EMILY DICKINSON
The first plump raindrops of the approaching shower force us back inside the watch room and down the winding stairs. When my legs shake, I focus on Chatham’s back and the way his shoulder blades move beneath the white button-down. Compared to the climb, we descend in record time. On the way, I even pause to check out the view from one of the peep windows. The forests are just as green and the water just as blue, but somehow it’s not the same as it was from the lookout up top. It’s like the difference between a Hershey’s Kiss and a Godiva chocolate.
By the time we reach the ground, angry black clouds chase the gray skies I noticed back at Jockey’s Ridge toward the ocean. The few raindrops have turned into many.
“Should we go home?” I ask, shivering. The temperature must’ve dropped fifteen degrees in ten minutes.
“Not yet.” He grabs my hand, pulling me out into the deluge. Ice-cold water splashes our legs as we run for the keeper’s quarters where we got our tickets. Laughing like preschoolers, we tumble onto the front porch of the visitor center, where we spend several minutes trying to shake rain from our clothes and hair.
I clench my jaw in an effort to disguise my chattering teeth. But Chatham’s not fooled so easily.
“You’re freezing.” He reaches for the door, ushering me inside. Little brass bells hanging on the back of the door tinkle as his eyes travel the length of my body.
“I’m okay,” I lie, glancing down at myself and realizing with horror that my wet shirt is clinging to my skin like Saran Wrap. So much for leaving anything to the imagination.
I wrap my arms around myself, wishing I could fold inward and disappear behind one of the racks of postcards. Ranger George talks on the phone behind a glass display case of seashells and souvenirs. He nods at us, chuckling, as if he can read my mind.
Chatham holds up a finger. “Wait. I’ve got this.”
I don’t move.
He hurries over to a stack of hunter green sweatshirts, grabbing one without looking at the price and heading over to the register.
George hangs up. “Y’all got wet, huh?”
You think? I rub my upper arms, trying to warm myself and biting back the snide comment on the tip of my tongue.
“Yeah.” Chatham slaps several bills on the counter, turns his back on George, and trots back to me. “Ta-da.” He unfurls a Cape Hatteras National Seashore hoodie and hands it over.
“Thanks.” I slip it over my head, camouflaging my wardrobe malfunction, thankful for the warmth. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“I try.” He pulls me into his arms and against his chest, rubbing his warm hands up and down my back. The muscles in my lower back unclench, setting off a chain reaction of warm tingling that radiates up my spine to my tight shoulders. The tension in my body melts away.
I try to remember the last time anything felt so delicious. Maybe the Saturday morning a few months ago when I woke from a pleasant dream to a sunny bedroom with Hitch at my side. I lay there, drifting in and out of sleep, relishing the lazy morning—until I thought of Dad and a wall of grief came crashing down on my chest, suffocating me.
That’s happened several times since he died. I’ll forget for a minute he’s gone. Then the realization hits like a landslide, uprooting everything in its path, and I have to relive the pain that threatens to drag me along the ocean floor and dump me out in an expanse of water where I can’t touch and I can’t swim.
What’s wrong with me? Am I seriously comparing Chatham’s embrace to cuddling with Hitch? No. Today’s the first day of the new me. Today’s the day I put grief and fear behind me. Everyone I know has lost someone or is dealing with some challenge. They’re all moving forward, and so am I. Right now.
I inhale the smell of Chatham’s laundry detergent and the rain on his wet shirt, living in the moment. But it’s not meant to be. A loud clap of thunder breaks the stillness of the visitor center, and I jump out of his arms. Every muscle in my body contracts.
George clears his throat. “Guess y’all won’t be leaving for a bit.”
Thank you, Captain Obvious.
A corrugated jag of lightning cracks open the sky.
“Y’all should check out the new Graveyard exhibit.” He waves to a room in the back corner of the refitted keeper’s house. “Your dad’s donation paid for most of it.” He straightens the stacks of brochures on the counter without taking his eyes off Chatham, who’s leading me toward the rear of the house.
“Your dad must be really generous,” I say as we step into a room filled with artifacts from the sunken ships of the Graveyard of the Atlantic.
“My dad does things for one reason.” He shakes his head. “No, make that two reasons: profit and prestige. Donating to the lighthouse does both. It helps the county, which makes him look good, but more important, it brings in tourists. Tourists bring money, which creates jobs and loans for the bankers and the mortgage brokers, who then refer lots and lots of business to my father’s real estate company.” The tendon in the side of his taut neck twitches.
I press my hands into the front pocket of the hoodie, turning to examine the plaque beside a picture of some old ship, not quite sure how to handle what Chatham just said. “The exhibit’s cool even if his intentions weren’t.”
“I guess.” He shrugs. “Did you know more than two thousand ships have sunk here in the last five hundred years?” he asks, pointing to the photograph in the glass case in front of me.
Pine trees outside the window bend to the howling wind as I scan the placard above the picture of the USS Monitor. The first ironclad warship commissioned by the US Navy during the Civil War sank on the reefs just outside the house where we stand. I wish I could make some intelligent contribution to the conversation about the place I’ve called home my entire life. “That’s depressing.”
Not exactly sparklingly witty. I’m not doing much to showcase my talent in the stimulating-conversation department.
“That’s why they call it the Graveyard of the Atlantic.” He points to a diagram of the coast of North Carolina.
Neither the conversation nor the weather are doing anything to thaw my freezing hands. “I do remember studying some of this in North Carolina History in eighth grade.” I point to the sketch of the ocean currents just off the coast.
His eyes follow my finger. “Isn’t it crazy that the collision of those two bodies of water is what makes this place both loved and feared?”
“I never really thought of it that way,” I say, trying not to stare as I turn to study his profile. I never really thought of a lot of things until I started hanging out with Chatham and Ayla.
He traces the wavy line moving south from Canada. “If you think about it, the arctic water from this Labrador Current colliding with the warmer water of the Gulf Current is what creates the great fishing and surfing that make the Outer Banks so popular. But it’s also what causes the severe weather and fog that has sunk so many ships and killed who knows how many people.”
A cold draft brushes my cheek, and I shiver. He’s right, of course. And what’s really scary is how those colliding currents are a perfect metaphor for our relationship. My frigid current smashing into his warm world could make for rough waters and eventual breakup, like the two thousand splintered ships and countless drowned sailors who’ve lost their lives in these waters.
No. I won’t let that happen. I haven’t had a seizure in ninety-plus days. I just conquered my fear of heights. Like the Shakespeare quote on Ms. Ringgold’s wall says, the world is my oyster.
It’s time to look for pearls and ignore the tumultuous seas.
At the thought of turbulent waters, an image of my anxious mother flares in my head. “Oh, crap,” I groan, biting my lip.
Chatham’s eyes widen. He must recognize the look of horror on my face. “What is it?” His eyes search my face.
“I forgot to text my mom.” My pulse accelerates. I’m dead thanks to Ayla’s cute shirt that wouldn’t cover my phone in my pocket. I had to leave it in the car. I should’ve asked Chatham to carry it for me.
He glances out the window at the pine trees doubled over under what must be gale-force winds. “My phone’s in the car too. You can text her when the storm lets up.” He squeezes my upper arm.
I know I’m supposed to appreciate the comforting gesture, but nothing—I repeat, nothing—can lessen the dread roiling in my belly.
I’m a dead girl.