Beyond the Break Page 4

  Girlfriend? It’s like he says it in Spanish. It hangs there like a word that my brain can’t process. Then the past few days come crashing down. I think back to my single word prayer, “Help,” on Wednesday night. Jesus answered me. So many posters and memes talk about the power of prayer. I can’t think of one that talks about the pain of prayer. There needs to be a picture of a bumblebee on a swollen arm: Prayer stings.

  “Ay, Lovette,” Uncle Joe says. “¿Qué estás pensando? Regresa al mundo.”

  Something about thinking and returning to earth. “Lo siento,” I say, which is my go-to when he says most things to me.

  We head to the stacks of dishes. The Venue’s a restaurant, a bar, and after 9:00 p.m., a nightclub, and thus, it has an endless stream of plates, glasses, and silverware. We lose ourselves in suds, warm water, and basic phrases. Uncle Joe asks me how the weather is, what my favorite music is, simple things in the present tense.

  I’m hoping I can still get my full-moon swim in. My curfew’s eleven, and I figure I can sneak out when we’re done washing dishes. Lydia won’t even notice once she’s on the dance floor. Hopefully Jake won’t ask too many questions, and he’ll just assume I need to get home.

  At 8:50 p.m., we hear the music cue up. Lydia tells Jake about the dance club at nine (Latin Music Fridays) and how Uncle Joe lets me and Lyds go out there as long as we don’t drink, and how we both love to dance.

  “Correction,” I say, pointing a butter knife at her. “Lydia’s the dancer. I’m the mannequin, hoping not to get knocked over.”

  He laughs. “It’s okay. My dancing looks like I’m on a trampoline.” As we wash, rinse, and stack, a tension releases in me. He has a girlfriend. We can only be friends. There doesn’t have to be weirdness between us because nothing’s going to happen.

  “So where’s Kaj?” Jake asks.

  “Español,” I remind him, flicking suds at his arms. “No inglés.”

  “¿Dondé está Kaj?”

  “No sé,” Lydia responds, shrugging. “Not his thing. Pero, he might show up luego.” Uh-oh. The way she says it means he won’t show up later. She only mixes English and Spanish when she’s bothered.

  Jake picks up on it too, I think, because he switches subjects. “So it’s almost nine.” He gestures in the direction of the music.

  We’re just about done, which was supposed to be my exit time, but Uncle Joe nods the go-ahead. Lydia gives a hip shake as a response.

  “See?” Jake says, pulling off his gloves. “I mean, look at that. And you haven’t seen how high I can jump to salsa music. And, Lovette—”

  “I told you,” I say, hoping this gets me out of it. “I’m useless out there. Mannequin.”

  “Well, Lovette clearly needs to practice her poses for the window display at Old Navy.”

  Lydia bolts through the double swinging kitchen doors, and Jake motions for me to lead the way. I glance at my watch. I guess I can go for five minutes.

  Chapter Eight

  The second we leave the kitchen into the Venue, it’s a million decibels louder and twenty degrees warmer. A few minutes after nine, and already these sweaty dancers have heated up the place. The tables have been pushed to the sides, creating a square floor where couples dance, holding hands and swinging their hips in rhythm to the Latin music. Their feet step back and forward in sync like they’ve practiced nonstop together, but they haven’t. They’re just that good. Some dancers move to the music by themselves, legs lunging left and right, and maybe it’s the ocean air mixed with their sweat and gorgeous moves, but it reminds me of what I think Brazil would be like. Lydia undulates, shifting her weight from hip to hip, her upper body so controlled. She looks like a professional dancer, fluid and natural—and apparently also sexy, judging by the number of guys watching her.

  I think Jake will stare too, but true to his word, he starts bouncing like a pogo stick. I stand perfectly still as always, watching the dancers. After one song, Jake’s a sweaty mess.

  “You’re good!” he shouts over the music, pointing at my statue posture.

  I giggle and shake my head.

  “No, really! The fall collection will look fab on you!” he jokes.

  “Thanks! You too! Did you grow up dancing?”

  He’s still hopping. “You noticed?” And then he gets that big grin again, the one where his dimple shows, and I can’t help but grin with him.

  Over his shoulder, Kaj shows up and stomps over to Lydia on the far side of the dance floor.

  “Here we go,” I say.

  Jake leans close. “What’d you say?”

  I point behind him, where Lydia and Kaj are yelling at each other. The music drowns them out. People dance around them, ignoring their argument.

  “Come on,” I say, leading Jake to the bar. “Let’s get a Coke.”

  “They okay?” Jake says. “What happened?”

  “Nothing. Everything. The usual,” I say. “Who knows. They fight about everything.”

  “Then why are they dating?” The bartender hands Jake two Cokes, and he gives me one. I take a sip and peer through the crowds of milling people.

  “Because that.” I point to the dance floor. On the far end, Lydia and Kaj are kissing and groping each other like it’s their last night on earth. “They really like to make up.”

  “Odd,” is all he says.

  “Not when you’ve seen it for three years.” I sip my soda. “I think they’d break up if they started getting along.”

  “Speaking of getting along, what’s with that Cecilia Grayson chick?”

  I bite hard on an ice cube. “What about her?”

  He twirls his Coke with his mini straw. “Guess she saw us hanging out at school. Almost dragged me into the women’s restroom to tell me to watch out for you. Says you’re after her man.”

  I spit the cube back into my cup, laughing. “Trevor Walker?”

  “He a bad guy?”

  “No. It’s just. I dunno, you have to know him. He’s so over the top, like he studies Disney movies and picks the cheesiest cartoon prince to mimic.” I’m imagining us back in Junior Guards and how he’d flip his wet hair back like a shampoo commercial. It makes me giggle, and Jake lifts an eyebrow. “The one who uses selfie mode on his phone to check his hair? That’s Trevor.”

  Jake adjusts the barstool under him, his leg brushing mine, and I jump. He’s amused, I can tell, but I’m not sure if it’s because of me or Trevor. “Sounds like a little much.”

  I finish my Coke. “I wish I were exaggerating. I’ve grown up with him, so I don’t mind—he’s an incredible surfer—but as for dating, yeah, no.”

  “You don’t date him because he’s a Disney prince.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Not because of Jesus.”

  I can’t believe in all this I didn’t mention God. “No. I mean of course because of Jesus. That was an example. I wouldn’t date him. Anyone. I mean, I wouldn’t date anyone.” My words feel like swirling sea foam, a garbled mess.

  He’s enjoying this, I can tell. “You got somewhere to be?”

  “Right now?”

  “I dunno.” He stands and sets his Coke on a barstool. “You’ve been looking at your watch nonstop since we left the kitchen.”

  My face reddens. Have I been that obvious? I can’t tell him about sneaking away to get a swim in. Nobody knows, and that’s the way it works. I can’t risk my parents finding out. Well, Old Man Mike knows, but he hasn’t talked to my parents in years, so it’s not like he’s gonna snitch.

  “Uh, I dunno. It’s a full moon. I wanted to enjoy it before I had to be home.”

  He finishes his Coke in three gulps. “Well, then, let’s go.”

  Let’s go? As in both of us?

  “Okay,” I say. I mean, I can’t say no. I said I wanted to see the full moon.

  We head
through the kitchen to grab our jackets. Outside, the cool breeze makes me catch my breath as we unlock our bikes. “You have any place in mind?”

  It’s a lie to say no, because I do have a place in mind. But I can’t say that. I settle for, “Anywhere’s good. I mean, the ocean’s nice because you get two moons. The one in the sky and the one on the water.”

  He’s quiet. Have I said something wrong?

  “I mean, not really,” I correct. “It’s just a strip of light on the water. But it’s so bright it looks like you can walk out on it.” He’s staring at me now, maybe waiting for me to say more, so I do. “Or we can just cruise the neighborhoods. I mean, we don’t have to head to the beach.”

  He blinks, and his familiar smile is back. “The neighborhoods? Why would you settle for one moon when you can have two?” He throws a leg over his bike and starts pedaling, calling behind him, “Let’s move, mannequin. You have a curfew!”

  I pause, wondering if this is okay, this going alone somewhere with a guy. I’ve never done that. But we’re bike riding for goodness’ sake, and besides, he’s turning a corner and almost out of sight, so I hop onto my seat and pedal after him.

  Chapter Nine

  Jake and I fly on our bikes to the beach, the wind whipping our jackets, making them flap like wings. My cheeks hurt from smiling and my gums are dry. I may not swim tonight, but this is worth waiting another twenty-nine days.

  We lock our bikes next to a beach trash can and stuff our cell phones into our shoes. Jake jogs toward the shoreline, and I follow. When we get close, I hold out an arm, stopping him.

  And I point.

  The churning crash of the white water fills the silence while we gaze at the moons: the bulbous one in the sky, and the other one, clear and bright, reflecting off the dark water a pathway directly to us.

  He finally murmurs, “Two moons.”

  “Mightier than the thunder of the great waters, mightier than the breakers of the sea—the LORD on high is mighty.”

  The Bible verse pops into my head, and although this is my space—where I go to be alone with God—it feels okay that Jake’s here sharing it. No, it feels more than okay. It feels right.

  That has to be wrong.

  “So you have a girlfriend,” I blurt out.

  “Well, that’s random.” His voice is tight. He draws circles in the sand with his big toe and digs his hands into his jeans pockets. Something about the moment’s lost. “Had. We broke up the day before I left.”

  Why did I ask that?

  “Distance is hard,” he continues. “You know, we literally have an ocean between us.”

  “You still talk?”

  He looks out like he can see her across the Pacific. “Every day.”

  “Good,” I say, overly cheerful. “That’s good.”

  He rolls his eyes. “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “You have a bad breakup or something?”

  “No, why?”

  “Your ‘no dating’ rule. Strict parents?”

  Heat floods my face. “Oh. No, nothing like that.” I stuff my hands into my jacket pockets. How do I explain this to someone who wasn’t there? “Back when all the stuff went down with my brother, God picked up the slack in a lot of ways.” Understatement of the year. Jake eyes me curiously, but it’s too personal to elaborate. “So I made this promise to Him as a thank you.”

  “You couldn’t just pray with five people? Or, like, read the Book of Leviticus?”

  “I wanted it to be bigger.”

  “So you became a nun.”

  I laugh, and it bounces against the crashing tide in the quiet night. “No, gosh no. I just wanted to wait and push the dating thing for later. When I’m ready to get married, you know, since, like, marriage is His thing.”

  “You know there’s other ways to thank God. Probably better ways.”

  I feel him pushing back a little, and it makes me feel defensive. “Maybe. But when I was twelve, that was the biggest thing I could think of. Everyone was getting boyfriends that year.”

  “Is that why you got rid of your other boyfriend?”

  My eyebrows crease.

  “Surfing,” he clarifies. “I mean, closest thing to a boyfriend you’ve had, right? You surfed every day in sixth grade. So what, you broke up because of God?”

  “No.” There’s so much emotion still attached to that memory. I feel the sadness, the frustration, the loneliness—even the anger—but I know it’s not for Jake. I swallow it down and mutter, “My brother almost died doing it.”

  “So now you’re afraid of surfing?”

  “No.” Why’s he digging so much? “How would you know I surfed every day? We never talked.”

  “I listened.”

  “I didn’t surf at youth group.” It comes out snappier than I mean.

  “No, but people talked about you.”

  I put my hand on my hip. “Really.”

  “Fearless,” he adds. “That’s what I remember.” Something stirs in me, and it makes me want to cry, but I don’t. “And I remember you always showed up with your hair wet, and people would whisper about how you could out-surf the guys, and you always won the group games, and you’d volunteer to pray, which nobody did in sixth grade. Every kid wanted to be on your team or sit next to you in worship. Of course I remembered you. Anyone would’ve. But now. I dunno. You don’t dance. You don’t date. You don’t surf. You don’t talk much at school.”

  “So?”

  “So it’s just a lot of don’ts.” I haven’t been angry in so long, but he’s kindled a fire in me by bringing up so much at once. How would he know, anyway? He’s been here a week!

  “I’m not allowed to, okay?”

  “Surf?”

  “Anything!” I kick the sand. “And why’s it your business suddenly? I’m not allowed to go into the water. My parents told me no ocean. Period. No way they’re going through hell again.”

  I’m immediately embarrassed that I said so much. The waves crash and pound and make up for the silence. His shoulders and head drop a notch, but he reaches out and rubs my arm. “Hey, I’m sorry. That was out of line. I don’t know what that was like for your family. I think I was just pissed you brought up Hannah.”

  I blink.

  “My ex. Her name’s Hannah. I didn’t choose to move, ya know. And”—he sits on the sand, facing the waves—“my mom didn’t come with us.”

  The last part hangs in the air. Oh, man.

  “Sorry,” I mumble.

  He pats the sand next to him. When I hesitate, he adds, “Promise I’ll get you home in time.”

  I sit down and feel the cold sand through my jeans. “You don’t have a curfew?”

  “Sort of. My aunt—who I live with on the weekdays—she’s a flight attendant and gone most weekends. That’s when I see my dad. I actually should be back at the base tonight, but I couldn’t pass up the offer—washing dishes.” He bumps my shoulder and I smile. “I’ll drive down tomorrow morning. Dad’ll get over it.” He says the last bit all grumpy, like he’s already in a fight with his dad about it, even though it’s the night before.

  “Sorry I was snappy.”

  He shrugs. “Wanna make up like Lydia and Kaj?”

  He gives me a sly grin, and we both erupt in laughter. It gets quiet again. I don’t think he tells many people about his home life, and that makes me feel close to him, even though we only re-met three days ago. I dig my hands through the cold sand, burying them to my wrists. “I do swim,” I whisper, and I feel his gaze turn toward me. “Every night, if I can.” I lift my chin at the waves. “Out there. They have no idea, my parents. They’d kill me . . . twice. No one knows, actually.” I glance up at him, then back down to my buried hands. “Well, Old Man Mike knows.”

  I wait for him to ask who that is, but he does
n’t. A comfortable silence settles between us.

  I peer up at the bright path of moonlight, the shimmering walkway from the shore to the horizon. I inhale the majesty, the wet salty air, the crashing sound of the surf, the soft lapping sound of the water as it ebbs. “It’s weird. Even though I’m disobeying them—my parents—it’s where I feel closest to God.”

  We watch the waves in silence. I wonder what he’s thinking, if he feels I shared too much, if he thinks I’m so boring compared to my sixth-grade self. Abruptly he stands, extends his hand, and I take it. Guess it’s time to go home. He lifts me to my feet but then takes my hand the way we do with our friends during closing prayer, not interlinking fingers, but still. This is the first time a guy has held my hand outside of prayer circles, and I start to resist, but instead of going to our bikes, he pulls me toward the shoreline.

  “What’re we doing?”

  “This is what you wanted to do tonight, wasn’t it?” At the water’s edge, all I can think is, A guy is holding my hand. Not for real in the romantic fireworks way, but still. It’s only September, but the ocean’s chilly as he walks me ankle deep. “Before I hijacked your night. You were trying to get away so you could swim with God.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then I’m not keeping you from it.” We wade deeper, the water lapping up to our waists.

  “I usually wear a wetsuit!” I laugh, pulling back toward the shore.

  “Where’s your wetsuit?”

  “Old Man Mike’s. Corner of Ocean and Twenty-sixth, you know, by Bruce’s Beach? I leave it in his side yard.”

  “Not enough time if we’re gonna make curfew. Come on.”

  He leads me farther in. This is crazy. And cold. Jeans, jackets, and T-shirts—soaked straight through. But I don’t resist. I don’t want to let go of Jake’s hand for anything.

  Well, maybe one thing. I pull away and dive headfirst under the white water. The ocean surges over my head and surrounds my body with its current. I’m where I belong. I pop up, the salty taste dripping through my huge smile.