A LINE IS TETHERED TO me, keeping me alive.
My eyes are heavy, like sandbags.
Everything is muted. Everything is dark.
I feel so tired. So light.
Someone is whispering to hold on. To fight.
Fighting sounds so hard right now. Why am I fighting? Why can’t I open my eyes?
The line tugs at my core, making my body jolt, but I’m sinking, sinking back into myself.
There’s only so much they can do until the line breaks and I flatline.
Buzzbuzzbuzz.
The alarm drags me from dreaming.
Sweat coats my skin in a fine film. The scenes of my dream already fading. Some people remember their dreams and for some, the images disappear the instant their eyes open. For me, even if the moments fade, the images stay, imprinting on my memory. Impossible to shake.
That’s what happens when your brain decides to reminisce on an actual nightmare. One you will never be able to shake. One that you lived.
Buzzbuzzbuzzbuzz.
My body protests as I reach over to turn off the annoying alarm. When silence descends, I throw the gray comforter over my head, moaning into my pillow.
There is something unnatural about being up before the sun. But even as I grumble, talking incoherencies, and my body fights to go back to sleep, I roll out of bed, hitting the floor with a soft thump.
“Hmph,” I groan as I try to rub the sleep out of my eyes. Little yellow eye crust sticks to my fingers. “Mhhh.”
Getting up early has been my reality for the last two years. Nothing new about the moaning, the heavy eyes, or the exhaustion fighting my body as it silently screams to go back to sleep.
I made a promise, a commitment, to myself. A promise I refuse to break.
Two years and my body hasn’t adapted to this schedule. Waking up early every morning is a choice I make, but I am never going to be a morning person—unless copious amounts of coffee can be consumed first.
Through a sleepy haze, I grab the essentials: a change of clothes, a bathing suit, and a bottle of water from the mini fridge in my room—a fridge that was originally bought for my dorm. Unbeknownst to my parents, I withdrew from school, taking everything from the room with me under the guise of winter break.
Most of the belongings sit untouched in my walk-in closet, but the fridge is by my desk, in the corner. The best place to hide it while still using it. My parents hardly come into my room, so it isn’t a pressing issue to stress about.
What is an issue is finding a way to tell my parents their child is no longer in college. I did three semesters, three more than I ever wanted to do. And in those three semesters I discovered what I always knew to be true.
School isn’t for me.
I’m smart, a fact my parents like to remind me of, but I’m not a classroom type of girl. Never have been. Learning in a classroom, to me, is boring. There isn’t enough stimulation to hold my interest. I prefer hands-on learning to sitting at a desk in a lecture room getting hand cramps from taking pages of notes.
I used to argue that my dad didn’t go to college. Back in the 80s, Dad was too busy catching waves and entering every surfing competition he could. Too busy going pro and becoming the best. Sure, school was probably something he could’ve done, but he became a surf legend. A household name.
Mom went to college, though. She has a degree in coastal environmental science and works in a lab.
They are both pro-school, pro-education. So am I, but going to college isn’t for everyone. There’s nothing wrong with that.
Nothing wrong with being different and going against the social norm.
So after three semesters of being miserable, I decided I was done. It was time to go after the life I wanted, instead of following the path that others had laid out for me.
The decision wasn’t scary when I went to the administration building and withdrew. It was freeing. My steps lighter when I left than when I had entered.
I’m happier now.
But the minute I tell my parents, the happy bubble I’ve been in for the past week will pop.
I took my finals, packed up my car, and came home. The only reason I waited until the end of the semester to leave was because my parents like to see my final grades. Not just hearing them, but physically, with their own eyes, seeing them. On my computer screen.
My parents aren’t the earliest of risers. They both take winter break off every year so we can have family time. Which translates to vacation time, which translates to more time for me to sneak out and get back before they wake up.
They think I gave up surfing. They think I’m enrolled in college for the spring semester. They think a lot about me that isn’t true.
Like how I’m happy with the life they built for me a few years ago, a different life than the one we had always talked about.
The life they want me to live is a lie. The hastily built wall around the façade has been cracked.
Broken.
Destroyed.
Smashed into a thousand, impossible-to-rebuild pieces.
My life is full of secrets, secrets I never thought I had to keep from my parents.
Secrets destroy relationships, but so does resentment.
For the past three years, I’ve been festering in a pool of resentment toward my parents. I love them wholeheartedly but there comes a time when their choices for my life get quieter and mine get louder.
Which is why I’ve slowly started to take back control.
In secret.
As bad as it sounds, my parents pay for everything. While in school, I’m not allowed to have a job. My entire focus has to be on education. So in order to make sure I’m taken care of, they gave me a stipend of my trust fund last year.
On my eighteenth birthday.
A trust fund.
One I had no idea existed. Yet, here I am, with a trust fund. I’m a trust fund baby.
I’ve always known my family was well off. Well, well off. But still. I didn’t know we were at the level of having trust funds.
I’m not the only one keeping secrets in this household.
Leaving the house quietly, I text my best friend’s brother, Geer, letting him know I’m heading to his house.
He lives right on the water, with the beach as his backyard. It’s a two-minute drive to his place from mine. We both live off Ocean Avenue in a small Florida beach town, but while Geer lives on the beach, I live in a gated community full of extravagant homes.
Parking my car next to his huge-ass truck, I get out to punch in the code to the garage door and walk inside, where I keep my surfboards and wetsuits. I grab my stuff, do a quick change, and head out to the beach.
Growing up, the beach was my home. I spent more time rolling around in the sand and swimming in the ocean than I spent at my actual house.
The ocean is my heart. My first love. A part of who I am.
That doesn’t mean I trust it. It’s too vast, too wild, and full of too many creatures to not be wary. Off the coast alone, there are thousands of sharks and fish that sometimes stray too close to shore.
I used to love the ocean blindly. An all-consuming feeling, taking over all my thoughts. Thinking it loved me as much as I loved it.
I know better now.
Going surfing alone, when the sun isn’t up yet, is extremely dangerous. Between rip currents and not being able to see much of what’s in the ocean, the water turns into a danger zone.
I text Geer every day for this reason. He worries if I don’t and it gives me peace of mind knowing at least someone is aware of where I am.
The texts are predictable by now. Part of the routine. But if I miss a day, I’ll have an angry Geer on my hands. And nobody wants an angry Geer.
Throwing my board onto the sand, I gather my hair up before letting it fall against my back. Light brown with blonde strands bleached from the sun. Perks of living in South Florida. Summer almost year round.
I fish around in my bag for the circular block of pink, fruity smelling surf wax. After applying a healthy amount to the board, I throw the wax back in my bag and tuck the board under my arm, heading toward the water.
As I get closer, my steps slow.
Cold water brushes my toes as I stand on the edge, where the sand meets the surf.
No matter how much time passes, hesitation is now a part of my sport. A consequence from years before that has turned into an unbreakable habit. Subconsciously, my fingers dance along my neoprene-clad thigh. A hidden reminder.
With a deep exhale, one last grab of courage, I run into the water.
The sun has started to break over the horizon, casting orange-yellowish rays in the sky, a painting-picturesque scene just as I’m almost done with my morning surf sesh. On the beach I catch a tall, muscular silhouette standing with his hands on his hips by my pile of stuff. Watching me.
After I ride out my last wave, I paddle to shore, a weight presses down on my chest as I chant, please be Geer. Please be Geer.
He comes out to check on me some days when he’s up early enough but every time he does, a little zing of panic shoots through my veins, igniting my fears.
As I get closer to the beach, picking my board up, the pressure in my chest subsides.
Geer Jackson looks mean, with hard eyes and harder angles.
He shares similar features with my best friend, Brit. They have the same hair, the same eyes, except Geer’s built like a dude. His bone structure is sharper, like chiseled ice along his jaw and has corded muscles on his arms with tree trunks as legs and a long torso. He loves the gym, making him a six-foot-three wall of pure muscle. And his black hair is always kept closely shaved to his skull, with just a layer of fuzz covering his head.
His face is set in a permanent scowl, one that doesn’t intimidate me as I approach him.
My favorite part about Geer has always been his eyes. They are this gray color that is reminiscent of melted silver. While his face is always set in that scowl, his eyes contain all the emotions. Smiling at him, I see the melted silver of his eyes harden.
Geer doesn’t speak until I sit my butt on the towel, grab the water, and chug that sucker down. He pinches the bridge of his nose, dragging in a deep breath. “What am I going to do with you?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” I twist the cap around the plastic.
Geer looks tired, dark circles weighing under his eyes.
I scoot over, patting the towel space next to me, inviting him to sit. “Stay up late last night?” I wiggle my eyebrows.
“I’m not telling you shit, Em.” He rubs his eyes, cursing under his breath. “Fucking sand.”
“You never tell me,” I remind him. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to stop asking.”
Silence cloaks us as we sit in the sand, me leaning my body into his side and head resting on his shoulder. He doesn’t even protest as my wetsuit dampens his clothes. We’re quiet as we watch the sun rise above the horizon, illuminating the sky, enjoying the company of not being alone as the town around us starts to wake up to begin the day.
A new day means new memories and new adventures.
New ways to lie.
The only other person that knows my secret is Brit and she is not a morning person. I think I’m bad, but Brit is on another level. She won’t even stir when her alarm goes off.
Geer takes my board, promising to wash the salt off, and tells me to get a shower before heading home. I start to protest, he’s exhausted—from his eyes to his sluggish movements—and needs sleep more than I need a shower.
I can rinse off my board and my body at the same time with the hose on the side of his place, but he pins me with a glare, cutting off my argument before I’m able to voice it. “Owe me another time, like when I see you tomorrow night. You can bring me brownies.”
Oh, right.
We’re having dinner at his parents’ house since Brit and I are back from school. Not that our families need an excuse to get together. We probably see each other a minimum of four or five days a week. We’re more like family than friends.
“Do you want special brownies or…?” I let the question hang between us as Geer just glares at me.
I grin, standing up and rubbing the sand sticking to my foot on his leg.
He grunts as he looks down at the little flecks of sand. “C’mon, let’s go so I don’t have to see you for the rest of my morning and can actually have a good day.” He starts walking up the beach.
“You know you love me,” I tease as I continue to twist the cap of my drink.
He ignores his love for me, the sister he never asked for but has always needed, and eyes my water. “Isn’t your mom against plastic water bottles? She always gives me those reusable ones on birthdays.”
I nod. That’s exactly my mother. We have an entire cabinet full of reusable and travel friendly water bottles. “But this makes less noise than running around the kitchen, sooo she doesn’t need to know.”
Geer huffs, his version of swearing secrecies, as he pushes my shoulder and I stumble to the side with a smile.
We’re quiet for the rest of the walk.
After taking my shower, the quickest of my life, I’m in my car, backing out of his driveway.
On the drive home, my phone buzzes with a text from my cousin, Nori.
The text has a picture, but I don’t look at it until I’m parked in the bakery parking lot—another morning ritual.
When I see what she’s sent, a laugh comes out. Nori’s at a diving competition, but the picture is of her in the locker room, holding up her tablet, the screen showing an article written about her journey to get to the Olympics.
Her brown hair is pulled back in a messy bun that’s tilted to one side of her head. She’s making a face at it, her blue eyes set in a glare as her lips twist in a scowl.
Her expression is clear.
She’s not a fan.
Nori wants to dive, to make it to the Olympics, but she doesn’t want the attention. The press. She just wants to compete and let her athleticism speak for itself.
I send a text back.
Psh, enjoy the spotlight, girl. Before you become like my dad, spending your time talking about the golden years.
My phone vibrates with a response.
I don’t want my face all over the Internet!
I don’t mention that if she makes the Olympics, she’s probably going to have to make public social media accounts to share her journey with the people. Not to mention her face will be on televisions around the world during the games. Instead I settle for something equally as true.
Haha, miss you. Come home soon!
I send the text as I walk into the bakery to get my usual order of cream puffs and croissants before heading home. The sweets provide a cover if my parents wake up early and wonder where I am.
I’m nineteen and still act like I’m in high school. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to walk through that front door without having to lie about where I was.
After placing the blue box on the kitchen’s island, I head to the coffee maker. Surfing is like my natural coffee, the adrenaline acting as a wake up call, but natural or not, I still need my caffeine fix.
The rich, earthy aroma fills the kitchen. My mouth salivates as I inhale the decadent scent.
Caffeine, come to me.
I begin to fill up my mug as my mother makes her morning debut. She’s wearing linen sleep pants, slippers, and a plush, fuzzy robe. “Morning, sweetie.”
“Morning,” I mumble as she kisses my cheek. She grabs her own mug, filling it almost to the brim.
Rule number one in the Lawson household: no conversations until everyone has had their first cup of coffee.
With my drink in hand, I settle on a bar stool, bringing my knees to my chest. In front of me sits the latest edition to Rip Current, a popular surf magazine. The person on the cover has me rolling my eyes.
Sebastian “Bash” Cleaton is the lucky surfer of the month. Not surprising. He has graced the cover a few times already.
But that’s what happens when you are the hottest surfer of the generation.
Not my words, I swear. They were the words on his first cover of Rip Current. It was a part of their Sexy September feature. Or something like that.
The guy has risen to fame in the surfing world because of his talent, but thanks to social media, he’s become more famous for his looks. More popular than he probably thought possible.
His skin is like mine, sun-kissed from always being outside. His brown hair is artfully messy. Like instead of him running his fingers through it, he had a stylist perform the task for him. He’s wearing his signature expression: a pout with hooded eyes.
Brit has dubbed it his “bedroom look”.
Yeah, it’s hot. He’s hot.
My thumb brushes along my mouth for a drool check. It comes back dry. Good, good.
I want to be different than the rest of his admirers. I want to find him ugly, but I don’t.
His arrogance, on the other hand, is enough for me to not have fantasies about him. Yet, my curiosity always wins. I flip open to the interview section, wondering what he has to say in this issue—
“It’s weird.”
My eyes snap to my mom, who is on the opposite side of the island, a tall coffee mug held loosely in her left hand, her wedding rings sparkling under the kitchen light. “What is?”
“You,” she says before taking another sip.
“Gee, just what every girl wants to hear from their mother.” Sarcasm is thick in my words.
“Don’t be a smartass.” She smiles, the expression full of warmth.
“Can’t help it, Mom,” I tell her, grinning. “It’s who I am. Accept me and love me anyway.”
“Always.” She kisses my forehead before she shakes her head. “It’s just still weird seeing you up before ten.”
I bite my lip, looking down, not uttering a word. Secrets. My head is full of secrets.
When her gaze becomes too much, I just shrug, taking a sip of my drink. Mom stays in the kitchen for a little longer, throwing together a bowl of granola and yogurt, before she walks to the back porch.
I watch as the door closes behind her before reaching for my coffee and magazine, heading toward my room. I’ve got some lounging and reading to do.
My house is pretty big, a small mansion by some standards. A two-story equipped with an attic—somewhat of a rarity in Florida—and five sets of stairs, each one leading to a different section of the second floor. Perhaps it’s too big for three people, but growing up it was always full of family and friends so it never felt empty.
I walk out of our kitchen to the hidden stairwell behind the pantry.
As I climb the stairs slowly, my fingers run along the bluish-gray paint that decorates the walls, with pictures of my childhood adorning them.
One of my favorites is of me sitting on a hot pink bike with a white leather seat, training wheels attached to the back tire. On my head is a matching helmet that has two braided pigtails poking out from underneath it. A smile carved between my lips, highlighting two missing front teeth. Behind me, with one arm on the handlebar and the other on the seat, is my dad. His auburn hair is shaved almost as close to the scalp as Geer’s, with teeth so white I used to swear they sparkled. In the picture, he’s smiling down at me, the corners of his eyes crinkling with adoration.
I was about four in that picture, and the way my father treats me now is pretty much the same. I’m his little girl.
Which is why my accident hit him so hard. No matter what is said, he can’t be swayed.
One day, I know I’ll have to tell him. Tell both my parents, especially if I want to go after my dreams.
But not today.
Not tomorrow.
Going after what I want won’t happen until my bravery outweighs my fear of disappointment.