“Okay. I’m in Reber. Room 314.”

“Cheer up.” He leans in and kisses me on the cheek. “You’re beautiful when you smile.”

And then the whirlwind that is Sabin exits the building, stage right.

I shake my head. That was … that was …

That was kind of nice. In fact, I am noticeably moved.

And then I am crushed—overwhelmed, really—with sadness. That small interaction is the best thing that has happened to me in ages. And how goddamn awful is that?

Of course, this guy has no idea what a mess I am, and he’d probably never have come over to me if he knew that I am such a despondent dope. I sigh. He will find out sooner or later. Probably when he sobers up.

But the encounter has undeniably energized me, and I decide to take what remains of my first coffee—the second one was polished off by Sabin—and head down to the lake. Today I will be able to say that I did something unexpected. This walk will be my important gesture.

CHAPTER THREE The Stone Skipper

I pull my sunglasses from my backpack and start what I’m guessing will be a long walk to the lake. My encounter with Sabin, while somewhat disconcerting, has put me in an uncharacteristically good mood and motivated me to finally make this first trip down to the water. It is pretty silly that I’ve never gotten myself to the lake here, especially after my insistence on applying only to colleges near water. True, I haven’t ventured down to the lake in almost four years, but the whole time I’ve known it was here. That mattered. Access to water is, despite my generally precarious mood, a stabilizing force for me.

I zip up my sweatshirt against the morning chill but notice the sun is already gaining strength; it will warm up to the 60s in a few hours, I’m guessing. Being outside feels good. Sunshine is supposed to help depression, after all. Not that I would classify myself as depressed. Sure, I have numerous depressive symptoms, but I think that I have good reason. Anyone in my situation would be depressed, right? And the whole concept of depression is … well, depressing. It doesn’t seem to take into account that I may damn well be justified in feeling how I do. So what if I’m often in an apathetic haze and spend half my time drinking until I feel numb? It’s not like I cry all the time. I think back to my psych textbook and grimace as I realize how clearly my symptoms match up to the clinical definition.

Fine, fine. I’m depressed. There. I said it.

What I find interesting, at least from a human-interest standpoint, is that while I am painfully aware of my feelings and symptoms, I’m unable to shake them and move forward. I am stagnant, I guess. Which makes sense given that stagnant is sort of just a synonym for depressed.

I shake off my lame attempt at self-analysis, put on my earphones, and listen to an NPR news podcast on my phone for the rest of the walk. When I reach the lake, I find a path that takes me through some overgrown brush and lands me by patches of grass and pebbly sand that skirt a small beach area. The lake is stunning, especially at this still-early time of morning. I take off my earphones. It is almost totally quiet except for the occasional lap of water. This spot appears to be on the less popular side of the lake, but I can see a larger beach area and a few docked boats on the opposite shore.

I sit and wiggle my butt into the sandy ground until I have carved out a comfortable sitting spot. The air is fresh and reviving. I can breathe. Why have I never come here before?

Well, I know why.

The love/hate relationship that I have with water. Well, mostly I love it. Yet it’s also a reminder of a past that I’m both clinging to and struggling to outrun. I may not have come to this shoreline yet in my years at Matthews; but I knew it was here, and that mattered. I wanted to be able to come here when I felt ready. Apparently I am ready today, because it feels glorious to be here. The light is extraordinary. Photographs and paintings invariably cheapen morning light, but the real-life version can be stupendous. Like it is right now.

Reality is not necessarily my friend—then again, neither are dreams—but this moment, this reality, is beautiful. I am alone without being lonely, for once, staring across the water and watching the sun begin its climb into the clear blue sky.

When I scan the shoreline, though, I see that I am not alone. There is one person.

He stands about twenty yards from me, just at the edge of the water, wearing only worn jeans and blue sneakers, no shirt. His profile is silhouetted against the growing light, and I watch him as he stares across the lake. His black hair falls nearly to his shoulders in soft waves. He has to be at least six feet tall, beautifully long and lean. He isn’t bulky like a weight lifter, but he looks incredibly strong.

I’m watching him so intensely that I realize I’m holding my breath. I force myself to inhale and exhale deeply.

Crystal clear thoughts hit me. He is confident, he is assured, and he is centered.

I can’t look away.

He looks down and kicks at the ground a few times before bending down and picking up something. Weirdly, I guess what he is going to do before he does it, and I catch myself smiling slightly as he reaches back his arm and skips a rock into the water. I try to count the skips. One, two, three, four, five… . It’s hard to see from where I am. He takes a few steps from where he is and then roots in the ground for more rocks. I watch as he skips another. Then another.

He moves smoothly, seamlessly. He’s done this before; I can tell by his clean, competent movements and rhythm. He strikes me as free, freer than I am or could be. Again, I catch myself holding my breath as I watch him. I have no idea why I feel so drawn to this stranger. But the feeling is undeniable.

The stone skipper searches the ground again and then reaches into the front pocket of his jeans before sending a stone bouncing across the water. Smart boy. He brought his own stash. I know the sort of perfect stone one needs to get the dance of rings to appear on the water’s surface. I searched for those same kinds of stones as a kid, although despite my repeated efforts to learn, I never got very good at skipping. This boy, on the other hand, is a master.

I inhale and exhale again, wondering why I feel overwhelmed just by watching him. A thought I don’t understand flashes into my consciousness. He is the past, and the present, and the future. I shake my head hard. What in the hell is wrong with me? Is this because I didn’t drink last night? Maybe I’m going into some kind of bizarre booze withdrawal. I should probably go back to the dorm and crawl into bed. But the lure of watching the stone skipper is too much, and I cannot get myself to leave. I stop fighting my impulse to run and lean back on my elbows for the show.

Twenty minutes later, and he is still at it. I like how he takes his time before throwing, the way he assesses the water and rubs each stone in his hand for a few minutes to feel its shape and the texture, weighing it in his palm. He pauses after each throw, letting the ripples from each stone fade, allowing the process to have its full beginning, middle, and end.

Without full awareness of what I’m doing, I stand up and walk toward him. He must catch sight of me from the corner of his eye, because he turns slightly my way and smiles. From my place in the sand, I’d noticed that his muscular body was hard to ignore, but I hadn’t expected his face to be so gorgeous. As I get closer to him, I begin to wish I had stayed away. I want to grimace as I take in the perfect angular lines of his jaw—attractiveness on this level is a bad sign. Anyone this hot is usually a complete creep. I barely care about my own body, and rarely notice someone else’s, but a flat stomach and abs like his are undeniable.