Beyond the Break Read online

“Why?” I ask, and he sticks his chin out and questions me with his eyes. “Why the no calls and texts? Why the secrecy?”

  It’s like he remembers too. His neck becomes elastic, and his head tips back to the sky. He lifts it up and forward to look at me.

  “Can we go for a drive?”

  * * *

  The wind slaps our faces through the rolled-down windows as we head toward the ocean. The air is loud, luckily, so we don’t have to be. He slips his hand lightly onto the top of my knee, testing my reaction with a nervous glance. I reach a hand around his bicep and squeeze. Yes, I’m okay with this.

  Downtown Manhattan Beach is a ghost town, so quiet we can hear our flip-flops slapping the clean sidewalks. The Kettle, a twenty-four-hour diner where most of the local college kids pull all-nighters tucked away in leather booths, is the only place open. A few families are inside, enjoying their nontraditional no-one-has-to-cook-or-clean Thanksgiving feasts.

  “Where are we going?”

  He keeps his eyes fixed on the dark ocean’s horizon as if he’s watching the orangey sun that set an hour ago.

  A few minutes later, we stop in the middle of the sandy beach at a pair of swings. Away from the traffic noise, here with our feet in the sand, the waves are louder, creating a calming background music. The chains are rusty from wet salt and damp air, but we kick our shoes off and sit on the creaky seats facing opposite directions so we can look at each other.

  Our legs are touching, and they start to lazily swing back and forth. It feels natural, but still, it makes me forget why we’re here. I pretend it’s no big deal, but we might as well be making out. I never want to stop swinging my legs. Like ever. I want to be a pendulum for Halloween.

  He grips the chains with his hands and tips his head back, drinking in a long breath. When he brings his head up, he says, “My mom wants me to apply to the University of Hawaii.”

  “You spoke with her?”

  “Briefly.”

  “How was it?”

  His jaw tightens. Still sitting, he moves his feet in a circle, turning his swing, twirling the chain above him. He releases his feet and his swing spins, whipping him in a circle one direction and then back the other until it teeter-totters to a gentle rock back and forth.

  “According to her, great.”

  “Why?”

  His teeth clamp down hard. “Well, I submitted my application.”

  “Oh.”

  A ball forms in my gut and grows. The worry about next year has been marinating, but I’ve kept it tucked in the back of my head. Him going to college. What that will mean for us. I’m only a junior, but for him, that’s less than a year away.

  “You can’t go to a college here?”

  “Don’t qualify for in-state tuition. Not after only three months.”

  “But when you start in the fall.”

  “Still under a year.”

  “But”—I’m gripping the sand with my toes—“But.” I tug at my hair with one hand. “But you moved away. You’re not in-state there either.”

  “I will be if I move back in time.”

  My stomach turns to water and I spring to my feet. The swing rattles and dangles behind me. “What?” I choke out.

  He jumps to his feet too, faces me, tries to calm me with his eyes. He knows what’s erupting inside of me, the realization of what this means. “Easy,” he says. “No one’s moving away just yet. I haven’t even been accepted.”

  “But if you are?”

  His silence is the answer I don’t want. I slump down to the sand, and rest my head and arms on my knees. I hear him ease down to the sand in front of me.

  “Hey.”

  I don’t look up. I feel his bare feet reach around my hips and pull me closer to him.

  “Heyyyy.”

  I peer up at him, and his deep brown eyes are rich with apology. “That’s why I avoided you all week. I’ve been a trainwreck. Confused. Pissed. Frustrated. All the things. Didn’t know how to tell you. Knew I needed to. Didn’t want to. I decided I’d keep it from you, but you’re so damn honest about everything. You look at me sometimes, and I want to tell you things.” His next words are strangled. “I want to tell you everything.”

  He’s looking at me, and it’s intense. It’s a way he’s not supposed to be looking at me if we’re gonna hold to our list. Then his eyes flicker like he’s thinking of the list too. He exhales slowly.

  “So why didn’t you?”

  “My parents, my future, my past, my thoughts about God—it’s never a mess I want to bring you into. But every now and then, you knock the wind out of me, and—”

  “Stop.” I can’t do this. I can’t start thinking these thoughts, because there’s something deep in me that knows what he’s talking about, and I feel drawn to it more than the waves, and sometimes more than God, and it’s more dangerous than surfing. It distracts me from the issue at hand. “What you did wasn’t okay.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry I left you hanging. You’re right. You’re my girl.” Again, my body electrifies. “And you deserve to know it all, even the bad.”

  When he looks at me with that unblinking stare, caresses the inside of my wrist with his thumb, talks to me with that low growl, I feel weird things in my body and they feel wonderful and terrible at the same time. They make me want to ball up that list, tie it to an anchor, and drop it in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle so I can throw him down on the sand right here and make out with him.

  With my clothes on, but still.

  Clothes off starts with clothes on. And I’m embarrassed that he’s confessing about his mom and college and honesty, and in my mind, I’m rolling around on a beach with him.

  “What are you thinking?” he asks, tracing a finger across my forearm.

  I can’t speak. There’s no chance I’m going to lie, but there’s less chance I’m going to be honest. I shake my head and he misunderstands.

  “No more keeping stuff from you. Promise.”

  I’m so relieved hearing those words, that it takes a minute to realize he just referred to his thoughts about God as a mess, right next to the mess of his dysfunctional family. It reminds me of an earlier time, when he questioned, “Don’t you ever wonder why God didn’t take care of you if He loved you so much?” Have I been wrong in thinking he loves God? I know what the Bible says. If we’re not looking in the same direction in our faith, then it’s not a direction I’m supposed to go.

  But my heart’s already there.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Four. He’s applied to four universities, and only one is within driving distance from here. He wants to double major in accounting and communications and get his master’s in business. When I ask these questions, he’s honest, but I can hear the strain in his voice. The thoughts of his future worry him, so I don’t add to the stress by telling him how much they worry me too. Do we have an expiration date? College is a big deal—far bigger than us—but my heart is having trouble accepting that.

  The thought of him moving away next year makes me want to curl up and dissolve into sea foam. And then there are other thoughts creeping in. How maybe he appreciates my love for God but doesn’t share it. I don’t want to have to mute God every time Jake and I hang out. That’s not freedom. But letting go of Jake doesn’t feel freeing, either. My thoughts are a brain hurricane, swirling and whipping around in every direction.

  I know Jake’s noticed that I’ve been a little stuck in my own head, but he’s been kind and respectful of the fact that I don’t want to talk about it. He, of all people, understands that. Every time we’ve gone surfing these past couple weeks, he’s asked me at least once while the waves licked our boards between sets, “You sure you’re okay?” It’s the perfect question, because yes, I’m okay. Okay means average. Okay means not great but not horrible. And truly, I’m not horrible. I’m
just confused. And if I don’t deal with it, then I can stay at that flat area beyond the break—not catching waves but not being tumbled. Safe waters. So I nod each time he checks to see if I’m “okay.”

  He hasn’t pushed it, and I haven’t either.

  “Your brother coming home for Christmas break?” he says one morning a little after dawn. We’re paddling out, and I have to duck-dive a wave before I can answer. I pop up with a quick gasp. The water is colder now that it’s mid-December.

  “Good question.”

  I tell him how Matt was accepted into a study-abroad program, and how that involves flying, and the whole seizures and no-flying thing. I’m pretty sure he told my parents before he went back to college after Thanksgiving, because I heard muffled arguing late that night. The next day, Mom didn’t talk much and her face was puffy and swollen. She told me it was a migraine, but if that’s true, then she’s had the longest migraine in the history of America. Since Matt went back to school, she shuffles from room to room like she’s trying to sweep the floors with her socks.

  I tell Jake about this as we surf, so I think he assumes that’s why I’ve just been “okay” these past few weeks.

  Mom still asks about my day when I see her, but her smiles look pained—like she’s constipated and needs prunes—and when I answer, “Not great. We had a test,” she answers, “That’s nice,” and shuffles along.

  Dad’s been consistent with his salutes, so that’s comforting. I think he knows I sense the tension. He’ll add a smile if Mom doesn’t look up when she walks by like a human Swiffer, as if to say, “Don’t fret, kid. She just likes clean floors.”

  The silver lining about this is that I’ve been able to head out early and come back late, and no one’s been asking questions. I’ve spent more time on the water than I have the past couple months combined, and I feel comfortable riding the waves now, even in the rougher winter surf.

  Jake and I work on form, and I rarely take out the longboard. My shortboard tricks need work, but they’re getting there. This morning before school when I catch a wave that lines up perfectly, Jake reminds me I’m standing too upright, or as he calls it, “cruisy.”

  I argue, “I was still going pretty fast.”

  “For a sea turtle, sure.”

  I cup a handful of water and splash him.

  “It’s true! If your board’s flat, then your ride’s gonna be flat. Think about minimizing your board’s contact with the water. Rail to rail. Rail to rail. Compress, extend, compress, extend. It’s like you become a spring—up, down, up, down—as you ride down the line. You’ll generate better momentum.”

  “Got it.” I love these moments, when we can lose ourselves in what we love. There’s no drama—no parents saying no or friends disappointed in me or worries about God or about dating or how far is too far? There’s just us, our boards, and an endless expanse of God’s perfect deep-blue majesty.

  I look down the line. It’s a left, forming perfectly, and I paddle and glance to make sure my timing is lined up with the wave.

  “Yes!” Jake hollers, and a second later I’m up and on my board’s rail. I feel myself accelerate as I try to cut laterally down the line. I hear Jake’s voice in my head: “Rail to rail, rail to rail.” I carve back and forth, one side of my board to the other, with a slight shifting of my body weight. My board undulates faster and faster until I’m pumping and racing, the cold winter air whipping my hair across my face. It gets too fast, and I panic and bail, but it’s okay. It felt glorious.

  Jake swims over and meets me with a forearm-to-forearm bump. “You see any cops out here?”

  My face pinches in confusion. “No, why?”

  “’Cause you can’t afford a speeding ticket right now,” he says, grinning. Oh my gosh, that was so cheesy and I laugh so loud, it bounces off the water and magnifies in the morning air. If only all my worries about Jake and God were like surfing, so black-and-white, so easy to answer by following one set of directions. But my feelings for him send me every which way, dragging my toes in the water or leaning too far back, compressing when I should extend, or vice versa, and all the while I’m plugging my ears with my index fingers so I can’t hear my heavenly coach, who keeps reminding me that at some point, Jake and I need to talk.

  * * *

  On the day before Christmas break, Jake’s holding my hand like he does every day at school during passing periods. I used to look forward to it, the linking of our fingers, and the thrilling sensation it sent from my rib cage to my lower stomach. It was a drop on a roller coaster every time for the first few weeks. But since Thanksgiving, these thoughts about him leaving for college—not to mention our faith issues—have consumed me. I feel guilty holding his hand, but if I refused, it would look like I was being dramatic or causing a scene. Part of me wonders why we’re moving forward if he’s moving away so soon. And I know I can be straightforward and bring up the whole God thing, but I keep waiting, hoping that I’ll see a glimmer of his love for Jesus in something that he says.

  When we ride in a car or sit next to each other at lunch, he’ll put a hand on my thigh. It never travels upward, just rests there, a simple reminder of Hey, we’re in all of this together, even this sitting thing. But every time it happens, it makes me ask myself if we’re really in this together. Is it the three of us? Or just two? On a few occasions when we’re alone, he’s pulled me close as we hug good night, held me there to breathe in the scent of me, and we nuzzle, all ears and cheeks and necks, never face-to-face, but it still feels forbidden and wild, and it makes me take in gallons of air afterward. Those are the worst moments, because they feel the best, and I never once want to stop to talk about our faith or our future.

  * * *

  Today, right there next to the east-wing lockers and before we hit the double doors to the outside lunch area, he digs his heels into the linoleum hallway mid-step. Before I can say “about face,” he’s whipped me around and we’re eye to eye.

  “Whoa!”

  He doesn’t respond, just searches me with his eyes.

  I ask, “You okay?”

  “Me? That’s what I’ve been asking you for the past three weeks.”

  “I’ve told you I’m okay.”

  “Are we okay?”

  I pause. “Yes?”

  “Is that a question?” He holds my hand up, my fingers linked in his. “See this? This used to grip me like I was a lifeline. Now your hand is a floppy dead fish every time I reach for it. You’re the one who called me out on being honest.”

  He waits, knowing me well enough to know it’s me this time who’s holding back.

  “I like you,” I start, but then stop when I see this slight doubt creasing his eyebrows, making his eyes bigger and browner than normal. It makes me think of a deer. “You know that much,” I say louder than I intend. A few students stop to look. The novelty of Cecilia’s prank has worn off, but the gossip paparazzi are still on high alert, hoping I can give them something more to keep the talk going. I grip both of his hands and say quieter, “Jake, I like you in a way that scares me.” I feel his hands relax a little. “But—” I look around. More curious eyes have stopped to see if this is going to be social-media worthy. There’s no way I can talk to him here about the future of us.

  He’s the opposite, so unaware that we have an audience. He releases my hands and pulls me into a full embrace. We’re wrapped around each other in public, fully hugging with our entire bodies, and this time it’s not because he’s got a black eye or because Jesus is telling me to. It’s because I want to, and Jake wants to, and so here we are.

  “You had me worried,” he whispers in my ear, and it feels like silk. “Look, I’m scared too. But we’ll figure it out, okay?”

  I nod into his neck, then promise God and myself that I’ll talk to Jake sometime during Christmas break about all of this.

  * * *

  At lunch,
Niles holds up a Coke. “I’d like to propose a toast.” We hold up our waters and Capri Suns and sodas. “Lovette finally rubbed Jake’s chesticles in public.”

  “Hear hear!” the guys shout. Everyone cheers. Well, everyone but Kelly, who puts down her kombucha and frowns.

  “Ew!” I giggle, throwing a balled napkin at him. “Not when you put it that way!”

  “Saw you two right before we headed into lunch. Well done and I’m proud. Our little girl is growing up.” He holds up an open hand.

  “I am not high-fiving you for anyone’s chesticles. It’s called a ‘hug,’ okay?”

  “I thought you only did that hip-hugging church thing.”

  “Okay, fine. It was more than a side hug. We were facing each other.”

  “Full frontal again?” Kaj says, like he did when he first saw us weeks back. The guys laugh, and I shake my head. They find the grossest things so hilarious.

  “Woo, girl! I told you!” Lydia teases. “Breast to breast is the best!” She does a little breast shimmy with her shoulders. “What’s next?”

  “I mean, we’ll have to check the to-do list,” I joke.

  Jake holds up a finger. “We did make a list,” he confirms.

  Kelly excuses herself to the bathroom, but I’m the only one who sees her scowl. We talk the rest of lunch about our Christmas plans. Niles, who hates the snow, is heading Back East with his family, where they received four feet of new powder. Lydia is having the family come stay with them, which means she has to share her bed with not one but two cousins. Kaj is going away for a few days but only to Riverside, where his grandparents live with two cats.

  “I thought you were allergic,” I say.

  “Oh, I am,” Kaj answers. “My eyeballs will be swollen shut.”

  “You’re gonna be so sexy,” Lydia coos. He scrunches his eyes and puckers his lips, searching with flailing hands for Lydia’s face.