Chapter 15 Weston
WESTON
I pop earbuds in, setting my playlist to something called “Vibey Yoga” before stepping onto the center of my mat and beginning my breath work.
I started practicing yoga while I was incarcerated, after the therapist I was seeing in jail recommended it as a way to split up my recreation time each day.
I lifted a lot too, and we had a track around the courtyard I ran on.
Moving my body was the only thing that quieted my brain, but my counselor urged me to focus on my mind equally. Find a way to balance the two.
I often find myself wrapped in spells of insomnia, my anxiety reaching a peak that doesn’t allow me to eat or rest or even breathe.
I’ve been prescribed medication that I take on an as-needed basis when I’m having a particularly rough phase.
I didn’t experience attacks growing up, though I’ve been told it might be because my body was in a constant state of adrenaline and fear I never recognized what it felt like to relax.
That I’d spent my entire life anxious and thought it was a default setting.
After I moved in with Carter and Penelope, began processing my grief, and stopped living in constant fear, my nervous system regulated.
My anxiety came in temporary waves, typically triggered by a resurfaced memory I’d been suppressing.
Like my mom’s birthday or death date, or when I cross paths with someone who has the same name as my father. If I see someone who looks like him.
After I was arrested, the spells of anxiety became more frequent, sometimes even leading to full-blown panic attacks. That’s when I was prescribed medication.
It started Friday night, though I don’t know what the reason was this time around. I wasn’t triggered last week. At least, not any instance I can remember.
Yet, I woke up around three in the morning on Friday, and it was as if no matter how many gulps of air I swallowed down, I couldn’t breathe at all.
Like tendrils of dark matter had risen up from beneath the bed, slithering viciously toward my throat, wrapping around it and pulling tight.
Like the tentacles of some kind of sea monster only I could see.
I’d forced myself out of bed and into the bathroom, finding my pills buried deep in the medicine cabinet—I haven’t needed them since being here—and began working on some deep breathing exercises. After that, I put on a comfort movie, and though I settled, I never fell back asleep.
The sudden switch from rest to fighting for survival was brutal.
I’ve had trouble sleeping in the days since, afraid it’ll happen again.
I’ve been tossing and turning through most nights, rising the moment dawn crests.
Every morning when I’m waiting for daylight, watching through the window beside my bed, warmth floods me when I find the lamp in Willow’s window still lit.
She flips it on every evening after dark, and it’s still illuminated when I rise in the morning, though she hasn’t mentioned it again.
Hasn’t asked for details or pressed me to talk to her about my issues.
In fact, outside a few brief run-ins around the boardwalk to and from work, I’ve hardly seen her at all. I’ve wanted to text her every single day, but she didn’t text me back last week, and now I don’t know what to say to start a conversation.
I inhale deeply, raising my arms over my head before bending at the waist on an exhale and planting my palms at the top of my mat. I walk my feet into a downward dog, flexing my heels and pedaling my legs to loosen my limbs.
I’ve been running a lot too. In addition to the lifting sessions Leo requires of me, and all the on-water training.
I feel good for the most part, but it’s possible the added stress to my body is contributing to the anxiety, and I’m hoping a switch into something more moderate will help.
Fresh air and fluid movement have always been therapeutic for me, even before I was capable of understanding it.
I keep the music low enough that I can still hear the roar of the crashing waves—the tides my welcoming friends, the ocean a calming force.
I close my eyes, lifting into upward dog before completing a cycle of vinyasa.
I work through it twice more before I hear my name called faintly over the mixture of soft electronic sound waves and the crashing ocean.
My eyes flutter open, focusing on the purple-painted toes dug into the sand in front of my mat.
I crane my neck upward, gaze following endless inches of sun-kissed legs before reaching a flare of hips only covered by a pair of athletic shorts.
Teased by a glimpse of midriff, I continue my ascent along her body and over her cropped hoodie until I reach Willow’s freckled face.
Her golden hair is braided down one side, a few loose strands wisping in the breeze.
The rising sun behind me casts her face in gold, setting her blue eyes on fire.
They’re depthless—like staring into the sea on a clear day.
She’s transcendent, and I’m so struck by her that it takes me far too long to realize her lips are moving. I scramble back on my knees, pulling a bud from my ear and sounding stupid when I mutter, “Huh?”
“Sorry.” She pouts. “I just wanted to let you know I came down here to paint. I didn’t think anyone else would be out this early. Wanted to make sure it was okay with you.”
“Of course it’s okay with me, Willow. I’d never ask you to leave your own beach.”
She laughs softly. “Well, just because you wouldn’t ask me to leave doesn’t mean you want me around, either.”
“I always want you around,” I say way too quickly. A truth I hadn’t intended to trade.
Though the way she blushes makes me feel less embarrassed.
“Okay.” She smiles, nodding toward a piece of driftwood a few feet away. “I’ll be over there.”
“You haven’t painted down here in a while,” I call, shifting from a flow into a slow stretch. Leo will be down soon to begin surfing anyway.
“I’m up most mornings, but I paint from the back porch or inside the house.
Sometimes I’m more inspired down here, though,” she says, spreading out a blanket before pulling a tabletop easel and small canvas out of her backpack.
She digs the easel into the sand deep enough for it to stay steady before setting the canvas on it.
Next, she pulls out a bundled-up piece of pale yellow fabric, unrolling it on the blanket, revealing a pouch of brushes and numerous tubes of paint. “I didn’t know you yoga.”
“Yeah, I yoga.” My lips pull into a smile. “Sometimes. A therapist recommended it a few years ago while I was in . . .” I shrug. “It helps when I’m having trouble sleeping.”
She nods, unfolding an apron that she tosses over her neck and wraps around her waist. Sitting on her knees, Willow squeezes a dollop of paint onto her palette. “Do you still attend therapy?” she asks, dipping a brush into the white paint and swiping it across the canvas.
“I’m uh . . . between counselors right now.”
She pauses, glancing at me with a smirk. “Have you ever tried art therapy?”
“Definitely not.” I laugh. “I don’t think that’s for me. I’m not artistic.”
“Don’t have to be.” She shrugs. “That’s what I’m going to school for. It’s about processing our thoughts and trauma and feelings through creative avenues. It’s not a skill one is required to possess to benefit from it.”
“Really?” I ask. “You want to be a therapist?”
She nods. “I’m—I was—double-majoring in psychology and art theory.”
“That’s incredible, Wills.”
“Thanks.” She sighs, turning back to her painting. “Although, who knows if I’ll get to stay in school at this point.”
“So you’re not returning to Berkeley?”
“Every time I think about it, I feel sick. So, no. At least not any time soon.” She tilts her head, studying the canvas before grabbing another tube of paint and squeezing out a light pink shade.
“Penelope wrote me a stunning letter of recommendation, and I submitted transfer applications to a few schools closer to home, but who knows.”
“They’d be fucking stupid not to accept you,” I say, meaning every word. The conviction in my voice is so raw it nearly breaks.
Willow takes notice too, because she pauses, dropping her brush and glancing at me, brows knit as if she’s surprised, before an awed smile spreads over her cheeks. “Thank you.”
I nod, smiling back. “So, is this your therapy, then? The painting?”
She chuckles. “I don’t know, honestly. It feels different when you know the intricacies of the way it affects the brain. It’s comforting. I love it and it makes me happy, but I’m not sure it’s therapeutic for me.”
Somehow, watching her paint feels therapeutic to me.
I could study her all day. The way she scrunches her nose in concentration, or when she wipes hair from her forehead when she’s thinking through a specific stroke.
How she regards the sky, the water, the sand, before mixing colors to match the environment around her.
Listening to her soft sighs of contentment, her mewls of frustration, or the hum of focus when she’s zoned in is like listening to rain sounds. I could fucking meditate to the noise.
“So what do you do?” I ask. “For therapy? For release?”
She pins her eyes on me, raising a brow.
“Oh, no,” I backtrack, shaking my head rapidly. “I didn’t mean . . .”
Knots form in my stomach, only loosening at the sound of her laughter. “Well, I don’t do that.”
I wonder what that must be like. What that must mean. Especially with her.
The curiosity, the thought, the vision floats across my mind, and I could almost choke on it. The roof of my mouth goes dry, and my skin feels tight. Like I need to shed it, cover myself with hers instead. I’ve never experienced a sensation like that before. A raw, consuming need.
It makes me afraid to look at Willow, fearful she’ll see all my thoughts written on my face.
“And that’s probably why I need a therapist.” She laughs, and I want so badly to ask her what she means by it.
“I’ll gain the courage at some point, but in the meantime, I just .
. .” She settles, and when I hear the shuffle of her brushes, I finally glance at her again, finding her eyes fixed on her canvas.
“I try to laugh every day,” she continues.
“Sometimes, on really bad ones, I even count my laughter. It helps me feel like the day wasn’t wasted when I go to bed at night.
Sometimes I run. I like to swim. I really enjoy paddleboarding, either out on the cove”—she nods toward the rock face to the south—“or at the harbor on the other side of town. It’s peaceful there. ”
“I like that. The counting laughter. Maybe I should pick up that habit,” I muse.
She nods without looking at me. “You should.”
“I’ve never been to the harbor.”
“Really?” She pauses her brushstrokes. “Well, you have to. You need to paddle down there. The water is like glass early in the morning. It’s a great core workout, and it’ll help your balance too.”
“My balance has gotten better.” I roll my eyes, huffing a laugh. “But yeah, that sounds fun. I’ll have to go out sometime.”
“What about Friday? You don’t train on Friday mornings until nine, right?”
“Oh. Well . . . yeah.” But your dad told me not to be alone with you, a rule I’m actively breaking right now.
“What, Wes?” she asks, pursing her lips in a pout. “You don’t want to go with me?”
Her tone is playful, but sincerity brews behind her blue eyes when she turns toward me. She’s anticipating the rejection on the tip of my tongue, and though she doesn’t understand the reason for it, I know it’d sting her all the same.
When her gaze bores through mine, pillowy lips pouted, sun-kissed cheeks flushed pink, I realize that I don’t think there is a damn thing on this planet Willow Graham couldn’t make me do if she asked.
“Nothing, Wills. Let’s do it. That sounds fun.”
When she grins, warmth floods my entire body.
I am so fucked.