“Maybe you don’t feel it yet because you weigh more than me. But I feel it, as real as a lasso around my waist.” I hold my arms up, as though a rope has a hold on my midsection, and I follow it toward the water, toward the moon. It’s cold, the water, but I’m up to my calves before Jonah speaks up.
“Don’t go too far . . .” he warns. “It’s not like Verona Cove has lifeguards.”
I throw my sweater onto the sand so it will be dry for the walk home. “Oh, Jonah. Lifeguards are such a myth.”
“What? Lifeguards are not a myth. We just don’t have them here.”
My knees are wet now, and I spin to look at him, talking louder so he can hear. “Do you really think that a lifeguard—one single person—could stop the universe from taking you if it really wanted you?”
“I mean, I think that’s why they have mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.” He emphasizes the last word like he’s making his point with a five-syllable fancy word that he clearly misunderstands.
“Well, sometimes the universe gives you back, when it doesn’t want to take you yet—it just wants to remind you that it could, if it wanted to.” The water hits the hem of my nightgown, and now my whole lower half feels supported. Ah yes, my soul knows this feel of submersion, of fluidity and bottomless freedom.
“Vivi, you’re getting soaked. And you can get in serious trouble for being in the water after the beach closes.”
He has waded in ankle-deep, but I’m up to my waist, and we have to raise our voices to hear each other. It’s freezing cold, but I can’t even really feel it because I’m loving this way too much.
“Jonah, for God’s sake, you used to be an otter. Give in to that instinct.” I fling my arms out, and they reflect pale moonlight, with dark freckles like pinholes on my skin. “Give in, Jonah Daniels!”
He makes it up to his knees, and I am so confused by his reluctance. I’m telling you, these beach townies, they simply do not appreciate the majesty that sidles up to their backyards. I can practically see Jonah’s brain clicking away: Must. Calculate. Risk. But I want him to shed the grown-up parts that he needs to care for the littles, and, just for tonight, do what makes him feel something.
But I like the way his dark hair whips in the summer wind, so I’ll forgive him for his pragmatism. I move toward him so I’m only thigh-high in the water, and I press my wet palm against his dry forehead. A drop of salt water slips down his nose, and I say, “Jonah Daniels, I baptize you in the name of the God of Midnight Swimming, may he—”
“The God of Midnight Swimming?”
“Well,” I say, “you may know him as the Moon, but he has many formal titles that I don’t want to get into right now. What was I saying? Oh, right. May he protect and guide you so you’ll stop being such a goddamn buzzkill and start acting like the supernova that you are.”
Jonah looks at me like I’m absolutely off my rocker. Or maybe it’s a look of amazement, like I’m a whole galaxy, glittering and vast and unchartered. But then he smiles in this way that makes me feel known. And now I can’t think of anything but snacking on black cherries at the beach earlier today. The way he licked the juice off his lower lip.
I close my eyes a split second before he kisses me, and I clutch the hem of his T-shirt to stay planted against the swaying waves. His hands are on my neck, pulling me in, and the ocean floor drops out from beneath us and the Moon himself whispers, Damn.
It is nothing like that first, quick kiss where I was moving on impulse. This is an exchange, intentional and charged: yes, we are doing this, yes, yes. The difference between a happy summer day and a hot summer night. We’re knee-deep in the ocean, and I’m starting to think I’m in over my head.
So I throw my arms around him and hang on, kissing him wholeheartedly but without the Where is this going? and Does he like me? and What does this mean?! And I know there are people who would judge me for this. Even Ruby once asked, Gosh, Viv, do you keep track of how many guys you kiss? Nope! Because listen here, sisters: it’s summer and this boy is handsome and kind, and, frankly, I want to kiss anything that makes me feel so seen. How do you like them cherries?
When we finally move apart, we’re breathing faster than when we started. Jonah’s eyes are more open than before—but not in height or width. In depth. Like he’s more awake. Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation indeed.
I expect to feel triumphant, but all I can do is stare back, clinging on to him still. My vision tilts, perspective shifting like everything I see is now one degree different—finally clicked into place. Like an opera singer onstage who believes she is the performer, only to find the orchestra—its earnestness, its unexpected soul—nearly moving her to tears. You mean to give, and find yourself taking and taking, soaking it in.
“All right, fine.” Jonah grins as he takes my hand, and we run into deeper waters, gasping at the cold and the beauty.
CHAPTER EIGHT