Afloat

Chapter 11

            Curling swells slapped at my thighs, swaying the surfboard I was straddling in a calming rhythm.

Only a year ago, I was terrified of the ocean. Just the thought of wading into it past my knees had my heart racing with anxiety.

For weeks, Fletcher taught me the basics of surfing on the sand. For weeks, I vehemently refused to go in the water.

But when I finally did, when we dove into the waves together just after midnight on the 4th of July, I realized the ocean wasn't what I thought is.

Sure—it was vast, unpredictable, unknown. That didn't change.

But instead of the vastness intimidating me, it humbled me.

Instead of the unpredictable scaring me, it intrigued me.

And instead of the unknown numbing me, it awakened me.

So when I finally let myself succumb to the mercy of the ocean last summer, I was no longer coasting through my life because I didn't have the energy or care to even try to swim.

I was coasting because I found peace floating atop the waves, knowing, without question, that I could enjoy the calm morning swells just as much as I could brave the evening choppy whitecaps.

After last night's uncomfortable dinner date, I woke this morning with a throbbing head despite the fact that Dylan and I never touched a drop of alcohol. Which was surprising, honestly, seeing as after our run in with Fletcher and Jen, the only thing I wanted to do was black out until my bones were numb and my mind was blank.

"You sure you're okay?" Dylan asked me as he pulled his car next to the curb of Monica's house.

I nodded, shooting him the same forced smile I'd offered him for the past hour and a half. It was almost robotic at this point. I didn't even have to try. "Tonight was great."

Dylan was smart. I knew all night that he saw through every one of my attempts at brushing off the fact that I was breaking down inside, like a brick wall on the receiving edge of a relentless sledgehammer. He'd been a good sport about it the whole time, ignoring it out of courtesy so as to not make me uncomfortable in public. But now that we were alone in his car, about to say goodbye, his resolve broke.

He reached for my hand, and I hated how I flinched when his palm made contact with mine. If he noticed, he chose to ignore it. "I meant what I said earlier."

I wish I remembered what he was referring to. But my brain was mush, and I didn't have the energy to even try to pretend I knew was he was talking about.

"I don't expect anything from you," thankfully he continued. Gently interlacing our fingers, he brought my hand up to briefly press his lips against knuckles. "I just want you to know that I'm here for you, in whatever way you need me to be."

I shook my head at him, my heart swelling even though I unfolded my fingers from his. "You're such a great guy, Dylan."

His lips tilted up in a small smile—a dichotomy to the dark glaze that coated his blue irises. An attempt to poke a beam of sunshine through a mass of dark storm clouds. "That's nice of you to say... I just wish you didn't sound so guilty saying it."

My eyes widened, shifting to him. He spoke again before I could even find the words to reply.

"You're great too, Jamie." His voice somehow warm but firm and his stormy eyes turned back to face his windshield. "Hopefully one day you'll actually believe that."

So when I got out of his car and walked up the porch steps to Monica's front door, I knew I was far past coasting. My head wasn't even above the water's surface.