She lifts her hand and gives him a tentative wave. He returns the gesture.

Blythe cups her hands to her mouth. “Hi.”

“Hi, back!”

“Are you … okay?”

He puts his hands on his hips and looks off to the side for a second before answering. He calls back, “Yes. I’m fine.”

“What are you doing?” She tries to feign curiosity rather than concern. “With the buckets. Are you in training for something?”

She can see him laugh. “Sort of!” he yells.

“You’ve got a terrible sunburn. You should put on a shirt.”

“I’m okay.”

“No, really. It’s bad.”

“I’m gonna be all right. Promise.”

“Is that your house? Please just go grab a shirt.”

He glances behind him. “I can’t. I shouldn’t … I can’t really talk. I’ll be fine.”

Blythe frowns. “I’ll give you mine. I can row it over to you.” She crouches down and starts to untie the boat from the dock, but he stops her.

“No! Don’t do that!” The alarm in his voice is startling and worrisome. He looks behind him again and then back at her. “Just … no. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” She can feel her heart pounding as she stands back up.

They stand silently. She can’t take her eyes off him. Desperation and exhaustion radiate from this boy. Blythe is afraid to move, afraid he’ll drop to his knees if she breaks away. So she holds their unspoken exchange. Whatever this is, it isn’t forever. It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay. She is nodding to him. I’m here. I’m right here.

Finally he says, “I have to keep going.”

Blythe is unable to speak for a bit. She doesn’t want him to keep going. She doesn’t understand what is going on, but everything about this feels off. Dangerous.

She nods. “If you say so. I’m going to stay with you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I’m going to. I want to.”

“Thank you.” She thinks that she hears his voice break. He picks up the metal buckets and begins pointlessly filling them and transporting water from one side of the shore to the other. She knows precisely how hard it is to walk through the heavy wet sand at low tide. Your feet sink in deep, making each step trying and draining. It can be fun if you are digging for clams, even funny when you lose a shoe to the thick sludge. This? Whatever this boy is doing, this is not fun. He only pauses once to slowly take something from the bucket and set it a few feet deeper into the ocean.

Near tears, Blythe peels off her shirt. She looks around for a solution, since he’s made it so clear she should not row to him. Then it hits her: the life vest. She sits down with it. It takes a few minutes, but she manages to tie her Matthews shirt and her water bottle to the vest by using the straps. She moves to the end of dock, her toes hanging off the edge, getting as close to him as possible. Blythe throws the life vest as far as she can. “The tide is coming in,” she yells.

The boy looks her way as he walks.

“I’m not leaving you.” Now her voice nearly breaks.

He nods again.

Blythe sits down and tucks in her knees to her chest. No, she will not leave him. So for the next hour and a half she stays, willing some of his hurt to come her way. She would take this away from him if she could, somehow share whatever this is. For minutes at a time, she closes her eyes, sending him strength.

This will not break you. This will not break you.

He isn’t crying, so she doesn’t either. The battle against tears is one she almost loses several times. He is consistent, steady now. Brave. The only time that he stops again is when her life vest reaches him. She holds her breath as he struggles to untie the shirt and water bottle. His hands must be weak and trembling. He clumsily gets the wet shirt over his head, peeks behind him to the trees, and then downs the water. He raises the bottle in her direction as thanks.

Later, when he has completed his … goal? job? … he suddenly hurls both buckets off to the side, slamming them into sea-worn boulders. The sound echoes across the water, making Blythe flinch. He paces erratically, almost manically, for a minute, and then turns to her and raises both hands into the air, his palms held high, fingers spread.

Blythe raises hers, too, reaching out to him as though she is pressing her hands against his. She folds her fingers as if they could fall between his as he follows her movement. The boy moves his hands over his heart, and she does the same.

Blythe grins.

He just kicked a little ass.

He nods almost imperceptibly and then slowly turns and begins to wearily walk away from the water and back to his house.

The glow Blythe feels from their connection fades once the boy is out of sight, and a new restlessness sets in. She can’t relax.

After rowing back and tying up the boat, she takes the path to the house, pausing on its deck for a last look at the cove. One of the deck’s lounge chairs beckons, and she falls into it, staring out at the water and feeling exhausted.

A few minutes later, she hears James’s steps coming toward her across the creaky wooden deck. “You ready to go? I saw you come back a while ago. What are you doing out here?”

The lounge chair is digging into her back, but she still doesn’t move.

“Blythe? You okay? What are you looking at out there?”

“What? Oh yeah.” She keeps her focus across the cove. “Just looking at the water. The whole view.” She closes her eyes for a moment and then pulls herself away. “Sure, let’s go.” She stands up.

“You’re going to need to put on something over your bathing suit. I’m not letting you drive me around town half dressed. Besides, it’s going to get cold soon. You know how the nights are up here.” James looks around. “Where’s your Matthews shirt?”

“Oh. That. I don’t have it … .”

“What do you mean? You lost it? How could you lose it?” He frowns as he unzips his own sweatshirt and hands it over. “That’s your favorite shirt.”

“Thanks.” Blythe slips her arms through the sleeves and fiddles with the zipper.” It’s okay. My shirt … found a new home.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing.” She smiles at him as they head into the house. “You know what?”

“What?”

“You’re a really good brother. I love you. And I love our family.”

James fakes a serious look. “Are you dying? What’s wrong with you?”

She laughs. “Shut up. Seriously, we’re lucky.”

“Does this mean that you’ll let me drive?” James swipes the car keys from the counter and dangles them in front of her.

“Hell, no, you’re not driving.” She snatches the keys from him. “Not only do you not even have a learner’s permit, but I wouldn’t trust you to get us through that narrow rut that’s passing as a driveway.”

“Fine, fine,” he grumbles. “Let’s go get dinner and hope this roadside seafood shack of yours doesn’t sell us clams that land us in the ER.”

“That’s the spirit!” She holds open the front door.

“Blythe?”

“Yeah?”

He puts one hand on top of her head and messes up her hair. “Even though you won’t let me break the law in what is really a minor, minor way, I love you, too.”

Blythe sighs. “God damn it. Fine. You can drive. Don’t you dare tell Mom and Dad.”

CHAPTER EIGHT Finding an Always

Chris has worked some sort of magic with my playlist. Minute eighteen is not so awful. Running is not so awful. This is my second full week of going out every day, and even though it’s still impossibly hard, I’m not giving up. I feel a little bit stronger every day.

It’s just pain.

I crank up the volume. Chris is right. Competing with music does nothing to help speed or endurance. It would never have occurred to me to run to the slow rhythms he’s provided, but it is working. Granted, the lyrics and mood of half the songs are killing me: love, lust, angsty yearning, rage, desire, sadness. But the truth is that I can relate to all of these feelings. It is surprisingly comforting to know that other people in the world suffer like I do. It’s a stupidly obvious realization, but I’m starting to understand that it’s been hard to see outside of my own pain. Chris and his siblings have survived their mother’s death, and that was surely incredibly difficult. Is it harder to lose a parent when you’re a little kid or when you’re a teenager? I feel a stab of sympathy for Chris. He was so little. His father must have had so much to deal with, not just his own grief, but that of four young children. I wonder if he ever remarried. Maybe I’ll ask Chris. Or Sabin, since things are less awkward with him because I have not sexually assaulted him in his own dorm room.