Beyond the Break Read online

  PENGUIN WORKSHOP

  An Imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York

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  Text copyright © 2020 by Heather Buchta. All rights reserved. Published by Penguin Workshop, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York. PENGUIN and PENGUIN WORKSHOP are trademarks of Penguin Books Ltd, and the W colophon is a registered trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Visit us online at www.penguinrandomhouse.com.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  ISBN 9780593097014 (pbk)

  ISBN 9780593096994 (hc)

  ISBN 9780593097007 (ebook)

  pid_prh_5.5.0_c0_r0

  For my nieces, Macy and Cassidy.

  May you always know Whose you are.

  —Aunt Heather

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  The first time a guy felt me up was in the big church prayer room.

  All the parents of youth-group kids thought church lock-ins were a fantastic “outreach.” So many sign-ups from non-church kids for a night of innocent fun playing sardines and capture the flag, with the gospel message given! Even if “Jesus died for you” was thrown into the five minutes between Oreo-eating contests and discussions about which church Justin Bieber attends, seeds were planted!

  It must be from the Lord.

  Well, it wasn’t, unless the Lord was the one fanning the flame of rumors about the endless possibilities at lock-ins. Dark rooms. Dark hallways. Lots of games requiring dark rooms and hallways.

  I was in ninth grade, and this was my first lock-in with our high-school youth group. I had just graduated from junior-high youth group and was nervous, but I had my two best friends Kelly and Lydia, so it was okay. We were playing sardines, where one person hides in the church building with the lights off, and then the masses are released to find that person. After finding the “hider,” you hide with him or her until there’s one dogpile of quiet, giggly teenagers waiting for that last scared-poopless soul wandering in the dark after watching everyone disappear.

  Please don’t let me be the last one, I prayed to Jesus. Oh, and thank you for the cross. I always felt guilty asking God for something without at least thanking him, too. Lydia, who was Catholic and didn’t go to my church except for lock-ins, had sashayed off with some tenth-grade guy named Max, so I was hand in hand with Kelly. “My goodness, don’t leave me, Lovette,” Kelly begged, but then released my hand and turned a corner into the main sanctuary. When I turned the corner, she was nowhere.

  “Oh God—I mean, gosh.” I squinted at the shadowed pews. “Kelly!” I whisper-yelled. Nothing. I felt my way, back pressed against the wall, searching for a glimmer of movement. A few outlines crept across the balcony, everyone searching for Tim.

  Tim Rainsforth was a junior and a leader on our worship team, SQUAD, so he’d nominated himself to hide first. I’d never find him. He spent, like, six days a week here and for sure knew every inch of this place.

  My hand bumped against the doorknob to the prayer room. I’d been here once before, when I asked God for help with my pimples and making the volleyball team, and thanked Him for dogs and the weather. Inside, I couldn’t make out much, but I knew the space was tiny: just a rug, a couch, some pillows to kneel on, and a card table draped with a cloth. On one wall were curtains and a cross. On the opposite wall was a Bible verse: “And we know that all things work together for good to those who love God. Romans 8:28.”

  Something brushed my leg, and I jumped. My foot landed on a pillow, and I toppled to the ground. An arm wrapped around my stomach and pulled me in.

  “Shh . . . ,” he said, and I sighed with relief. Tim. I’d found him. And first!

  We were under the card table, and the cloth draped to the ground, so until our group became bigger than four, this hiding place was killer.

  “Wow!” I whispered. “Nice spot!”

  “Shh,” he repeated, but I could tell he was grinning, proud. Someone opened the door, and I held my breath. The person was feeling the walls like a blind person reading braille. He or she tapped the top of our card table. I could feel Tim wrapped around me, a leg on each side, and I suddenly forgot about the game. Was this allowed? Sorry, Jesus, sorry, Jesus, sorry, Jesus. My heart thumped loud enough to give us away. Sweating this much had to mean sin. I started to move, but Tim held me firmly. I swear he was more still than a statue. He was so good at this! Tim was always somehow on the winning Ultimate Frisbee or capture the flag team. He also picked the teams. The shadow-person moved the pillows and left the room.

  “Fooled!” Tim whispered.

  Okay, it’s just legs wrapped around you. It’s just a body. He’s just trying to win. I repeated these lines like a memorized Bible verse. As guilty as I felt, I liked his legs around me. I scrunched my eyes shut. God heard that. Were legs around me considered going too far? How far was too far?

  We heard another noise outside the door—someone tripped on a hymnal, probably—followed by a thump and laughter. Tim responded by clutching me tighter, but his hand accidentally cupped my bra, and I
sucked in my breath like someone had walked into the room again. Oh God, oh God, oh God and not gosh because I really meant God. My eyes started to adjust, and I could see his purity ring pressed against my bra. I know I should’ve felt giddy or whatever people feel when hot guys do this, but it was so shocking, I could only gape.

  Oh God, does this mean I don’t like guys? I mean, gosh.

  Tim was really good-looking and popular, but this was really weird. He had never held my hand, but now he was holding my boob. I was no relationship expert, but I thought we were skipping some steps in this whole “courting” thing. Didn’t he just give a talk on this? Through the crack in the tablecloth, I knew the cross was peeking back. Jesus was glaring at me for sure. There’s no way He’d let me make the volleyball team now.

  “Um . . . ,” was all I could say.

  He looked down at what he was holding, and his eyes went wide. “Sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t—I swear I didn’t realize—you kept moving and—shit.” He let go like my breast was on fire. “What’s your name?” he stuttered.

  Something near the small of my back pressed against me. His hand? Oh no, wait. Ew. I leaped forward, knocking my head on the table. Two people entered the room.

  “I heard that,” one whispered. I was too busy rubbing my head to tuck myself back under the table.

  They scrambled over and kicked into me.

  “Way to kill my hiding place,” Tim grumbled. I could see the outline of his mini Bible sticking out of his pocket. My face flooded with embarrassment. How inexperienced did someone have to be to get a Bible confused with an erection?

  Anyway, that was two years ago. Tim wasn’t a jerk afterward, either, or weird. Or anything, really. He was always nice to me, and sometimes I wonder if he even knew it was me. We couldn’t fully see each other in the dark, and if I’m honest, back then, my boob could have doubled for a flat stomach. Anyway, that’s the most I’ve ever done with a guy by a long shot, and I’m proud of it. After all, I’m in eleventh grade and live in Los Angeles! I’m like a walking miracle.

  Tim goes to community college now, and sometimes I see him in big church, but mostly on holidays with his parents. I hear he still plays guitar but more for gigs, and he wears a puka-shell necklace like a lot of the surfers do, except he doesn’t surf. Or maybe he does, and that’s where he lost his purity ring. It’s not on his finger anymore.

  Chapter Two

  Waves. I’m thinking of waves the first time I meet him. Maybe it would’ve been different if I was thinking about God. But I’m not. I’m imagining the waves lapping at the beach, one swell cresting higher like it’s winding up but then delivering smooth and even, perfect for riding the line. I don’t notice that someone’s asked me a question until the second time he asks.

  “Have we met?”

  It’s 8:55 p.m. on Monday, toward the end of my shift at Billy’s Buns, and I’m staring at a six-inch hoagie layered with roast beef and cheese. No onion, lettuce, pickle. A plain guy. But when I look up at him, he’s anything but plain. I notice his eyes first—big, dark brown eyes that make me feel like I’m someone he knows—and then his shoulders, the kind guys get only after high school. His light brown hair’s longer than it should be but just barely, which makes it adorable when he blows it out of his face. I suddenly feel ridiculous in my mousy flop of brown hair smushed to my scalp by a hairnet. Holding up the yellow and white bottles like maracas, I’m double-fisting the mustard and mayo, one in each hand, asking him which, but through the plexiglass, he grins and shakes his head.

  Neither.

  This isn’t your future husband, I remind myself. God would never have me meet my future husband like this. Ordering a sandwich from me? No way. Besides, God’s not introducing us to each other in high school. I know. We’ve got a plan, and it’s not happening my junior year.

  I look down at his sandwich. Did I mess up his order? No, he said plain. I look up at him, my throat dry. “Did I . . . ?”

  “I’m Jake,” he says. “Jake Evans?”

  He says it like a question, like his last name should ring a bell. Kim, my coworker, takes the next lady in line.

  “Lovette,” I manage.

  “I know,” he says, and I freeze. How does he know me?

  Then Jake points to my name tag, and I laugh. “Right.” At the cash register, the plexiglass no longer separates us. There’s something vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it, like the feeling of seeing an old friend.

  “Lovette,” he repeats. “That’s different. I like it.”

  “Thank you,” I say, busying myself with the bill. “Six fifty.”

  “Can you add a coffee?”

  I look at the clock.

  He notices. “Two-hour drive ahead of me.”

  “Of course. Cream and sugar?”

  “Nah. Just black.” Definitely out of high school.

  He hands me a ten, and I make change for him. Why is my hand shaking? Not because I’m interested. Definitely not interested. I don’t date. I wonder if this is what God means when He says, “The flesh is weak.” My hand is weak, but my heart knows better. There’s no way college-shoulders Jake is for real. I feel my whole body exhale when he turns to leave, but then he stops. U-turns. I suck in my breath.

  “Lovette, what time’s your shift over?”

  I shake my head, unable to speak, trying to convey “never.”

  “Right now,” Kim pipes in and hands me my time card.

  “I, uh, have to race home.”

  “Well, then,” he says, smiling warmly. “You better hurry.” He holds up his sandwich bag. “Thank you.”

  I nod way too vigorously, and he turns and leaves. Everything in me collapses, and I rest against the counter for support. Kim nudges me so the lady can pay for her sandwich. I clock out, turn the open sign to closed, and remove my hairnet and apron.

  “Are you out of your mind?” Kim whirls to face me as soon as the lady exits. I grab my backpack from the back room, ignoring her. “Hello?”

  I fiddle with my phone. “Too old for me.”

  “No, he wasn’t!”

  “Yes, he was. Did you see his shoulders?”

  “That means he works out, not that he’s forty!”

  I fumble with my backpack zipper, my hand still not cooperating. As I pull my swimsuit out of my pack, I mumble, “I don’t date, remember?”

  “So?”

  “So,” I say and head to the bathroom to change.

  Once I’m outside, the beach breeze blows cool against my sweaty neck. I unlock my bike by the light of the moon, coast down the three blocks to the ocean, and then ride ten short blocks south, parking at Old Man Mike’s place. He’s my old surf coach from when I was a kid, a retired guy who lets me stash my bike in his side yard.

  And my wetsuit.

  I wriggle into the neoprene, and it’s a bit of a struggle since it’s still damp from yesterday. With my legs and arms suctioned in the suit, I reach over my shoulder and pull the zipper up my back. I get goose bumps from the cold, and my teeth start chattering, but it’s worth it. It’s always worth it.

  I hurdle over the pile of towels, his skateboards, and his two surfboards, then back out the gate. I jog through the alley to the boardwalk, empty except for one lone cyclist with a flashing light. The cold sand squeezing between my toes, I walk onto the beach, look out at the majestic expanse of dark water, and charge at it in full sprint. The moon, whose reflection makes a walkway from me to her, shimmers as white water explodes and crashes at my feet. I don’t hesitate before I leap into the ocean and dive under the cool, churning waters. A smile starts deep inside of me and finishes on my face. The heavens declare the glory of God.

  This is where I’m home.

  I don’t know why I feel more alive in the water than on the land, but it’s like I can float and fly and dive, and nothing’s impossible, and th
e world’s okay. It’s where I feel closest to God, like He’s holding me on all sides and reminding me, “I’ve got you.” And I feel His embrace most in the waves. I don’t care if they crash over me, if they tumble me, if I get tossed around, because even when I’m submerged, I still feel safe. When it all settles, I know the ground’s right there.

  * * *

  An hour later, I walk into my house, my hair still tangled and wet from hosing it off at Old Man Mike’s. I wrap it in a T-shirt as I walk down the hall. Dad pokes his head out of my parents’ bedroom.

  “Hi,” he whispers. “Mom’s already asleep. How was the Y?”

  Usually he says, “How was it?” so I don’t feel like I’m lying when I say, “Great,” but today, he asks how the YMCA was—which is where he’s assumed I go every day since it’s right next to my work, and I come home from Billy’s Buns with wet hair. I’ve never corrected him.

  “Hmm?” I say because I hate lying. Like hate hate it. There are certain sins you do without thinking about them, and that’s bad enough, knowing sin put Jesus on the cross. But lying’s one of those sins that you know you’re doing, and that’s just mean to Jesus. It’s like saying you’re His friend while hammering another nail on that cross.

  “How was it?”

  I exhale, because the YMCA’s no longer part of his question. How was it? It could mean anything. “Good! Really good,” I say.

  He comes into the hallway, closing his door. Darts a look back toward their room. “Matty’s coming home next month to surprise your mom for her birthday.”

  My brother’s in his third year at UC Santa Cruz, and he’s way closer to my parents than I am, but I’m fine with that because when he was younger, he almost died. If I had a kid who was basically brought back from the dead, every day with him would feel like my birthday.

  “Hey.” Dad puckers his lips, brings his face close to my scalp, and inhales. “They cleaning that pool at the Y?”

  I don’t answer because, again, the lying thing.

  “You don’t smell like chlorine.”