be forgotten…or maybe don’t care whether or not they’re remembered.” He meets my gaze. “No one is going to forget you, Anise Sawyer. Not if you don’t want them to.”
He leans forward and our lips meet.
The kiss is slow and soothing, like the lapping of the waves before us.
• • •
My mom isn’t here. The house is pitch-black when we enter, and she always leaves most of the lights on, dirty dishes in the sink, hemp clothing on the floor.
In the darkness, I realize how well I know my own home. I drop my keys into the porcelain bowl that sits on our entryway table, and the clatter rings through the empty house. I’m tempted to open the junk drawer, check if the postcard is still there. Maybe it was all some early summer hallucination.
But then Lincoln bumps into me, and we both trip and almost fall on the uneven floorboards. “Ow!” I say, then steady him, hands reaching out to his strong form. “Way to be clumsy dude.”
“I wouldn’t call tripping in a pitch-black house I’ve never been in before clumsy,” he mutters.
“I’ll take what I can get. Gotta keep your perfect athlete ego in check.”
“Could you turn a light on maybe?”
“Okay, okay.” I take us a few more steps down the hall and into the kitchen. The moonlight creeps in through the bay window. I’m not sure I’m ready to see Lincoln standing in the full artificial brightness of my kitchen. Out of place. Like a famous actor making a cameo on a RV show or Dad showing up at school.
So I walk over to the stove and flick on the dim overhead light. It illuminates the room enough to prevent Lincoln from tripping. Suddenly I’m having trouble looking at him. I’m in my house alone with a guy. A guy I really like. Growing up on the beach has provided plenty of relatively secluded opportunities to be alone with a boy. But there’s a big difference between being alone on the shore where technically anyone can walk by, including Dad, and being alone in an empty house where there are empty beds, and Dad is sleeping many states away. I had no intention of having sex with Lincoln—I have no intention of having sex with Lincoln—but that doesn’t keep me from being aware of how easy it would be.
Lincoln’s stare is on me. I look away and pull open the fridge door. The light spills out, and I blink twice. “Hungry?”
There’s a pause. Or at least it feels like a pause, enough time for Lincoln to choose words instead of just say them. “I could eat. Is there anything in there?”
“Good question.” The fridge is almost entirely bare, save some of those orange Kraft cheese slices and half a loaf of bread. It’s not stuff we normally keep in the fridge. Maybe Dad had some weird food cravings when flew back alone. “Grilled cheese?”
“Sure,” Lincoln says. “Want help?”
“I’ve got it.”
I’ve never actually cooked grilled cheese before, but after all that driving, Lincoln deserves to rest. Besides, I’m not sure I’ll make responsible choices if he stands close to me right now.
Behind me, I hear him settle at the kitchen table. The chairs drag against the floor as he rearranges them. I keep my eyes on the stove as I heat up a pan. Move back to the fridge for butter. Drawer for a knife. Slice off the butter. Sizzle. Bread in the pan. Peel the plastic wrapping off the slices of cheese.
My heart thumps. When did it start doing that? My hands shake the slightest bit as I carefully settle the slices of cheese onto the bread. I hope the bread doesn’t burn. Why did Dad put bread in the fridge in the first place? We never put bread in the fridge. I guess so it wouldn’t go bad.
I turn around to ask Lincoln how toasty he likes his grilled cheese and find him draped across two chairs, legs propped up, head nodding off to the side, snoring lightly.
“Right,” I say to myself. “Okay then.”
The grilled cheeses look kind of lonely sitting there in the pan, so I eat them both myself.
• • •
I wake up completely disoriented. The light slants into the room at the wrong angle. I reflexively turn over and startle when I don’t see Emery in a bed beside me. Oh. I’m home.
Last night after finishing the sandwiches and staring at a sleeping Lincoln for a solid thirty seconds, I woke him up and led him to the guest bedroom, where I was able to avoid all questions of sex when he climbed onto the bed and passed out. Apparently after twenty-four hours of driving, cuddling up with a down comforter is more appealing than cuddling up with me. The vast size of the West defeated Lincoln and his infallible energy.
After dropping him off in bed, I stripped out of my salt-crusted clothing, dropped them outside the washer in the hallway, and zombie-walked to my room. I pulled on an old cotton T-shirt, comforted by the scent of my own detergent. Then, I promptly collapsed on my bed, curled up with Tess’s quilt, and fell into a deep sleep.
I now grab for my phone on the nightstand. My jaw drops when I see it’s half past noon. I never sleep this late. Waste of wave time. Crashing past ten is an absurdly rare occurrence. This is just ridiculous. I also have about twenty texts and missed calls, most of them from Tess saying something along the lines of: WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU I WANT TO SEE YOUR FACE.
The most recent text message reads: Fuck it, I’m just coming over. That one was sent more than half an hour ago…
And then I hear the muffled voices. “Oh fuck.” I rip off my tangled sheets and jump out of bed, yanking on a pair of shorts under my sleep shirt. I hurry down the hallway toward the sound of voices. In the kitchen, I find Tess and Lincoln casually chatting like they’re already best friends.
Midday light sweeps in from the windows. Lincoln cooks at the stovetop, presumably more grilled cheese since that’s the only food we have. Tess sits on the counter, book abandoned beside her, and chats with Lincoln. The scene is so surreal that I wonder if maybe I’m still dreaming. Two parts of my life intersecting over melted cheese. She looks different. Hair a bit longer. A new piercing in her left ear. Her skin its deep end-of-summer bronze. Before I have a chance to truly comprehend the moment, Tess spots me standing there and stops midsentence.
“Holy fucking shit! You asshole!” She leaps off the counter and bounds over to me, wrapping me in a tight hug. And I was worried she might be mad at me. Maybe I freaked out over nothing. I hug her back, and my entire body relaxes, comforted by the familiar smell of her coconut aloe shampoo.
As soon as we release the hug, Tess takes a step back and shoves me. “But seriously. Asshole move. You’ve been back for like, what? Twelve hours? And you’re just seeing my shining face now?”
“I was tired?”
Tess gives me a no-bullshit look. “Sure, too tired to
see me but not tired enough to resist the water.”
“How did you—”
She points down the hallway. “Shouldn’t have left out those ocean clothes.”
“Right.” I shift on my feet. “Sorry. But I’m seeing you now!” I smile and move to hug her again.
“All right, all right, I get it. On Anise’s scale of all things important, everything comes after surfing. But you could’ve texted me so I’d know you didn’t die in a fiery crash of fire.”
“Sorry,” I repeat, then hug her again. “Oh my God, I can’t believe I’m here. You’re here.”
Tess hugs me back, then pulls away and nudges her forehead to mine. “Best friends together again.”
It really is hard to believe there can be bad in the world with her by my side. I hug her one more time for good measure.
“Anyway,” Tess continues, “While you were sleeping this beautiful day away, I was busy getting to know your new…friend.”
Lincoln looks up from the stove, where he’s sliding the sandwiches onto a plate. “I like her,” he says. “She also scares me a little.”
“Exactly the aesthetic I’m going for,” Tess says.
“Yeah,” I say, drawing the word out slowly. “What exactly were you guys talking about?”
“You,” they say at the same time. It makes me think of Parker and Nash and their twin timing. I miss them. I wonder if they’ll get my postcard today.
“Right. I don’t know how I feel about that.” I wait for either of them to expound, but neither of them volunteers more information, which is maybe for the best. “So, Surf Break?”
Tess grins. “Surf Break.”
Lincoln brings the sandwiches to the table. We all sit down together, and again I’m hit with how strange this situation is, but I must be the only one who finds it strange, because Lincoln and Tess both start digging into the food and chatting away without me.
“So you’re the only one who doesn’t surf?” Lincoln asks.
Tess nods. “I prefer to chase literary pursuits, not waves.”
Girl Out of Water Page 24
