In Waves | ✔️

43 | in your corner

I'm drawing a spiral in the margin of my notebook, darkening the blue with every loose circle. When Mr. Morrison goes off on tangents during History, so does my mind.

Matt's confession about his first time has settled in the stem of my brain, growing more and more unsettled. Twelve-years-old. A kid. When I think back to that age, I was making glittery Valentines cards for him, and he was having sex already. With someone who clearly didn't think there was anything wrong with taking a twelve-year-old's virginity.

A four year age gap isn't big, but the difference between twelve and sixteen and where you are in life - that's big. Matt's always been athletic, he filled out faster than most boys in our year, but just because he was physically mature doesn't mean he was emotionally.

I wish I could find that girl and confront her, ask her if she regrets it like he does. I hope she does. I hope when she thinks about him she feels pangs of guilt and shame. I guess that's all I can hope for.

On the brighter side of that confession, Matt trusting me enough to tell me has me feeling closer to him than ever. This weekend, the butterfly sanctuary, his bed. I'll remember it for a long time.

Mr. Morrison is still ranting, so I absently gaze out the window, all the good things about Saturday flipping through my mind. It's not raining, but it's still cloudy and gray out. The fluttering leaves on the trees look like flowing copper silk. My seat has a direct view onto the track field, and I stiffen up when I see Nate and Alex in their gym class.

They're behind the bleachers, separated from the other seniors. Her hands are in his shirt as they talk, and then he's pulling her in by the hips and they're kissing. Heavily.

Even though I knew what they were doing on Friday, seeing the realness is a karate chop to my windpipe. It's like that classic analogy of watching a car crash. It's awful and destructive and it's all happening in slow motion. And I can't look away.

I watch them finally break apart, talking again. His hands are groping at her shorts, and she's playing with his hair, and I have the urge to jump out the window and rip her fingers from those sacred curls.

Nate teasingly tugs her ponytail as they walk back to their class all glowy and flushed, and I go back to my spiral and press so hard my pen rips through the paper.

〰️〰️〰️

Nate is quiet on the drive to the beach. I actually had to bug him for a lesson today. He claims the weather isn't good for surfing, but I think he'd just rather be with Alex. And I think he doesn't want me asking about her, especially since he told me about their breakup. If I didn't know how messy it was, I wouldn't care about him getting pulled into it again.

It feels like the topic is hanging in the space between us. I watch him flick ash out the window, and I think back to the day after Rachel's party when he said cigarettes were his most toxic relationship, and he had solid contenders. Alex was a contender. The toxic one he's running back to. What kind of friend would I be if I didn't try and talk sense into him?

He idles in a parking space facing the sea, leaning over the wheel to look at it. "I told you it was gonna be too choppy. The weather's supposed to be better tomorrow, so..."

"It doesn't look too bad," I say, compelling my eyes away from those rough waves. "Since when do you shy away from a little bad weather?"

"Since I don't want to be rescuing you from getting sucked into a riptide," he drawls, picking up his phone that just chimed on the dashboard.

He smiles as reads the text, and I know he's about to take me home so he can go and meet her.

"Well we're already here, and I want to find a butterfly shell," I contest, opening my door. "And you're going to help me."