Chapter 44 #2
“Documenting the next episode of the rebirth?” I teased.
He shrugged. “The world didn’t care when they were trying to die. Maybe it’ll pay attention now that we’re all trying to live.”
And then—a sound tore through the air, interrupting him.
The roar of a motorboat engine. Everyone on the dock turned toward the water, hands shielding their eyes from the glint of the sun shining off the lake.
Behind the boat, a figure was waterboarding like a damn maniac, arms stretched wide, teeth bared in a laugh so wild and alive you could see it clear as day despite the space between us.
Water spray flew in every direction as he zigzagged behind the boat, carving joy into the water like it owed him something. And it did.
“Am I next?” one of the girls shouted. “I want a turn at dopamine instead of death!”
We all broke into laughter. I loved hearing them use the little phrases that I’d come up with because it made the truly meaningful things that they were learning a little easier to handle.
A little rhyme eased them into saying the things they needed to say.
A little humor helped them face their demons.
A little dopamine made life worth living.
“He’s insane!”
“Look at him go!”
“He’s gonna eat shit and we’re all gonna cheer!”
“That’s not a death wish, that’s a fucking life wish!”
The boat circled once before pulling up to the dock, slowing to a smooth stop like it had rehearsed the moment.
Danny let go of the tow rope and coasted in, hopping off the board with a fluid motion that said I belong here now.
His muscles rippled as he stretched, revealing a long, healing scar just under his ribs—evidence of how close we’d come to losing him.
Before I could say a word, he was already climbing up onto the dock, eyes locked on mine.
And then he ran over, and despite my protests that he was all wet, he picked me up.
Just scooped me into his arms like the world wasn’t watching, like we weren’t surrounded by half a dozen people and a camera, and a scarred history stretching out behind us.
He spun me in a full circle, my laughter caught in my throat, and my arms went around his neck.
His skin was sun-warmed and wet. His eyes… alive. Gloriously, achingly alive.
“Iris,” he said as he put me down, voice breathless and reverent, like my name was his favorite word.
“Yes?” I asked, heart hammering.
“You’re here.”
“Always am.”
He kissed me. It was the kind of kiss that rewrote endings. That said, we’re still here, still trying, still choosing each other. There was nothing hesitant about it; just a thousand unspoken moments crashed into one single, infinite second. Someone groaned in protest.
“Oh my God, get a room,” Carter called from behind the camera.
Danny pulled back with a smirk. “You’re just jealous.”
Carter threw up the middle finger as he dove back behind the camera again and the group around us laughed, the kind of laughter that reminded me that although we were all still healing, we had each found space for real, unfettered happiness.
Carter lowered the camera once more and called out, “By the way—Die Trying’s latest video just hit fourteen million views. And we’ve got fifty new people registered for the next support group meeting. We’re going to need a second boat.”
Danny whistled. “Hell yeah. I’ve got so many things to add to our dopamine list. They’re gonna love it.”
I grinned, brushing a strand of wet hair off his forehead. “I’ll answer the emails.”
He leaned his forehead against mine. “I know you will. And hey, just a reminder, you’re the reason I’m loving my life.”
“I know,” I whispered back. He told me so every day.
“And you’re the reason they’re enjoying theirs.
” I pointed to the group on the dock who were playing rock, paper, scissors to choose who got the next go at dopamine instead of death, a chaotic ride around the lake on the wake board.
Danny looked around the dock—at the mismatched group of fighters and survivors.
Then he looked at Carter, who was beaming like an idiot behind his camera.
Then at the lake that shimmered like it had been made for this exact moment.
“I’m just…” He paused, overwhelmed. “I’m just really fucking happy.”
Everyone’s voices blended around us, into a sort of hum.
Soft laughter, water slapping against wood, the occasional whoop as someone dared to dream out loud.
Carter’s camera clicked again as Danny toweled off beside me.
The angry scar across his chest reminded us both of everything that had brought us here.
I watched as Danny looked around at the beautiful, broken humans who had all, in one way or another, crawled their way back from the edge.
Some were still climbing. Some had just begun.
But all of them were here. Breathing, laughing, and choosing to stay.
We watched as the boat swung out onto the lake.
Someone shouted something about needing a hit of serotonin.
Another voice yelled back, “Dopamine, bitch!” and the dock erupted into laughter once more.
Danny grinned, shaking his head. “They’re insane.”
“They’re yours.”
“They’re ours,” he said. And it knocked something loose in my chest. The air smelled like sunscreen and the lake, and someone had turned on a portable speaker, so music spilled across the water.
Laughter rang out from the dock, followed by the splash of a cannonball.
Carter yelled at one of the boys to “go easy on the GoPro battery” while the newest member of this group asked if anyone had brought snacks.
Danny grinned and reached for my hand. His fingers laced through mine, now dry and warm.
He looked back out at the water, eyes glinting in the sun.
And then he said the last thing I expected to hear today.
“Remember how I used to think the bravest thing I ever did was try to die?”
He looked at me and my heart leapt into my throat.
How could I forget? I was thrown back to that day, recalling the police thinking he had a gun, watching his body shudder in an unnatural way and then thud to the ground; running over to find way too much blood pumping out of him, and then his body growing cold.
The weeks that followed would forever be ingrained in my memory.
The police; that a neighbor had called, had very quickly discovered that they had shot an unarmed man; between that, the recording in his pocket, and the Deacon telling them that Danny had not attacked him but rather had been using self-defense, not a single charge had been brought against him.
He had been airlifted to the hospital where they had kept him in surgery for hours repairing the damage the bullet had done to him.
When he finally woke up and found me and Carter by his bedside, he cried.
Long sobs that shook me to my core. Then with his puffy eyes and his heart rate jumping all over the monitor screen, he told me that he loved me.
It had been my turn to cry and also laugh because Carter grumbled something in the background about being chopped liver.
Danny had admitted how much he cared about Carter too, which had pacified him.
For the two weeks of his recovery in the hospital I had barely left his side, and when I did, it was to bring him sushi, cozy blankets, and a mug that said Not Dead Yet on it in big black letters.
Apparently, Carter had finally made merch.
Danny thought it was amazing and asked out loud, “What if we give this out as a prize when other people survive?” And that was how our idea of organizing a support group had come to fruition.
A place where people learned to heal and ask hard questions in our not-therapy sessions but also flood their brains with dopamine in a safe way from Danny’s ever-growing list of activities.
A place where they found community and connection.
Where we explored things like healing through art and nature.
Where we encouraged people to cry if they wanted to or break mugs in our rage room if they needed.
Each journey was individual and unique, but so beautiful to witness and walk alongside.
Danny squeezed my hand as I leaned in closer, taking in his scent and nuzzling along his neck. He grinned and kept talking.
“But now I know the bravest thing I’ve ever done is this, baby. Letting someone love me… and loving them back.”
I could’ve broken apart right then and there, just from those words.
Not only because in his self-discovery journey, I, too, had found myself.
I, too, had fallen in love and unlearned scripts that had been holding me back.
I, too, had leaned into living bravely, boldly and without worrying what the rules were.
As much as he claimed I taught him, he had taught me so much more.
He had given me my first kiss, a fresh perspective on life, and the ability to let my heart race for the sheer joy of it even if it meant ziplining, which I still hated, but finally understood the appeal.
This man—this man who had kissed death twenty-one times and survived—was choosing life not out of fear, not out of guilt, but out of wanting to stay.
And not just simply to stay. But to live.
To love. To feel. He pulled me even closer against him, his voice soft in my ear.
“This is what enough finally feels like.”
And it was.