Chapter 18
“Aren’t you coming?” Lizette said.
Emmett hadn’t moved from his beach chair, its metal legs, like his own feet, half-buried in the sand. A gust of wind fluttered the umbrella. A seagull sailed overhead, pinching a Cheeto in its beak.
It was one of those bright, golden, blazing-hot weekends that demanded beachgoing like a government mandate.
The shoreline was packed from the pier to the inlet of Dog Beach, skateboarders threading through pedestrian traffic on the boardwalk, dreadlocked White dudes blasting music and smoking doobies on the seawall.
Mothers fussed sunscreen over the backs of children erecting castles in the sand while taut, tanned, glistening bodies chugged sparkling water and jumped up to spike volleyballs over nets.
Ocean Beach was a six-minute drive from Emmett and Lizette’s apartment, but between trying to find parking and trudging through scalding-hot sand for a spot, it had taken them most of an hour to get settled.
Emmett was glad they’d persisted. He luxuriated in the salty breeze, the expanse of blue sky stretching upward and out, the repetitive crash-and-drag of waves against the shore.
The sensations of the beach stirred inside him like bits of his soul lain dormant.
He imagined getting into the water, splashing around like he had when he was a kid.
Back before he realized his body was different than the other boys’; before he started keeping his shirt on to swim, then switched to rash guards, which attracted fewer questions; before finally, hating how naked their clinging fit made him feel, he withdrew from the water altogether.
Lizette rose from her towel and wiped the sand off her legs, the fullness of her body on proud display. The bikini was one of her bestsellers, colorful and perfectly cut to draw the eye to her biggest assets. “Come on. I want to go in.”
“You go. I’ll watch our stuff.” Emmett dug a paperback out of the GORDITA-brand beach bag, a rom-com about fit, perfect gays.
“Fuck the stuff. Come on!”
“Really, I’m good here.”
She tromped back toward him, lowering her voice. “You can’t still be self-conscious, Emmettito. You’ve lost forty pounds.”
“Thirty-nine, actually.”
She started to clap back, then threw up her hands. “Whatever. You do you.”
From behind the pages of someone else’s story, Emmett watched her turn and walk out to the water. As usual, she seemed totally unbothered by how she stood out among the crowd, how her body jiggled or who was looking. She lived like she only had one chance.
Emmett would get there one day. Thirty-nine pounds sounded like a lot, but he was still big. Especially here.
But the real him was in there somewhere: proportional, fearless, free. Just a little slimmer, he thought—a little more himself—and nothing would stop him from making a splash.