Chapter 19
Jack
I never had panic attacks or anxiety as a kid.
Not even on the worst nights, when my belly was hollow and I was freezing because the heating had been shut off again.
No, even after those nights, I’d still get up the next morning, put on the cleanest clothes I could find, and spend a day at school; never complaining, or saying anything to a teacher that wasn’t an answer to a direct question.
I was a good kid, despite what my dad had to say on the matter.
I never cried, or complained, or asked for a single thing.
It wasn’t until I found myself in a safe space that the anxiety knocked on the door.
All the years of pain and fear hadn’t made me tough, they’d simply made me patient.
And then, once my belly was full and I had a bed with sheets on it; when I signed my name on that scholarship, and smiled back at Nate the first time.
That was when my house of cards collapsed, and the stress of living tried to convince me that I shouldn’t even try .
Incredibly, being an adult feels so much harder than being a kid had.
Nobody hits me, or yells at me anymore. I have access to food that doesn’t list sugar as the main ingredient.
I have a friend . But a switch was flipped when my parents died.
The world was a lot bigger and scarier now, and sometimes I longed for the quiet, secret darkness of the space behind the couch where I’d hide when my parents were at their worst. Sometimes, I wished for the ability to fold myself up, smaller and smaller and smaller, until there was barely anything left.
Sitting in Coach Mackenzie’s office with the door closed—a door which always remained open in welcome—as he asked me careful, polite questions about Desmond, made me ache so badly for that space behind the couch that I could feel the phantom scratch of upholstery against my fingers; smell the musty odor of mothballs, and dampness.
There’s a certain comfort in routine, even if that routine is horrifying.
My childhood might not have been ideal, but at least it was predictable.
Now, in the relative safety of my small dorm room, I sit on my bed and breathe myself through the come-down.
There’s nothing quite like the sweeping exhaustion that follows an anxiety attack; I always feel like I could crawl into bed and sleep for a week afterward.
Also, that I’ve probably lost a pound or two just from the way I sweat when I get worked up.
Gathering my bathroom kit and a clean pair of clothes, I leave my dorm and walk to the communal bathroom to shower.
The water pressure and hot water in the dorms isn’t anything to get excited about, but I stand under the stream until it runs frigid.
When I get back to my room, I feel a lot better, and am just thinking about doing a reread of one of my comfort books when my phone buzzes.
Desmond
Hey, Jacko, you right?
Jack
Hi, yeah. It was fine.
I didn’t say anything to get you in trouble.
Desmond
Are YOU okay, is what I wanted to know.
Jack
I had to take a shower when I got home because I was so sweaty lol.
I sit, staring at my phone and waiting for a reply to come through.
There’s a long enough pause that I start thinking he got distracted by Parker, so I put my phone to the side and crouch down to pull a book out of the stack sitting on the floor next to my bed.
My phone vibrating across the bedspread distracts me once more. Desmond’s message makes me smile.
Desmond
Are you busy tonight? I could pick you up.
Jack
Really? You’re not doing stuff with Parker?
Desmond
See you in twenty?
Jack
I’ll be waiting outside!
Patting myself on the back for showering after the meeting with Coach Mackenzie, there’s not much for me to do but sit and wait. At the seventeen-minute mark, I leave my room and head down the stairs, sitting on the bench I always utilize when I’m waiting for Nate to come get me.
The sight of Desmond’s car sends another flood of happy warmth through me, and I smile goofily at it, blushing as I walk to the curb. Desmond reaches across the front seats, popping the door open as I approach. I climb in and fight the random urge to hug him. I am so fucking happy he’s here.
“Hey, Jacko,” he greets me, smiling.
“Hi. Thanks for coming.” I click my seat belt into place, fidgeting with the strap and trying to be discreet in my perusal of him. It takes me a second to realize I don’t have to be discreet. I can check him out any time I want, now.
He’s wearing the casual sort of clothes I’m used to seeing him in when I go over for Saturday laundry: cargo shorts and an old T-shirt that has been converted to a tank.
A singlet, as Desmond would call it. There’s a lot of brown skin on display, and his curly hair is a little messy, like he drove here with the windows down.
“You look amazing,” I tell him, in an apparent fit of bravery. It lasts only as long as it takes for my face to flush with heat. Desmond smiles, pulling the vehicle away from the curb.
“You’re good for a man’s self-esteem. You able to roll up the legs of those pants?”
I glance down between my knees in surprise. Of all the random questions I’ve ever been asked, that one has never made the list.
“Uhm, yes? I think so.”
“Right on. We’re headed to the beach.”
“Really?” I ask, surprised. It’s early enough that the sun is still in the sky, but it won’t be for long. “I’ve never been to the beach. ”
He looks over at me, incredulity painted across his features. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah.” I laugh a little bit at the astonished, somewhat offended way he’s glancing at me. He looks as though it’s a personal affront to him that I’ve never dug my toes into sand. “I don’t have a car, and Nate’s never asked me to go.”
“Your foster families never took you?” he asks, and shakes his head when I answer in the negative. “Wow, that’s terrible. The ocean is right there.”
I laugh again. He sounds so hurt on my behalf.
“We’re not swimming though, right?” I clarify, because while the jeans and T-shirt I’m wearing definitely aren’t suitable for it, the real issue here is that I can’t actually swim.
“Nah. We’re going to sit on the sand and relax. We’ll stop, get something easy to eat, and just chill.”
“Awesome.” I settle back in my seat, stretching my legs out as far as possible in the close confines of the vehicle.
We stop at the grocery store, raiding the cold section for a couple of pre-made sandwiches, before wandering the aisles for snacks.
We agree on plain Lays potato chips, but differ on cookie preferences.
I’m grinning the entire time, the stress of the day nearly forgotten thanks to Desmond’s easy company.
He hasn’t asked about my meeting with Coach Mackenzie.
Instead, we drive toward the beach in relative silence, nothing but the breeze from the open windows and the soft sounds of Ziggy Alberts coming through the speakers.
His arm is resting on the door, fingers dangling in the open air through the window, curls blowing amok. I literally cannot look away.
When we get to the beach, Desmond pulls a blanket from the back seat and tucks a couple bottles of water under his arm.
It’s not until he’s spreading the blanket out on the sand—shoes anchoring the corners—that I realize what Parker’s absence here means.
This is a date. I sit with that for a second, gazing around, and find that I’m not nearly as nervous about that realization as I usually would be.
A couple is walking along the water’s edge, stopping occasionally to reach for a shell.
A dog barks, voice reaching us on the wind, before being whipped away.
There’s a slight haze to the air, salty ocean fog blurring the view into something akin to a watercolor painting.
Everything feels fresh and calm. No, for probably the first time in my life, I can’t find a single thing to be scared about.
“So, what do you think?” Desmond asks, sweeping his arm out to encompass it all. He grins at me, before directing the look toward the ocean, as though happy to see an old friend he’s been missing.
“It’s beautiful,” I answer softly, words carried away by the salty ocean breeze.
The water looks rough—waves rolling to shore in even sets, whitecaps foaming as they crash together.
The temperature is colder than it was on campus, even though we aren’t that far away.
Desmond, in his shorts, tank top, and bare feet, seems unaffected.
He’s staring out at the water, hands on his hips, and looking every bit of the Aussie surfer I often fantasize him being.
I wonder if he’s wishing we were planning to swim.
“Wishing you had a surfboard?” I ask him. He turns to me, that wide smile scrunching up the freckles under his eyes.
“Little bit,” he admits, sitting down on the blanket with his legs still stretched out onto the sand.
As I take a seat next to him, he digs his toes in, creating a little gopher hole for his feet.
The breeze sneaks through the deep arm holes in his shirt, billowing it out and showing me a tummy that’s a couple shades lighter than his legs.
Because I’m pretty sure this is our first date, I sit a little closer to him on the blanket than I might have done any other time.
Nervous energy fizzles in my stomach, but it’s not a wholly bad sort of anxiety.
It feels nice, almost, like my toes are curled over the edge of a cliff, and even though I’m nervous about jumping, I know the landing will be soft.
“Surfing sounds scary as hell to me,” I admit, handing him one of the sandwiches; opening the chips and resting the bag between us.
“It is. But it’s also incredibly freeing and beautiful. There’s nothing quite like it.”