Today's Reading
I hadn't even put the gearshift fully into Park before I'd started in on her again. "No surfing, no diving, no trampolines—on land or on water—" I amended after I saw the glint of mischief in Gabby's dark brown eyes. "No go-karts, no rock climbing, no mountain trails without adult supervision, and no horseback riding without a secure helmet."
"Do you really think I'm going to forget your long list of no-no's the second you pull away?" My sister fiddled with her right hearing aid in the visor mirror before moving on to her left side. "I had a head injury, August. Not Alzheimer's. Besides, I know you wrote an entire essay to the camp nurse about me already." She flipped the visor closed and gave me a look that dared me to deny it. I couldn't.
"I'm just saying, I know how difficult peer pressure can be at your age. It wasn't so long ago that I was sixteen, and—"
"Oh wow, okay. I'm gonna go now." She popped the passenger door open, and I felt a distinct pinch in the center of my chest.
"Wait, Gabs." I placed a firm hand on her knee. "If you need anything, and I mean anything at all, promise you'll call me. I don't care if it's three in the morning or if you have to walk half a mile to find cell coverage—you call me, alright?"
She stared at me for the longest time without saying a word and then finally laid her hand on top of mine, patting it twice. "I'll promise, but only if you promise me something, too." She raised both her eyebrows until I gave a slow nod in reply. "You have four whole weeks without me at the house, so please go do something fun. Live a little. I better not come back and find you... well, like this." She pulled a sour expression I assumed was meant to represent me and then proceeded to drill her pointer finger into my cheek. "Promise me you'll free these dimples from the prison of your chronic grump face and find something real to smile about."
I batted her hand away, but she held my gaze until I said the words out loud. "Fine," I sighed. "I promise."
And then she was gone, hauling her overnight bags to the Welcome Lodge as if being away from home for longer than the one weekend a month she spends with Aunt Judy was a normal part of our routine.
As the memory fades, I blink the shore into focus. I'm much closer than I realized. And so is the familiar figure standing on the beach: Chip Stanton. My oldest friend, and the one person who never fails to show up when I'm at my worst. I have no idea why he's here or how long he's been waiting for me on that shore, but I stopped questioning Chip's uncanny timing years ago.
The surf approaches quickly, and though I'm as prepared as I can be, gravity hurts. There's no way around it, the hike back to my dad's rebuilt 1972 Bronco—affectionately named Maverick—is really gonna suck.
On rubbery, boneless legs, I limp my board onto the dry sand where Chip, in his pressed chinos and loafers, shields his eyes from the sun's glare. He's never been a fan of the beach, which makes his appearance here all the more curious.
When I speak, my voice sounds as torched as my lungs feel. "Hey." I clear my throat. "If I'd known you were coming, I would have brought you my extra board."
Given that roughly ninety percent of Chip's worst fears reside in or around the ocean, I've spoken some version of this recycled joke more than a dozen times in the last decade. Only today, it falls flat.
"Dude, what happened out there?" He stalks toward me. "When your board surfaced without you...well, I thought ..." He stops and blows out a hard breath. "Are you okay?" For all Chip's idiosyncrasies and quirks, he's not typically a worst-case-scenario guy. That's my role.
For a split second, I consider telling him about the light, and the superhuman strength that propelled me to the surface long after I should have been unconscious. But I can barely understand it myself. I need more time to sort it out. So instead, I shake my head and bend to disconnect the leash from my ankle. "I'm good."
Chip steps in to stabilize my board.
"I misjudged the size of the wave," I explain. "Lost my footing." Droplets of saltwater drip from the ends of my hair and disappear into the sand at my feet. I work to mask the shake in my legs, my arms, my hands, my voice. "Wipeouts always look worse from shore." The lie is so easily spoken, and yet it rebels inside my chest with the force of a hammer strike. Seeing as my smile's been out of commission for the better part of two years, I reach for the next best thing. "I'll try to work on my performance for next time."
Chip ignores my sarcasm and scans the scarcely populated bay around us. Other than a few cars on the street and a couple kiteboarders on the opposite side of the tide pools, there's no one else.
"Isn't there some kind of warning in the Surfer's Handbook about surfing alone?"
"Probably," I quip. "I'm betting it's right under the warning about wearing loafers in the sand." I point to his shoe of choice. "Those are meant for a library, not a beach."
He flexes the sandy toe of his shoe. "According to the website, these are considered a multipurpose loafer."
"What website? BookNerdFashion.com?" This earns me a laugh.
...
