In Riptides

03 | curveball

L I A 

I decided not to ride my bike home. Not only because I've outgrown it to the point where the sight of me perched on it these days could elicit a chuckle from even the most stoic passerby, but also because walking gives me more time to process everything.

As if ten minutes will even be enough time. I could live on the other side of town and still be in this hazy headspace.

Pushing my bike along the sidewalk, the ground feels soft beneath me, like I'm barely gliding over a pathway of clouds. And thinking about Nate, about last night and how I tried so desperately hard to stay awake, soaking in his voice and his smile and his freckles, my brain malfunctions and I'm convinced I've just got a big ball of cotton candy up there. Every thought is so sugary sweet that it makes me lightheaded.

But when I open the front door, the airiness I'm floating on is punctured by stern voices and I drop back down to solid ground. Mom and Derek are wrapped up in such a serious conversation that they don't notice I'm standing in the living room doorway.

"They are draining us dry," Mom says, waving a piece of paper in his face.

"We'll figure it out, Serena."

"The insurance won't—"

"Is everything okay?" I ask.

Their heads whip to me, and they both attempt to take on a relaxed air. I think they're so distracted they didn't even realize I had been out since I'm still in my pajamas. Well, my pajama shorts. Nate's olive green hoodie he said I could hold onto has now been added to the mix.

"Everything's fine, just... restaurant stuff." Mom smiles tightly, walking over to her handbag. "Speaking of, I should be there already, make sure we end this year on a good note. God knows we need it."

I get a glimpse of the paper before she slips it into her bag, and I can't be sure but it looked like a hospital bill. A twinge of worry spirals through my stomach. Once she's left, I catch Derek before he can scurry away to stress-work on his latest ship in a bottle.

"Restaurant stuff, huh?"

He gives a big sigh and slides his glasses up his nose. "Like she said, everything's fine, kiddo. Just another of one life's curveballs."

"Life's, or Rob's?"

"Now, no one's blaming Rob for an accident. That was a curveball," he says, walking to the staircase. "But we both know your brother's got one heck of a throwing arm."

〰️〰️〰️

After I've showered and slipped in a quick session of playing out all the fluttery feelings on my piano, I grab a breakfast of honey cinnamon cereal before I make my way to the hospital. It's a surprise to find Rob alone. If it's not Clara here then it's the rest of the group, or even people from school. Mostly girls with 'get well soon' balloons and cards and way too much desperation to throw at him.

And before he finally committed to Clara, he would have loved it. He'd be milking every part of this, putting on his sad puppy dog face for those girls, showing off his bruises, and they'd be lapping it up.

But in the time he's been recovering, watching him brush off the attention and in turn only give that attention to Clara, watching him fight his deep-seated fear of becoming the womanizing father who skipped out on us—it's unveiled a side of my brother I never knew existed. A side with growth and selflessness, and frankly, a side that's a whole lot easier to take seriously.