Page 109 of What You Wish For

Then we tipped up, and then forward, and then went stomach-lurchingly, heart-twistingly, death-facingly over the top… and then, in impossible, helpless slow-mo, we plummeted face-first back down toward the earth.

twenty

Back on the boardwalk, I had to sit down and put my head between my knees.

Duncan, clearly at a loss, rubbed my back like a boxing coach, which was not nearly as soothing as I think he intended. He kept saying, “Can I get you anything?” and “You’re all right, right? Do you need a funnel cake?”

When I could finally sit up, Duncan’s first suggestion was chocolate, but I was too nauseated for that. Next, he suggested we “dance it out” down by the music stage where a country band was playing, but that was also ano. His final idea was a kind of hair-of-the-dog approach, suggesting we ride the Iron Shark again.

Which left me no choice but to charge toward the exit, leaving him behind on the bench.

I wasn’t leaving him behind on purpose. I just had to get out of there.

Duncan followed me. “Hey!” he said. “Hey—wait!”

“I think I just need to walk,” I called back, not slowing.

He caught up pretty fast, and we made our way out. The music andthe lights and the people and the cyclical rush of the rides going by, which had all seemed so delightful and objectively fun at first, suddenly now seemed crazy-making.

At the exit, without ever agreeing to, we started walking along the seawall, leaving the chaos behind.

The seawall is seventeen feet high—built after the Great Storm of 1900 to protect the city from storm surges. A boulevard runs alongside it that—and this has always struck me as a bold choice—does not have a guardrail. So, as we walked, on our right cars were zooming by—folks in top-down Jeeps blasting music, and Harley hogs, and the occasional cute red trolley—but on our left was a seventeen-foot drop-off down to the beach.

I noticed Duncan repositioning himself between me and the edge of the sidewalk, as if I might just kind of veer off and over the edge.

Gentlemanlike of him.

Almost in response, I took hold of his arm as we walked. And then the ballast of his weight there just felt so steadying and comforting, I didn’t let go.

“Thank you,” I said as I held on.

Duncan nodded. “My arm is your arm.”

“I’m not sure that works,” I said, “even metaphorically.” But I let myself hold on to him for a few more minutes before I made myself let go.

It was much quieter after we left the pier, and it wasn’t until we’d made it some distance, when it was just kite stores and pizza shops and tattoo parlors on the right, and the quiet, steady, eternal ocean on the left, that I started to recover.

The moon was out, too.

Duncan kept watching me—closely. “Are you sorry you told me?”

“Of course. It’s embarrassing.”

Duncan nodded. “What if I tell you something embarrassing about me? Then we’ll be even.”

“That works.”

After a pause, he said, “So many to choose from.”

“I’m not picky,” I said.

“Okay, got it,” he said then. “Here’s one: I plan my funeral.”

“Youwhat?”

“Yeah. I keep notes on a document on my computer.”

I frowned. “That’s actually a little disturbing.”

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