Page 84 of Riptide

Clearing my throat, I take a swig of the coffee, almost burning my tongue, but it helps me breathe normally again and tell him, “Yeah,” I manage, giving him my full attention. “I meant it.”

A familiar smirk blooms over his mouth, and he looks away. “Cool. Good to know.”

I huff a laugh at his response. “That’s it? Cool?”

“Come on, you’ve gotta know that I’m not about to make plans and put our sexcapades in the calendar that you share with your Saturday boyfriend. Where’s your spontaneity?”

“Math professor, remember?”

“Right, right. Probable outcomes, blah blah.”

He shifts a little closer, and I let my knee lean into his. There’s a quiet in the room I don’t want to break. The peace is something worth protecting.

His head rests on my shoulder casually, but something inside me lurches at the comfort he’s seeking from me. It’s my heart, I think, trying to escape my chest and climb into his hands. His hair brushes my jaw. It’s still a little damp, smells like citrus and soap, and that’s all I can focus on, all I want to breathe in.

“The water is going to be freezing,” he says, glancing toward the window, the one that faces the water, even though we can’t see it fully from here.

I watch the movement of his throat when he swallows.

“I kept thinking about it this morning,” he says. “About how I felt after.”

I stay quiet, letting him talk.

“For a while last night, when I was out there, I thought I was going to stop breathing altogether.” He looks over at me, not blinking. Those bright blue eyes are clearer than I’ve seen them. “But you were there, and when I could breathe again, it was you that my lungs filled with.”

I don’t speak right away.

I want to. I think I should. But there’s something caught in my throat that won’t move. I don’t want to fill the space with words that aren’t big enough to hold whatever he needs. Not when they mean so much to me.

I set the coffee down and reach for him instead.

He comes into my arms with ease. His body is warm, solid. Then he exhales a slow breath against my shoulder, and I feel the moment he lets go. His hand finds the back of my neck, fingers curling there, and I press my face into his hair and hold him tighter. I’ve missed this contentment with someone; it’s one of the easiest things to come from being with him.

We stay like that for a while, his heart beating against my chest, mine against his.

He pulls back, so I can see him.

“I don’t want you to be scared of the water forever,” I say.

“I don’t either,” he replies, voice raspy. “That’s why I want to try again.”

I search his face for doubt but find none.

“Alright,” I say. “We’ll go slow. You set the pace.”

Chapter thirty-five

Finn

It’sfunnyhowgriefworks. Last night, I was ready to surrender to the heartache, the panic, but I didn’t because of him.

When I woke this morning, I felt different, lighter, and more than that, I felt safe. I also had a delicious ache that reminded me of what we did. My skin was coated in sweat, but being wrapped in his arms, that safety felt bone deep, as though I knew, no matter what I decided to do today, if I had it in me to try again, he would be there for the either or.

Which is why when we crest that same slope as last night, I don’t stop because his hand rests in mine, reminding me that he’s got me. I lean down to slip off my Vans and keep walking toward the water. The cold sand sneaks between my toes, the wind bites at my cheeks, but I barely register it as I’m focused on my breathing. Slowly in. Slowly out. The tide is high, the loud swoosh of the waves curling in steady, rhythmic sets, like they’ve been waiting for me.

I pause at the edge of the shore, watching the water push forward, then retreat away. Everything about this feels familiar. The scent of the ocean, the sand wrapping around my sinking feet, the sounds around us.

I didn’t realize how many sounds came from being by the ocean until I spent every day there. The pull and crash of the waves, the hiss of foam sliding back over the sand, gulls crying somewhere in the distance. There’s always wind too, slipping through dune grass, whistling low. It’s loud in a quiet kind of way. Wild, but also calm. Familiar, but not threatening. At least that’s what I keep telling myself over and over as I look out to the blue depths.

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