Left Drowning

CHAPTER SEVEN


It’s Just Pain


“Hey, neighbor.” Chris smiles up at me. He’s sitting at his desk with a book in one hand and a pencil in the other.

“Hi.” Of course, now that I’m here, I feel like an a*shole, hit with the clear understanding that my showing up in this frazzled state is totally inappropriate. Yet I do not turn and run. The fact that he is using a pencil distracts me for second, because I find it totally adorable that in this technological age, he is still a pencil kind of a guy. “Sorry, you’re obviously studying. I didn’t mean to interrupt you. It’s just …” I struggle to catch my breath, partially from taking the stairs so fast and partially from my emotion. I put my hands on my hips and look down.

“What is it?” he asks softly. His voice is calm and patient.

“I tried to go running, and my playlist sucks, and it didn’t go well. Every song felt wrong and stupid. I felt wrong and stupid. And my aunt is just horrible. And …” I look straight into those intoxicating green eyes. “And why can’t I get over everything? My parents died four years ago, not a month ago, but it infiltrates my entire life. I can’t make it stop. I can’t be happy. I didn’t used to be like this. I used to be vivacious and fun. I used to be me. Your mother died, so you know what it’s like, yet you manage to have a life. I want a life, too. How do you have that? And … and … and my playlist sucks.”

He waves me into his room. “Sit.” Chris points at the bed, so I sit and watch as he gets up from his desk smoothly, despite the cramped quarters of his single room, and moves his chair so he can face me. “Give me your phone.”

“What?”

“Give me your phone. Let’s see this ineffective playlist of yours.”

“Oh. Okay.” I pass it over. The back of my hand brushes against his as I slide my phone to him. Some people describe certain physical connections as being like electricity. Sparks flying. When Chris and I touch, it’s different. I think of the feel of water. The way it is when you wade into the ocean and a small wave cascades against you, swirling sand over you and awakening every pore.

Slow motion, I think decidedly. He can make things happen in slow motion. The rest of the room grows blurry while Chris stays sharply in focus, and I watch him silently as he taps the screen. He has beautiful hands. Strong, deft, exacting.

Suddenly I notice that he’s been talking. “… impossible to run to this shit. You need an entirely different tone.”

“Hair metal? Oldies? Orchestral?” I suggest with a smile.

“Funny, funny. You’re trying to run at the same pace as these songs, I bet.”

“Well, yeah.”

“You’re competing. Don’t compete. The music has its own pace, and you have to make yours. Be in charge. Find a zone. A holding space.”

“Holding space?”

“Give me a few minutes. I’ll show you.” Chris pushes some papers around on his cluttered desk until he finds a set of earphones to put on. He stays fixed on the screen as he starts scrolling through options, only occasionally pausing to look out the small basement-level window behind me.

I lean back on my hands and wait. Save for the hint of sound that comes from the earphones that Chris has in, it is quiet. He swivels lazily back and forth in the chair, and I like that he is so engaged in whatever music he is listening to because it allows me to look at him closely. To take him in. I try not to squirm. He hasn’t shaved in a few days, and it’s a good look for him. For me. Since he keeps brushing soft waves from his face, he could probably stand to get a haircut, but I like his gently scruffy look. And the way his hair falls against the back of his neck… . God, I find the tanned skin between his shirt and his hair almost intoxicating. What would it be like to have that skin under my lips, to slowly inch my mouth across his shoulders, to touch him lightly with my tongue… .

I’ve gone insane. At least I am not drooling, though. Or moaning.

“The music has to be the background, the mood. Once you’re in that safe place, then you run, push your body. You need songs with meaning, and mood, and heart. Not this pop crap.”

He has brought me back to the real world, and I shake my head. “I don’t know. I don’t like meaning. Or mood or heart.”

Chris kneels in front of me as he takes one earbud out and moves his hand to my ear. I place my hand under his to adjust the fit in my ear, and he brushes back my hair for me. His hand stays on the side of my head as he tilts my face so that I am looking into his eyes. “You need songs that make you feel. Some make you strong, some make you weak. Some build determination, some tear you apart. But you need all of those.” Music begins to play. Slow music. Soft and rhythmic, layered. “Run through the pain.”

I shake my head again and look past him. “No.” I want to concentrate on the tan on the back of his neck instead.

He nods. “Yes. Run through it, feel it, let it happen.”

“No,” I say more adamantly. “I do that too much already.”

“I don’t think you do. I think that you dwell on parts of things and then brush them away. Stop fighting it.”

“How do you know that?” Damn it. I can feel that familiar sting in my eyes again. It’s so easy for my emotions to be played with, flipping erratically from one extreme to the next. Lust, then anger, then pain… . It is never ending.

And Chris seems to make the extremes much worse. Why can’t I stay away?

“You scream it in everything you do. You’re holding on to what happened because you think that’s all you have.”

“It is all I have.”

“Find more.”

I shake my head. I don’t know how to do this.

“Look.” Chris looks around the room as if trying to find a way to convince me. He thinks for a minute. “Your parents died. Your world fell apart.”

I nod.

He puts his hand on my cheek. “You were left drowning.”

I nod again.

“And you’re struggling to breathe.”

I am. It’s a constant struggle to stay near the surface. I have just enough air to stop me from totally going under, but not enough to thrive.

“So do it. Breathe. Just breathe.” He turns up the volume and strokes my hair.

I want to tell him that the pain of the last four years has taken a toll and that I’m not sure I can breathe on my own.

“You have the here and now,” Chris says. “You have a future. Deal with the past so you can stop looking back. It’s just pain.”

I sigh heavily and look at him again. “It’s just pain,” I repeat.

“Yes.” He tucks my hair back, and I catch my breath as heat sears through my body. His touch is incomparable to anything that I have felt before, and this mix of my personal anguish with the intensity of his touch is messing with my head. “Yes, Blythe.”

“Just breathe?” I manage with a laugh.

“Pretty much.”

“Is that what you did?”

“Yes. I got myself out of hell. I dealt with it and moved on. You can, too.”

There is no way to stop myself. I grab the front of his shirt and pull him in until my lips are just before the point of touching his. I want his mouth, I want his taste, and I want to breathe him in. I feel his body tense, but he doesn’t pull away.

Neither of us moves.

There is heat here, of that I am sure.

Finally, I lean in a bit closer so that my mouth is barely against his. I soften the hand I have on his chest and move my fingertips up and over his shirt, over the collar, until I’m finally touching the back of his neck. His skin is warm and perfect, just as I knew it would be. Chris starts to move his lips against mine, ever so softly, and so I ease in more. His tongue meets mine, and I shiver. The atmosphere in the room is loaded: loaded with my emotion and my fervent, raw, inescapable lust for this person.

I never knew that slow kissing could be so passionate. His tongue isn’t halfway down my throat, nor is he clawing at me with his hands. I cannot be wrong in imagining that he’s feeling the same way I am. Can I?

I’m not, because Chris moves his hand to mine and starts inching his fingertips across the top of my hand and up my arm. He takes out our earphones, quieting the music and leaving only us. The touch of his hand is intense, and I have to pull my mouth from his to catch my breath. My fingers begin digging into his skin as I watch him touch me, look at me, take me in. I try not to flinch as his fingers travel over the scar on my forearm. I’ve forgotten that I’m only wearing a T-shirt. This is definitely a first, because I never, ever forget. And now he is touching my arm as if he doesn’t even see it, making that visible reminder of my past and my guilt about it temporarily invisible.

When his hand reaches my shoulder, he doesn’t stop. I close my eyes as he moves to the top of my chest. When he first grazes my breast, I audibly inhale. Chris lowers his hand and slides it under my shirt, then under my bra, until his warm hand is on me. Now his breathing becomes ragged.

Oh God, I’m going to scream.

The way he skims the fingers of his other hand over my lower back is making me crazy. So deliberate and steady. He is so controlled. With the hand that’s just under my breast, he pushes against me slightly until I pull back enough for him to look me in the eyes. Every part of my body is burning for him. I love the way that his eyes pierce me as his hand moves against me. His face has just the hint of a smile and … surprise? I see a touch of confusion, as though he hadn’t been expecting this. If he didn’t before, I can tell that now he feels the same connection that I felt out by the lake. An all-consuming clarity that there is a magnetic pull between us. At least, I want him to be feeling that.

With both hands, I push his black hair from his face and run my fingers through it and then down his shoulders. I take my time because I want to take in everything that I can about him and absorb all the details of his face. How the curve of his eyebrows is so beautifully arched, how the hint of a sideburn blends into his unshaven cheek, and how he bites his lip as I study him. And more than that, I see both our kinship and our differences: how we both have pasts full of pain and how he emanates survival in the way that I want to. Right now, I embody failure and surrender, but I see in him the possibility of what I could have.

So his touch is more than just physical touch.

Under my bra, Chris covers my breast with his hand and strokes me slowly with his thumb. I’m not prepared for the powerful ache that surges between my legs as he tightens his fingers around my nipple, and I drop my head back slightly. I arch my back some, pushing my breast against him, wanting more. For a second more, he pinches my nipple, but then moves his hand away. I nearly whimper, but then he leans into me and kisses me again. Harder this time. He tastes like eternity, and healing, and completion.

No one else could ever kiss me like this, of that I am positive.

I could breathe him in forever.

I could fall in love forever.

It is impossible to deny that I am clearly starved for physical contact, for sexual contact, but that still doesn’t entirely explain how desperately I want to tear off this boy’s clothes after I’ve shied away from everyone else. Never have I been so turned on. I move to the very edge of the bed and drop my hands to Chris’s lower back, bringing him against me. He wraps his arms around me and holds me tightly as he presses his waist between my legs. His lips are sealed against mine, his tongue perfect. I cannot get close enough to him, and I want more. I want everything. It doesn’t make sense. I barely know him, and it isn’t as though I’ve been whoring around campus for the past three years. This is the most intimate that I have ever been with anyone, physically or emotionally.

Right now, I know that this is right, even though it’s baffling. Chris has tapped into the small part of me that still seeks hope. And pleasure.

His mouth moves to my neck, his lips grazing against my skin and his breath heated. The only downside to lifting the back of his shirt is that he has to take his lips from my skin so that I can pull it over his head.

Holy hell, he’s gorgeous.

I touch his chest. As I’d seen when we were by the lake, he is all muscle. Lean, and defined, and utterly incomparable. And now I get to have my hands on him. Mesmerized by his body, I follow the lines of his chest muscles with my hand, tracing my fingers across his nipples, down to his abs, and still to the faint trail of hair that leads into his jeans. Then I work my way back up again, aware that I could do this for hours. Chris groans softly. There is no insecurity about what I am doing nagging at me, no doubt about how to touch him. Feeling his body, exploring him, is intuitive. Just having my hands on this boy seems like it could fulfill any lustful craving I have. He is absolutely captivating.

As he kneels in front of me, I lean in and sweep my lips over his chest, kissing and touching my tongue to him every now and then. His hands are in my hair, cradling me while I taste his body. Later, when my mouth knows every inch of his muscled chest, I lift my mouth to his. He does not hesitate and kisses me again. I lean back onto the bed, and he crawls into me, resting his weight against me. My hips press up into him as he kisses his way from my mouth to my breasts, over my shirt and down my stomach.

“Christopher.” I can’t help murmuring his name, and I have to stop myself from saying it over and over. I feel such relief to have found him.

Then his weight is on me again, and he kisses me deeply as he presses his body between my legs. I feel how hard he is, how much he wants me.

But then, without warning, he pushes up on his arms, panting a bit. He touches his cheek to mine, and I can feel that I’ve lost him. I don’t know what I’ve done wrong, but he is clearly stopping this before it goes any further. The sudden distance between us, the wall, threatens to wreck me. Whatever was there a few seconds ago is gone.

Chris kisses me lightly on the cheek and whispers, “I don’t … I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Oh. Okay.” I have no idea what to say or what has happened. And I don’t know why he hasn’t moved away from me or why he is trembling. So I ask. “Chris. Why are you shaking?”

“I’m not,” he says. But he totally is.

I brush my hands up and down his arms, wanting to touch him for as long he’ll let me. He drops his head into the crook of my neck as his breathing eases. I am so confused.

He lifts up on his arms. “I’m really supposed to be studying. Whopper geology test on Monday.”

I turn to the side and face away from him. “Of course. I’ve got tons to do, also.”

The next few minutes are awful. A horribly awkward scene while we extricate ourselves from each other’s hold; me, muttering an idiotic “thank you” for the help with my playlist, and Chris looking apologetic as he yanks on his shirt, only making me feel worse.

After a stupidly casual good-bye, I rush from his room before he can say anything else. The walk from his room up to mine is unforgivingly long. Talk about a walk of shame. I slam the door to my room and fling myself onto the bed.

I sniff. Well, f*ck, I certainly don’t smell great. That’s one problem. Perhaps my stench drove him away? It’s not like I planned on stripping off his shirt when I went to his room. I roll over and drop one hand to the floor. A few flights down, Christopher is probably now studying the boring layers of the earth or something, and here I am, all sorts of bewildered.

But, damn, that was hot. Even though I don’t know why Chris pulled away or what I did wrong, that was still been hot.

And that is enough to make me smile.





JULY

TWENTY-FIRST



“I’m going down to the water,” Blythe calls into the house and then leans forward on the deck’s wooden railing. Even with all the trees, there is still an amazing view of the ocean cove, the water sparkling in the mid-afternoon light. And she loves that briny smell, especially strong now, at low tide. The stink always makes her younger brother, James, wrinkle his nose, but she breathes it in with pleasure.

“Have fun at the clam graveyard hour!” James shouts. That’s what he calls low tide. Blythe’s repeated explanations that the smell has nothing to do with dying clams, and, that in fact, the clams are just fine and perfectly alive, does nothing to make him like it any better. Or understand her love for it.

The truth for his sour attitude, she thinks, is that James is still pissed that she was the one to choose their vacation house from the list of possible rentals her parents printed out.

It didn’t seem worth being pissy about. It was only for two weeks, after all. Once the fourteen days were up, Blythe’s family would finally be able to move into their new summerhouse in Bar Harbor, a house called The Stone’s Throw, where the current owners were taking longer than expected to pack up their things. The delay was a surprise and put Blythe’s parents in an awkward spot; by mid-July, it was virtually impossible to find any place to rent near popular Bar Harbor. That’s how they ended up in Chilford, a couple of hours south, in an old house.

Luckily, it turned out to be a fine substitute vacation home for the place in Bar Harbor, and they settled in right away.

Blythe knows that fun, easy vacations aren’t easy to come by for most families, but hers pulls them off every time. She knows that’s mostly because her parents walk that magic line between being involved in her life and giving her space to grow up on her own. Plus, her brother is pretty damn great, too. It seems like she and James should fight more, given that she is seventeen and he is fifteen, but they don’t. He is levelheaded, disciplined, and reasonable—many things that she is not. But under that cool exterior, he is kind. Truly, incredibly, deeply kind. And miraculously modest, considering that he is the top-ranked soccer player in Massachusetts. She is definitely the more carefree and sillier of the two, but James seems to appreciate that about her. They are a good pair.

“Hey, James! Jamie!” she hollers. “The dying clams want to say hello to you! Come down to the beach with me!”

“What? My God, quit yelling, you nut.” Her brother slides open the screen door and puts his hands on his hips. “We’re on a relaxing vacation. Soft voices, calm attitudes.” He half smiles, and the spark in his eye tells her that he is most definitely in a good mood.

“Come swimming! It’s a perfect blue-sky afternoon. There’s a dock not too far out that we can swim to.”

“I just scarfed down a massive sandwich. Later, okay? I’ll have to work off the six pounds of food I ate.” He pats his muscled stomach. He is a good-looking kid, Blythe knows, yet so far he has resisted the nearly incessant phone calls and overall interest from swooning girls. Soccer is his priority. “You shouldn’t swim that far alone, though,” he continues. “Take the boat, and I’ll watch you from up here.”

“Okay, Mr. Responsible. You can rescue me if I start to drown. I’m no hotshot soccer star, but I can swim well enough.” It’s true. She is a good swimmer. Her strokes and form might not be pretty by swim team standards, but she is capable of handling herself in even rough ocean water. All of her general athletic failings don’t seem to matter in the water. She feels strong in the water and, more than that, she just loves the feeling of buoyancy. Nothing compares to being cradled and moved by the force of the ocean. You just have to be aware of its power. “Never forget,” her father had once said, “the current, the tides, the waves … they are all smarter than you are. They are in charge. It’s your job to listen. Don’t ever stop listening.”

Her father was right. And so Blythe always listens to what the water tells her. “Fine, fine, stay here. I’ll be back in a bit. Wanna do steamers and lobsters for dinner? I saw a guy on the side of the road with a seafood shack. We can cook for Mom and Dad!”

“You got it,” he says, smiling. “Have fun.”

The path from the house to the shore runs under tall evergreens and is lined with feathery ferns. Blythe likes the way the leaves tickle her legs and how the rocky terrain makes her take her time getting to the water. She wants to slow down in general while here. This Maine vacation will be the calm before the storm. College applications are ahead of her in the fall, her senior year of high school: SATs and then forms, interviews, and freak-outs. Matthews is her top choice, obviously. Her parents met there, and aside from that cool aspect is the plain truth that it is an excellent college. She doesn’t want to go to an overpopulated university where she’d get lost in a sea of students. Frat parties and campus chaos are not her thing. Matthews is going to be her school. It has to. She even has on a frayed Matthews T-shirt right now. The pale blue lettering is chipped in more places than she can count and the red background is now closer to pink, but she doesn’t care how ragged the shirt is. It is her favorite. The Wisconsin winters would suck, obviously, but the beautiful campus and dynamic professors would make up for that. Blythe sort of hates that she will have to put down on her application that both her parents went there, because she wants to get in on her own merit, but she also isn’t entirely above using that connection if it can guarantee her an acceptance. If that’s what gets her in, then she will just have to validate the shit out of their decision to admit her once she’s there.

The thought of all the work that lies ahead of her makes her even more determined to enjoy every minute of the summer. Which is pretty easy to do, considering the house has its own section of private beach. Blythe much prefers this shell-covered shoreline and cold, rough water to the perfectly smooth white sand and warm aqua water at tropical resorts. Maine feels real to her and much less showy. The boulders that are covered in seaweed, the barnacle-encrusted tide pools, and the salty air that invades every pore of her body: they are what make Maine special.

She walks to the end of the narrow dock and tosses her things into the old rowboat that is tied up. She throws on the still-damp orange life vest and easily starts rowing out to the square floating dock that rocks with the waves, her boat bouncing playfully in the water. Blythe loves being around people, but she likes her privacy almost as much and adores how this dock is like a private island in the middle of the cove. She reaches it a few minutes later and clambers on top of it, situating herself on her towel. At three thirty in the afternoon, the sun is still strong, but a slight chill from the cold water blows over her. She has her bathing suit on under her clothes, but she will try to warm up in the sun before she dives into the Atlantic. She kicks off her sneakers and removes her shorts, but keeps on her shirt.

Blythe lies down on her stomach and rests her head on her crossed arms. The sound. Oh, the sound of small waves lapping against the dock is hypnotic, and the sun burning on the back of her legs is nicely tempered by the ocean air. Bliss. The dock rocks under her, and she gives herself up to the will of the ocean, succumbing to the unpredictable rhythm of the water and her daydreams.

After what could be hours or minutes, Blythe isn’t sure which, she lifts her head, her content mood broken, but by what, she doesn’t know. She looks around. The rowboat is still tied to the dock. Nothing is amiss. She shakes her head. Blythe scans the shore to her right and studies the houses. Some are too far back or too shielded by foliage to see, while others are clearly visible. It’s funny, she thinks, the mix of tiny, somewhat rundown houses set next to clearly more expensive, nearly palatial properties.

Movement on the opposite shore makes her look straight ahead. Someone is walking slowly where the water hits the land. She props her chin on her hands. From this distance it is hard to see the figure clearly, but she guesses that it’s a boy about her age. He’s tall, with dark hair peeking out from under a red baseball hat. He has on tan cargo shorts, and no shirt or shoes. And he is carrying two buckets, one in each hand. She watches as he plods slowly through the sand, wades a few feet through the heavy low-tide mud into the ocean, and then empties the water-filled buckets. He pauses a moment, tips his head back, and stands still. Maybe taking in the spectacular day? Or maybe something else.

The boy leans over and refills each metal bucket with water. Slowly he stands and brings the pails to his side and begins walking, obviously weary, back down the shoreline where he’d come from. He keeps his arms slightly bent at the elbows, flexing his muscles to keep the buckets from hitting his legs. When he reaches what is probably the end of his property line, he plods back into the water and dumps his buckets again. For ten minutes, Blythe stares entranced as he repeats this ritual over and over. What on earth is he doing? Does he have some sort of compulsive disorder that required him to repeat mundane acts over and over until his brain is satisfied? Although she would hardly call this activity mundane. Buckets of water are heavy, even for someone with his strong build, and the repetition had to be tiring him out. Perhaps it was some kind of physical conditioning exercise? He could be a sports nut like her brother. She continues staring.

Twenty minutes must go by. His pace remains the same, but his physical pain is easy to see. He has to be hurting. She stands up and brings her hand to shield her eyes.

Ten more minutes.

Stop, she whispers. You have to stop now. It’s too much.

Who knows how long he’d been doing this before she noticed? This is insane. But the boy keeps going, focused and unfailing in his routine. Even when he stumbles and spills half of a bucket, he continues.

Jesus, stop! she pleads silently. Put the buckets down. You’re going to pass out. What the hell are you doing?

Finally he pauses, turning his back to her as he looks toward the trees. Holy shit. His back is badly sunburned. If she can tell from this distance, it is definitely bad. It must hurt like hell, or at least it will later. He continues looking toward the trees for a bit, craning his head to the side. Looking for something? Someone? He drops the buckets and leans over, bracing himself with his hands on his legs. Catching his breath, for sure. The boy moves toward the water, looking down as he wades in a few feet. He seems to be shaking his head.

When he raises his head, Blythe finds herself clearly in his sight. She should probably be embarrassed, having been caught staring at this stranger, but she isn’t. She takes her hand from her eyes and stays where she is. The boy is looking right at her. His exhaustion, his sadness, his hopelessness, they all travel over the water and rip through her. Something is very wrong here.

She lifts her hand and gives him a tentative wave. He returns the gesture.

Blythe cups her hands to her mouth. “Hi.”

“Hi, back!”

“Are you … okay?”

He puts his hands on his hips and looks off to the side for a second before answering. He calls back, “Yes. I’m fine.”

“What are you doing?” She tries to feign curiosity rather than concern. “With the buckets. Are you in training for something?”

She can see him laugh. “Sort of!” he yells.

“You’ve got a terrible sunburn. You should put on a shirt.”

“I’m okay.”

“No, really. It’s bad.”

“I’m gonna be all right. Promise.”

“Is that your house? Please just go grab a shirt.”

He glances behind him. “I can’t. I shouldn’t … I can’t really talk. I’ll be fine.”

Blythe frowns. “I’ll give you mine. I can row it over to you.” She crouches down and starts to untie the boat from the dock, but he stops her.

“No! Don’t do that!” The alarm in his voice is startling and worrisome. He looks behind him again and then back at her. “Just … no. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” She can feel her heart pounding as she stands back up.

They stand silently. She can’t take her eyes off him. Desperation and exhaustion radiate from this boy. Blythe is afraid to move, afraid he’ll drop to his knees if she breaks away. So she holds their unspoken exchange. Whatever this is, it isn’t forever. It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay. She is nodding to him. I’m here. I’m right here.

Finally he says, “I have to keep going.”

Blythe is unable to speak for a bit. She doesn’t want him to keep going. She doesn’t understand what is going on, but everything about this feels off. Dangerous.

She nods. “If you say so. I’m going to stay with you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I’m going to. I want to.”

“Thank you.” She thinks that she hears his voice break. He picks up the metal buckets and begins pointlessly filling them and transporting water from one side of the shore to the other. She knows precisely how hard it is to walk through the heavy wet sand at low tide. Your feet sink in deep, making each step trying and draining. It can be fun if you are digging for clams, even funny when you lose a shoe to the thick sludge. This? Whatever this boy is doing, this is not fun. He only pauses once to slowly take something from the bucket and set it a few feet deeper into the ocean.

Near tears, Blythe peels off her shirt. She looks around for a solution, since he’s made it so clear she should not row to him. Then it hits her: the life vest. She sits down with it. It takes a few minutes, but she manages to tie her Matthews shirt and her water bottle to the vest by using the straps. She moves to the end of dock, her toes hanging off the edge, getting as close to him as possible. Blythe throws the life vest as far as she can. “The tide is coming in,” she yells.

The boy looks her way as he walks.

“I’m not leaving you.” Now her voice nearly breaks.

He nods again.

Blythe sits down and tucks in her knees to her chest. No, she will not leave him. So for the next hour and a half she stays, willing some of his hurt to come her way. She would take this away from him if she could, somehow share whatever this is. For minutes at a time, she closes her eyes, sending him strength.

This will not break you. This will not break you.

He isn’t crying, so she doesn’t either. The battle against tears is one she almost loses several times. He is consistent, steady now. Brave. The only time that he stops again is when her life vest reaches him. She holds her breath as he struggles to untie the shirt and water bottle. His hands must be weak and trembling. He clumsily gets the wet shirt over his head, peeks behind him to the trees, and then downs the water. He raises the bottle in her direction as thanks.

Later, when he has completed his … goal? job? … he suddenly hurls both buckets off to the side, slamming them into sea-worn boulders. The sound echoes across the water, making Blythe flinch. He paces erratically, almost manically, for a minute, and then turns to her and raises both hands into the air, his palms held high, fingers spread.

Blythe raises hers, too, reaching out to him as though she is pressing her hands against his. She folds her fingers as if they could fall between his as he follows her movement. The boy moves his hands over his heart, and she does the same.

Blythe grins.

He just kicked a little ass.

He nods almost imperceptibly and then slowly turns and begins to wearily walk away from the water and back to his house.

The glow Blythe feels from their connection fades once the boy is out of sight, and a new restlessness sets in. She can’t relax.

After rowing back and tying up the boat, she takes the path to the house, pausing on its deck for a last look at the cove. One of the deck’s lounge chairs beckons, and she falls into it, staring out at the water and feeling exhausted.

A few minutes later, she hears James’s steps coming toward her across the creaky wooden deck. “You ready to go? I saw you come back a while ago. What are you doing out here?”

The lounge chair is digging into her back, but she still doesn’t move.

“Blythe? You okay? What are you looking at out there?”

“What? Oh yeah.” She keeps her focus across the cove. “Just looking at the water. The whole view.” She closes her eyes for a moment and then pulls herself away. “Sure, let’s go.” She stands up.

“You’re going to need to put on something over your bathing suit. I’m not letting you drive me around town half dressed. Besides, it’s going to get cold soon. You know how the nights are up here.” James looks around. “Where’s your Matthews shirt?”

“Oh. That. I don’t have it … .”

“What do you mean? You lost it? How could you lose it?” He frowns as he unzips his own sweatshirt and hands it over. “That’s your favorite shirt.”

“Thanks.” Blythe slips her arms through the sleeves and fiddles with the zipper.” It’s okay. My shirt … found a new home.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing.” She smiles at him as they head into the house. “You know what?”

“What?”

“You’re a really good brother. I love you. And I love our family.”

James fakes a serious look. “Are you dying? What’s wrong with you?”

She laughs. “Shut up. Seriously, we’re lucky.”

“Does this mean that you’ll let me drive?” James swipes the car keys from the counter and dangles them in front of her.

“Hell, no, you’re not driving.” She snatches the keys from him. “Not only do you not even have a learner’s permit, but I wouldn’t trust you to get us through that narrow rut that’s passing as a driveway.”

“Fine, fine,” he grumbles. “Let’s go get dinner and hope this roadside seafood shack of yours doesn’t sell us clams that land us in the ER.”

“That’s the spirit!” She holds open the front door.

“Blythe?”

“Yeah?”

He puts one hand on top of her head and messes up her hair. “Even though you won’t let me break the law in what is really a minor, minor way, I love you, too.”

Blythe sighs. “God damn it. Fine. You can drive. Don’t you dare tell Mom and Dad.”