Peter Parker becomes Spider Man, falls in love with Gwen Stacey and saves New York City all in two hours and then, instead of engaging me in some debate about the movie as he usually does, we sit in silence. He’s reading the back of the DVD case and I have begun playing with the hem of my t-shirt. My eyes have gone out of focus (“staring into space,” as my dad would call it).
“How long have you had your board?” Sawyer asks out of the blue.
“The one here? About three years,” I reply. “I have a newer longboard at my Dad’s house, though.” He nods.
“Do you want to make a new one?” he inquires, smiling and eyebrows raised. I look at him quizzically.
We manage to get up and hobble outside. Sawyer leads me inside what looks like a big shed, but upon entering, I discover it’s a workshop. It smells like wood and foam and the workbenches that encircle the room are covered in power tools, some typical things like drills and cutters and others like I’ve never seen before.
He sets a piece of foam with a strip of wood called a stringer running down the middle on the work table beside me and grabs two pairs of goggles, handing one to me. I lean my crutches against the wall and try to work without them, like the doctor told me to start trying to do.
“That’s called a blank. It’s the foundation of the board,” he defines, pointing at the foam. “How long to you want the board to be?”
“5’ 10”,” I reply. “The one I have is six feet, but I’m used to working a five foot snowboard, so a few inches off might improve it a little.”
“Okay, so the first thing we’ll do is get a template,” he begins, dashing into another room. He returns with a sheet of plywood in the shape of a 5’ 10” board and lays the blank down on the wooden workhorse in the center of the room.
After laying the template on top of the blank, he traces the template carefully on both the front and back and cuts the foam. Then, he cuts a thin layer of foam off the deck (the top) to make it smooth, doing the same to the bottom. “Come here,” he instructs. He takes my hands in his and wraps my fingers around the handles of the carving tool. “Just gently shave down the blank until you have the rails you want. Like this.” He helps me drag the tool across the edges of the board, perfectly curving the edges.
“Now use this to shape the board,” he tells me, holding up a piece of steel. “It’s a steel mesh. It gives you the smooth, perfect curve you want.” He lets me try it by myself for a moment, then trades me and goes to work on it. I love watching him work. He looks like he does in the water: driven and focused, but with the edges of his mouth hinting at a smile. The muscles of his arms stand out as he drags the mesh across the board.
He turns the blank over and shapes the bottom, then lays a cloth over it, trimming and cutting the cloth to fold it over the rails. After the fabric is folded correctly, he has me mix and pour a bucket of resin over both the board and cloth. Quickly, he squeegees the board in an infinity symbol pattern to smooth it out. “It’ll have to set for about a day,” he says, putting his goggles down and taking mine. “Want to come over again to work on it tomorrow?”
“I’d love to,” I reply. “You’re really good at that.”
“Oh, thanks,” he says, smiling. “I started making my own boards with my dad when I was about ten.”
“Pretty nice skill to have,” I laugh.
“Yeah, it’s not bad,” he agrees. He retrieves my crutches and carries them back to the house as I try to walk. I stumble a little bit, and he slips his hand into mine, helping me to walk through the house and out front to the Jeep. He helps me in and drives me home.
The next three days, I go over to his house to work on the board. On the fourth and last day of building the board, I decide to skip the crutches all together. Sawyer said to wait until later this afternoon to come over. Around two in the afternoon, Papaw strides into the living room with a triumphant look on his face. “Well, girls, I finally did it,” he announces. “I finally fixed up old Gertrude.”
“She runs?!” I exclaim. He nods.
“Just took her out for the first time in ten years,” he replies. My grandmother rolls her eyes, but smiles in spite of herself.
Gertrude is the bike my grandpa has had forever. Before my grandparents were dating, my grandmother said that bike was his girlfriend. She came up with the name Gertrude and it stuck. Gertrude died when I was eight and Papaw has tried to fix her ever since, even though he has another bike that he actually rides and lets me ride when I’m here. Between training for competition and my knee injury, I haven’t taken a ride all summer.
“Want to take her for a spin?” he inquires. My eyes widen as I grin and nod.
“Annie, really? A motorcycle?” Grammy interjects. “Is this really a good idea?”
“Grammy, the therapist said I can ride a bike with my knee,” I comfort. “I don’t even have to pedal a motorcycle. I’ll be fine.”
“Alright,” she consents, throwing her hands up as if she knows there’s nothing she can do about it.
“Let’s go!” Papaw cries. I follow him out to the garage and take the helmet he gives me. After putting it on, I heave my right leg over the bike and turn the key. The engine roars to life and Papaw grins. I flip up kickstand and ride down the driveway, zooming around the block. The wind on my face, I feel like I could just keep going forever. Upon pulling back into the driveway, I check my phone. Sawyer has texted me, saying it’s okay to come over now.
“Hey, can you take me to Sawyer’s?” I ask Papaw.
“Why don’t you just take the bike?” he suggests.
“Really?”
“Yeah, you were riding perfectly fine out there.” I kiss his cheek and “run” (more like speed walk) into the kitchen to grab my bag.
“I’m going to Sawyer’s,” I inform Grammy, giving her a kiss on the cheek too.
“Okay, have fun,” she replies.
I put my helmet back on and mount the bike again, kicking the kickstand and taking off. About ten minutes later, I pull up in front of Sawyer’s house. “So you’re a biker girl now, are you?” Sawyer greets, leaning against the doorframe. “I didn’t know that.” I laugh.
“I’ve always been a biker girl,” I reply with a coy smile. “And you don’t know everything about me.”
“Come on, your board’s dry, we just have to sand it and add the leash,” he bids. I follow him out back and follow his instruction in the workshop, sanding the board down and adding a long black leash. An hour or two later, we’re done and the board looks fantastic.
“Thank you,” I say gratefully. “It’s gorgeous.”
“No problem. It has to sit for three days, though before you can use it,” he replies. “So seriously, when did you get a motorcycle?”
“My grandpa has had that old thing since before he and my grandmother were even dating,” I laugh. “However, it died about ten years ago and he got it running today.”
“I’ve always wanted to learn how to ride a motorcycle,” he says wistfully.
“Do you want to try?” I inquire, eyebrows raised.
“I don’t have a helmet, though,” he points out.
“Give me twenty minutes,” I reply. I put on my own helmet and race off to my house, grabbing an extra helmet out of the garage and racing back.
“Here,” I say, handing him the helmet when I’m back in his driveway. He fastens it on and climbs on the bike behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. “Where do you want to go?”
“Anywhere.”
“Hold on tight.”
Fourteen
The two of us drive around the island, taking in the scenery, until Sawyer says “here. Stop here.” I pull over to the beach spot he’s point to and park the bike, letting him off first. I swing my leg over, pull my helmet off and shake out my hair.
“Why here?” I inquire curiously as he takes off his backpack. I didn’t notice the bag before: a large, black, L. L. Bean backpack.
“I figured we’d have a little change of scenery for dinner,” he answers coyly with a smile. I smile back and roll my eyes.
It turns out, he can do a lot in twenty minutes. He’s made two sandwiches, brought a bag of chips, a Dr. Pepper and Mountain Dew. He’s also managed to snag a few of his mom’s chocolate chip cookies which are quite possibly the closest thing to heaven on earth achievable. I don’t know why or how, but they just are.
“So,” he begins, once we’re seated on the sand and eating our sandwiches. “You’re right. I don’t know anything about you. I feel like I know nothing about you other than you surf and I know your favorite movies.”
“Same. Favorite color, go,” I start, taking a sip of my soda.
“Blue,” he replies. “You?”
“Teal. When’s your birthday?”
“July tenth.”
“Mine’s August sixteenth. Favorite surf spot?”
“Pipeline.”
“Mine’s Mavericks,” I reply, taking a big bite of my chicken salad sandwich (also a Melissa Hensley creation).
Sawyer pauses, chewing and thinking, then decides “It’s because you’re absolutely nuts.”
“I am not!” I push his shoulder as he laughs.
“What’s the one thing you wanted most for Christmas as a kid?” he asks.
“A puppy. Hands down. Still want one, actually. You?”
“I always wanted one of those gigantic automatic Nerf guns. I got it when I was ten,” he laughs. “Favorite book?”
“That is like asking a mother to choose her favorite child.”
“Fine, top five books or series.”
“Three Hours Too Soon, Pride and Prejudice, the Harry Potter series, the Anne of Green Gables series and the Traveler’s Gift and sequel, The Final Summit,” I finally reply.
“Three Hours Too Soon, Harry Potter, Hunger Games, The Outsiders, and I actually really like To Kill a Mockingbird. Favorite music artists?”
“Taylor Swift, Carrie Underwood, One Direction, Eric Clapton and Sting. Other than that, it’s a lot of different songs by different bands.”
“Sting is pretty great,” he agrees. “I like the rest of them too. My favorites, though, are U2 and Eric Clapton. Other than that, like you said, a lot of different songs by different bands.”
“Like what?”
“Here,” he replies, hitting shuffle on his phone. “Tonight Tonight” by Hot Chelle Rae comes on and I laugh.
“You like this song too? My friends tease me all the time for still being into this song,” I laugh.
“Heck yeah! It’s a good song!” he agrees. He starts to lip-sync along, which makes me laugh even harder. “What I Like About You” comes on next, to which he gets up plays air guitar. To my protesting, he pulls me to my feet and tries to get me to dance. “Please?” he begs, making puppy dog eyes and a pouty lip.
“No, I’m a terrible dancer,” I counter.
“And I’m good?!” he exclaims. I roll my eyes and get up for the rest of the song. We laugh and dance ridiculously, lip-syncing and playing air guitar all the while. After it’s over, “The Only Exception” by Paramore comes on, making my smile disappear a little. “What’s the matter?” Sawyer asks, noticing. “I thought you liked this song.”
“Nothing,” I reply, smiling again. “And I do.” He holds out his hand to me. I was afraid he’d do that.
“May I have this dance?” he inquires. I hesitate, then take his hand. He brings it up and lays it on his shoulder, along with the other and sets his own hands on my waist. My heart rate accelerates to a million miles per minute as he gazes into my eyes.
I laugh nervously. “I’ve never actually danced with a guy before,” I confess.
“Really?” I nod. “I can’t imagine why.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re amazing.” The words make the heat rise in my cheeks. He continues to stare into my eyes and goes on. “You’re beautiful and smart and funny. You’ve got fantastic taste in movies, music and books.” I laugh. “You. Are. Amazing.”
“You’re not too bad yourself,” I laugh. He smiles warmly and stares into my eyes again. Suddenly, he’s leaning in closer to me and I realize he’s about to kiss me. I take my hands off his shoulders and turn around. “I think we should, um, go.”
“Oh.” I can’t see his face right now, and I’m glad I can’t. His voice alone is enough to almost make me cry out of sympathy. “Alright.”
I strap on my helmet as he packs up his backpack and mounts the bike behind me. At his house, he gets off without a word. Not even a goodbye. I watch the door shut behind him, then hit the gas and blaze down the street.
I drive home, park the bike and run inside to throw myself on my bed without greeting anyone. I must’ve slammed the door without noticing, though, because a moment later, I feel the bed sink down beside me and a gentle hand begin to rub my back. A waterfall of silent tears trail down my face. “Grammy,” I whimper.
“I’m here, sweetheart.”
“Why’d he have to go and do that?” I ask, trying to be angry, but it comes out sad. I shift to face her.
“What did he do?” she asks gently.
“He tried,” I sniff. “He tried to kiss me. We were having a fine time until he asked me to dance and then he tried to kiss me!”
“What did you do?”
“I stopped dancing with him and said ‘I think we should go.’” She closes her eyes as if pained by this answer. “Why’d he have to ruin it?! We were finally getting along, when he just, he, he had to go and ruin it!”
After a short pause, she answers “Because he loves you.”
“What?” I ask, disbelieving, sitting up.
“He loves you,” she repeats. I shake my head.
“He can’t,” I protest.
“He does.”
I fold my arms together and sit there, unwilling to believe it. “Just think about it,” Grammy says, laying a black sweater around my shoulders before she leaves.
I pull the sweater off and toss it on the floor, as I am already verging on overheated. About to turn around and go sit outside, I stop short at the sight of the black mass of fabric, all balled up on the ground. I turn around again and pick it up. It’s his. The one he gave me at the hospital.
Memories start to flood back to me. He wasn’t able to sleep after I got hurt. He was worried about me when Sally dared me. He spent tons of time with me, keeping me from getting bored with my injury. He built me a new board. He danced with me. He tried to kiss me.
He loves me.
Fifteen
I change into a black tank top and pull the sweater on overtop, heading outside afterwards. For hours I just sit there, thinking. He loves me. Well, he did. Who knows how he feels about me now?
Why do I even care? It would never last. It could never work. I live on one coast half of the year and the other coast the other half. I’m only here every other holiday. And what if his family decided to move back to Australia? Then we’d have an over fifteen hour time difference to deal with, in addition to the miles between us.
I stand up and slip on my shoes, going out to the garage and grabbing the keys to Gertrude. I just drive, the night wind on my face. I drive until I find a nice little spot to park by the beach and walk around with the sand on my toes. It happens to be the same spot where Sawyer and I were earlier. I don’t even really remember how I got here. I just drove until I found it.
As Grammy, Papaw and everyone else on the island except maybe the one person that won’t talk to me are asleep, I stare up at the night sky and start to talk to the one person not on the island who might listen to me for the first time in a long time. That is, if He’s there. “Hey, God,” I begin. I grimace at my own words. I take a deep breath, wondering how to continue. “Look, I’ll be honest: I haven’t talked to you in forever by myself. I don’t really remember how to do it. Anyway, what’s up? I know it’s all peaches and cream up w
here you are, but I’m not exactly having the best time down here. You pretty much ditched me about ten years ago, and I’m not even really sure why I’m talking to you, but here I am.”
I take a deep breath, feeling anger from the past ten years start to burn inside me. “Why’d you ditch me when I needed you? Everybody says you’re loving and all-knowing and all that, but I guess you were too busy to be bothered with a little girl’s problems. Seriously? I don’t even really think I’m talking to anyone! I’m just shouting into space!” I’ve started to cry again and I’m glad no one is here to witness my unhinging.
“If you really are there, and you really hear me, help me,” I plead. “Give me proof that love exists, not just universally, but for me. Show me that I can actually be loved and I don’t need to be scared, like you should have all those years ago. Amen.”
I feel a little better after venting, whether some almighty being heard me or not. I twist the ends of Sawyer’s sweater around my hands and walk around in the sand, eventually putting my shoes back on and driving home to bed.
The next morning, I’m still wearing his sweater at breakfast. Grammy glances at it, but doesn’t say anything. “Do you want to try surfing today?” asks Papaw. I shrug. Better than just sitting here.
“I guess,” I reply.
I go back, change into my suit and rash guard and grab my board, remembering the board Sawyer and I made. I wonder what he did with it. He probably threw it away or put it in his dad’s shop for sale.
“Ready,” I announce in the living room minutes later. Papaw come with me, and Grammy tags along too. Papaw drives out to Sunset, and thankfully, Sawyer’s picked a different spot for today.
I paddle out and get a smooth, clean ride on my first wave. I do a few control exercises on the next wave and spend the rest of the morning trying small airs. That afternoon, I go to see my physical therapist, Kelly.
The Only Exception Page 10
