Leap Of Faith

Chapter One

[photo by Dottie Di Liddo from Unslash]

Hatteras, N.C. August 2006 

Leni

I tighten my fist around the unyielding doorknob. "Come on you stubborn hunk of wood," I whisper. "I need this." The only other way out is through the kitchen, where my sister has been stationed all weekend—stockpiling our freezer so she can continue to mother me from afar.

"Let me sneak out and I'll..." I have no idea how to bribe an ancient fisherman's cottage. What would it even want? We just patched the roof last month. "How about I oil all your hinges when I get back?"

The tarnished brass knob doesn't budge.

"Fine," I say, lifting both hands in surrender. "I'll just climb out of my bedroom window."

There's a soft click and the door opens, scraping a sigh against the wood casing. Brined air gushes in to flutter the pages of one of the bridal magazines cluttering the coffee table.

"Leni, is that you?" Dee calls.

Her voice sounds muffled, though. She must be in the pantry. Good. I slip out onto the weathered front porch, grimacing as I pull the door closed. But the stiff hinges accommodate my escape with uncharacteristic silence.

I press three fingers to my lips and deliver a kiss to the splintered wood with a quiet, "Thanks." Then I run, taking the short cut through the neighbor's sand-spur lawn.

It's a short jog to the ocean: a stretch of pockmarked asphalt the length of five beach-cottage lots and then I'm in a scrubby patch of orange blanket flowers, starting the climb over the sand dunes. But there's no peace in escaping, no comfort in the salted breeze. I should be treasuring these last days with my sister. I'm going to miss her desperately when she's gone.

I groan and force myself to stay present, to focus on the constant rumble of the waves, the heat of the mid-day sun. And on the positives. I'm genuinely thrilled for Dee. Thrilled for myself even. Matt already feels like a brother. He's known about and embraced my differences for years. It would be great if they could stay in Hatteras. Really great. But I understand why they need to be in Asheville—why Dee would prefer to live there—and I want that for her.

Sand tugs at my flip-flops. I surrender them and keep running, pulling up my long skirt when my feet touch the Atlantic. But the cool water doesn't work its usual magic. It's getting harder and harder to shake this nagging clench in my chest.

I am not going to be alone. I have a good job and the people there are...not friends, exactly. But they could be. I will not allow myself to become a hermit.

A dark speck of grey winks up at me from the thin sheet of water gliding over the shoreline. I poke a finger into the soupy sand and pull out a rock, tumbled smooth by the pounding waves. Nothing spectacular, but I drop it into my pocket.

"Crap." My phone is not in my pocket. Dee will find it charging on my dresser when she notices I'm gone. Then she'll be pissed.

I pivot. Walk a few steps and turn again. "I'm not going back."

Dee knows me better than anyone. She'll know I'm on the beach and hopefully she'll understand why. I resume my brisk pace. Then give into the impulse to run again, as if there's a way to get some literal distance from my problems. As if the problem isn't me.

It takes a few moments for my brain to register the surfer. He's obviously not a complete novice. He can get himself past the break and seems to have a decent read on the waves. If he'd just loosen up a little once he's on his feet, he might get more than a three-second ride.