In Riptides

18 | letting go

N A T E

"Oh sick, it looks like a dried up worm!" Tyler's laugh dies when I gut punch him with my free hand, seeing as the other one is currently being held down.

"Nate," Mom warns over the noise of the saw cutting through my cast.

Today's the day I'm finally getting it off, and yeah, after being trapped for weeks, my arm is kind of dusty and pale and weak. But—

"It's normal," the doctor assures us. "It'll take a while to regain your muscle tone, but don't go pushing it at the gym or anything."

He fully peels the two halves of the cast away, and it's gone. Lia's butterflies are now sitting on the table, split in half. Torn from me. I flex my fingers, rotating my wrist, my arm feeling weirdly weightless.

Surfing again has been the light at the end of the tunnel since that cast was put on. I've been picturing the waves, feeling the phantom rush of saltwater over my skin. But now, as I roll my shoulder and shake out my arm, all I can think about is her and those broken butterflies. How everything was so different when she drew them, how she was adamant about waiting for me to heal up so I could finish teaching her how to surf. Watch her ride a full wave.

Now that deal might as well be thrown aside with those pieces on the table, saw dust mixing with her faded ink.

"You look like you just lost a limb," Tyler breaks through my thoughts.

"Kinda feels like I did."

Although Mom already knows this, the doctor still gives me a rundown of aftercare instructions as he does a final examination. Stretches, light resistance training, no surfing for at least another week. I nod along, thinking about my board waiting for me in the car.

Mom latches onto it. "No surfing, Nate. Not until you're cleared."

"Yeah, yeah." I absently rub my wrist, trying to shake the stiffness. "What about swimming?"

"Take it easy," the doctor says, raising an eyebrow. "But light swimming is fine."

Ty claps a hand on my shoulder. "Remember to wear your water wings, you might be rusty."

I shove him away with my elbow.

Mom sighs, exasperated. "All right, boys, I need to get back to work and you need to get home."

Before she goes back to the nursing station, she takes the paperwork from the doctor and gives me some money to pick up groceries on the way home. But when I pull up outside the store, I thrust the money in Tyler's hand and push him out.

"Tell Mom and you're dead."

He catches his backpack I throw to him, glancing at the tip of my board sticking out the window. "Seriously? Why can't I just come with you?"

"Someone's gotta get the groceries." I shrug, peeling away.

He shouts something behind me as I hit the gas, but I'm buzzing too much to feel bad about ditching him. It's been six weeks. Six weeks of watching perfect waves roll in while I sat useless on the shore. Six weeks of my board collecting dust. Six weeks of not feeling like myself. I'm not waiting around for week seven.

The moment I park at the beach, I yank off my shirt, grab my board, and sprint toward the water. The first step into the ocean is like I'm being welcomed home. Cold shoots up my legs, the tide curling around my ankles as if it's been waiting for me. When I throw myself on my board and start paddling, my arm immediately protests, muscles stiff and untested. I grit my teeth and push through, each stroke loosening the tension.