If I were him, I’d be over me.

ABRAM

HER BEAUTY MULTIPLIES when she’s vulnerable, makes her look like a beach angel who could drift off into the abyss if I’m not careful … hence the dogged persistence of my hand-holding. The majority of my focus is on not letting her become a danger to herself, as it should be; the rest is on making sure things don’t get too prominent down yonder. For once, I’m looking forward to the physiological effects of freezing water. It’s not like I’m trying to get on her in the Atlantic. All I really want is the chance to kiss her, whether that’s on land or in ocean, naked or clothed, makes no difference, not picky.

“I can’t feel my lower extremities,” she says.

“That’s not good. We can go back whenever.”

The appreciation flashing in her green eyes sparks my imagination, inspires it to read too much into things: Dude, look at the way her lips are parting, her head tilting to the side like she’s seeing you as her significant other for the first time—is it just me, or does she want you to kiss her?

Juliette

I COULD KISS HIM for that let’s-go-back suggestion … to be continued, again. My teeth have to stop chattering first.

“Doesn’t count until we’re swimming,” I say, dumbly wading onward, looking around for an iceberg we could float out on.

Hard to fathom why he’s waited so long for a measly make-out session with this, especially considering how many sluts there are in the sea. Would it kill me to be a whore for two seconds? Never mind, I’m dying, because we’ve reached the part where we actually have to support ourselves without walking. And now we’re kicking, floating, arms circling as our circulation cuts off, looking at each other and wondering what’s next. I swim closer, an inch or two away from his face, trying to steal some of the steam rising from his head. He’s attempting to be respectful by not pressing up against me, yet still keeping his skin close enough to keep mine as warm as possible. How did he know that’s his new job? The blue in his eyes is darker than usual, the ink of his pupils having taken over, blind in their mission to make the most of this misadventure all about me. And that really does make me want to do something interesting for him in return. I’m getting there, I’ve stopped shivering, our lips are as close as they’ve ever been … and that’s when I feel it … not Abram … a sea creature gnawing at my foot. I scream for my life—funny how much I suddenly care about it—then I groan for my death, because it’s going to be a stupid one featured on Shark Week, with bittersweet commentary from surviving loved ones. I can count on my dad’s refusal to be interviewed, but Heidi will cave and tell them everything, as will Abram’s aunt Jane, because that lady sounds like she was born to do shows in need of fringe opinions.…

Abram is repeating my name, waving his hand in front of my face to get my attention. “That was my foot,” he says, and it finally registers. I reach down to feel my leg, make sure there isn’t a hammerhead attached to it, and … I’ve just had a far-death experience. We’re laughing, practically fused together, as we swim to shore.

It’s nice to have the last laugh be about something funny, not final.

ABRAM

WASN’T JUST MY IMAGINATION. Definitely should’ve kissed her.

24

Juliette

RUNNING—THE HOUR UNGODLY, the sun barely up. It’s just me on this stretch of beach, and the sand is solid enough to keep my ankles from breaking, so those are two positives making it harder to complain about how I can’t sleep in South Carolina, either, for instance. Meanwhile, Abram’s still unconscious on the couch bed, recovering from his wild night with the new Juliette. That version is a nightmare, too.

Which is why I’ve downloaded a self-help audiobook from the black cloud that stores files above my iPhone. The title is Silence Speaks, and what can I say besides it spoke to me? The message is very Buddhist in nature, meaning the author sure does love trees and each short chapter is punctuated by the plunk of a single raindrop. He frequently encourages me to “be still” (can’t, running) and process my surroundings “without attaching a label to everything” (not realistic). I wonder what he’d say about this mid-run pill I’m about to take? Probably something like, Is it you who thinks you need that pill, or is that your ego-run mind telling you a story about how Juliette, the girl who’s on Adderall, is due for her next one? My response to all this is to continue dry-swallowing the pill, but be a tinge more conflicted about it than usual. At the same time, the seagulls increase their cawing overhead, guffawing at how little I’m progressing, the desperate measures I’m taking by listening to this spiritual guru turn each sentence into something I want to be over halfway before he finishes.

“Remain present,” he says zenly. “Don’t let your life be run by the illusion of time. Quit examining the past for clues to your identity, looking to the future for your salvation.”

Know who doesn’t need an audiobook to remind him not to check his watch every other second? Abram. He doesn’t wear a watch; often forgets his cell phone in his car because it’s perpetually slipping out of his pocket, and still finishes the nothing he’s been doing once he realizes it’s gone. Just another one of life’s challenges he’s conquering better than I am by putting forth the minimal amount of effort.

“Where’s the nearest Starbucks?” I yell out to one of my best friends, startling the cute, old-ladyish runner I’m sprinting past. She points to her earmuff-sized headphones, thinking I was asking her; I point to my phone and mouth Siri. This doesn’t clear up the confusion, but she cares as much as I do about getting to the bottom of it, which is very little. I love her like an ancestor.

I veer off to the left, looking for the nearest yard to cut through.

*   *   *

I just ordered an iced coffee for Abram. What does that mean? I don’t know, but the green Starbucks straw complements his blue eyes, giving the flecks of kindness in them something to bounce off besides the emerald void of my irises.

“Can I have your name, please?” the Starbucks barista asks in the squeaky voice of a former Olympic gymnast.

“Sorry?”

“Your name?”

Starbucks’ customer-personalization policies aren’t—looking at her name tag—Janette’s fault, but I don’t see anyone from corporate to blame. Deep breath, calm down, remain present, what would Abram do? He’d answer her. Maybe even ask how brutal her day has been so far.

“Angela,” I inform her.

Janette’s marker squeaks across the side of my drink as she writes it. “You do kind of look like an Angie.”

Gross!

“I don’t really go by Angie,” I say, because Angela is one of those defensive girls who’s spent her entire life fighting the shortened version of her name—she’s awful, but I could relate to what she’s been through if people tried to call me Julie or, please never, Jules.

“No worries,” the barista says with a What is she on? look on her face that makes me like her more. I smile and wink like I was totally joking.

“You staying on the island long?”

“Yuck. Do I look like a tourist, Janette?”

She smiles. “Not at all. You have that glow about you.”

I hold up my arm, re-examining my stark-white tan.

“Ha, you know what I mean,” Janette says, like we’re in on something juicy together.

“Sorry, I don’t.”

“Is the lucky guy here with you?” she whispers, looking around the café.

I shake my head slowly, then force myself to acknowledge what she’s been getting at. “Still passed out on the couch, unfortunately.”

“Where’d y’all meet?”

“Oh, you know, we were both in the neighborhood,” I say, and there’s a throaty, womanly quality to my voice that catches us both off guard. It’s the her in me—kind of similar to when Kate Hudson suddenly sounds exactly like Goldie Hawn, but without their relatable qualities and unbreakable mother-daughter bond.