Here is something I never expected to feel: love at first sight for an entire family. But life surprises you. It tells you to close your eyes and blow out the candles, and then sometimes smashes your face into the cake before you can even make a wish. But! Sometimes, every once in a while, you get your wish in. You wish for a boy to spend the summer with, and instead life gives you his whole beautiful family.
It’s a good thing I’m so crazy about them because they’re always, always around. In the week since I kissed Jonah, we’ve been alone together exactly once, and it was not the right time. Now, as he smiles over at me, hitching the beach bag up on his shoulder, the sun feels even hotter on my face.
The second our feet hit the beach, Leah and I take off running, kicking up sand. We squeal as we hit the water, and I lift her up and spin her so that her toes skim the ocean in big circles. When we get too cold, we turn cartwheels in the sand with Bekah. Jonah’s setting up the beach umbrella, which Isaac has planted himself beneath, already reading his book.
“Hey!” Jonah calls from our little camp. “Sunscreen.”
The troops report back and assemble, Bekah digging into the cooler Jonah brought. She examines the Popsicle packaging, looking for the colors beneath the white paper, dark berry and tangerine.
“Do you think they make mango Popsicles? Passion fruit?” I ask, smearing more SPF 100 onto my arms and legs.
“Or pomegranate?” Bekah examines her pineapple Popsicle. “I bet Jonah could make them.”
I look back at Jonah, my eyes hidden by big cat-eye sunglasses. Leah’s rubbing sunscreen onto her nose while Jonah gets the back of her arms. He takes out her low ponytail, gathering her hair into a little bun at the top of her head. It’s sloppy but second nature, his hands twisting the hair tie. The sweetness aches somewhere in my ribs. It could wreck a girl—this handsome guy, shirtless in the summer sun, making sure his little sister’s neck won’t get burned.
For most of the day, his eyes stay on the littles—watching Leah splash at the edge of the water, supervising the sand-castle construction, and anticipating fights. He’s always reading their moods and needs, and it’s only once in a while that I catch his eyes on me. But when I do, he gives me a slow smile, like we’re both in on a secret. Jonah Daniels and his gaze are enough to make a girl feel like she emerged from a huge seashell in the middle of the ocean, like the painting of Venus, surrounded by sea foam. And maybe I did; I don’t remember being born, and I wouldn’t put it past my painter-mother to pull it off.
Also, I’m not going to pretend like I don’t look fabulous in my bathing suit. It’s a polka-dotted one-piece that covers up an ill-advised tattoo, with a halter top that does my chest a serious favor. I wear a thousand bangles on my left wrist for panache.
We splash and we reapply sunscreen and we cover Isaac in sand, sculpting a mermaid tail for him. Our hours at the beach melt together like the box of sticky Popsicles, and when it’s time to leave, I walk a few yards away to finish the last item on my beach to-do list. Using a small branch Isaac found for me in the banks between the shore and cliff line, I spell out careful letters in the sand—Vivi was here—even though I know the tide will rip my memorial away.
“Another one?” Jonah’s by my side, admiring my handiwork. I guess he’s seen me do this before. Earlier in the week, I convinced Jonah to plant more flowers in the backyard of his house. We helped the littles dig with spades, and I told them about biology and sunflowers and sprouts, and I made some of it up, but that’s okay. On our last seeds—zinnias—I took a scrap of receipt paper from my purse and scribbled Vivi was here on the edge. Then I buried it in the dark soil alongside the brand-new almost plants. Once they grow, I’ll still be in there somewhere. We were so dirt-covered when the plants were finally all in the ground, but we took turns under an outdoor shower that Jonah said their family hadn’t used in years. An outdoor shower—beach living at its magical, practical best. Like making a rainstorm whenever you want one.
“Viv.” Jonah nudges my arm with his elbow, bringing me back to him. “Why is that? All the you-were-heres?”
“Because it’s all so fleeting, isn’t it? The ocean existed so long before us and will stay long after us—most trees, too, and some animals. Isn’t that crazy? My dress collection will live longer than I ever will.” I can’t help the sigh that slips out. Oh, how I’d love to be eternal in one life. “I’m just looking for some kind of permanence, so my mark will linger on the world once I’m gone, in the places where I found joy. Does that make any sense?”
He places his hands in the pockets of his swim trunks and rocks on his heels. He’s wearing black shades, but I can tell he’s still studying the ridges of each line, each letter. “Yeah. I’ve just never thought about it like that before.”
There. Right there. Some kind of pain is pressing itself into Jonah’s skin—a cigarette burn for each time he thinks of it—and I am ready to know what it is. The anticipation of being alone together grows like steam in the air. But that heat is not why I need to get him alone—at least, not at first. It’s because I want to know if he’s ready to tell me about the pulsing sadness that I feel in this beautiful family, an undercurrent beneath us.
By the time we walk home, the sun is descending into a sherbet sky, and I have a plan. Leah is asleep on Jonah’s shoulder, little mouth hanging open a bit. Bekah and Isaac are tiny, exhausted zombies lumbering toward their own front door. I love the Daniels residence, which is tucked back from the street, surrounded by low trees that are so deep green they look almost blue. When I asked, Jonah said the house is a Craftsman bungalow, but all I know is that it’s white and homey. Especially with fireflies hovering around the yard, the image that comes to mind is a magic cottage in a fairy tale.
“There you guys are.” Silas leans against the open front door. “I was starting to think the ocean swallowed you up.”
Isaac ducks in, and Bekah’s behind him, setting our huge beach bag in the foyer. When Jonah sets Leah down, she stands on her own but keeps her eyes closed. Silas chuckles, scooping her up, and he turns to go inside.
“Let’s not go in.” I catch Jonah’s hand in mine. He startles a little, like I’ve broken a barrier between us. “Silas and Naomi can take it from here. Let’s go get ice cream for dinner, just us.”
“Okay.” He smiles, but it’s a halfway smile because he’s tired. I know he’s tired, that he is weary, and I want to know even more. “Silas! Vivi and I are going out to eat.”
He knows Silas won’t mind because we’ve had the littles with us all day long, and he’s overdue for a break. After a week of life with the Daniels family, I’m starting to learn the expected give-and-take between three teenagers who seem in charge of their whole family. As we start down the street, Jonah keeps a hold of my hand, and I’m lost in thought of their little world.
I’m in love with Leah, of course, and her limitless imagination and infectious giggle and the unselfconscious way she plays with my hair. I love Isaac and his obsessions and tiny glasses and spiky hair, created with some sort of gel clearly stolen from an older sibling. I’m in love with Bekah and her preteen moodiness and eye rolls, the way she’s still a carefree child until she catches herself and slips back into sulkiness. I’m in love with Silas—his immature jokes meshed with responsibility for the littles. Even Naomi, obstinately making me earn her friendship, and I’m failing so far, which only makes me try harder.
And Jonah. Oh, Jonah. That boy did me in that first night at his house—seeing him in his natural element, cooking and surrounded by his rambunctious family. Such a precarious balance and yet he let me right in. What a heart! And since he can be so serious, I nudge him with each slow afternoon, with hip bumps as we walk along, with looking over at him right this very moment and biting my lip as if it is a random tic. Which it is not.
Jonah is so stuck in his weariness that of course he doesn’t realize anyone else sees him. When we walk down the street together, girls always glance over quickly at him. Once we pass, they turn around to get another look. Of course they do. Jonah is a truly beautiful boy—that gorgeous hair and olive skin and strong arms from carrying groceries and his little sister. He has those deep, dark eyes that show he carries a lot of heavy things inside himself, too.
In town, we order two ice-cream cones—mint chocolate chip for him and rocky road for me. We came here earlier this week to eat banana splits, and Isaac ate so much that he almost puked, which was sad and also hilarious.
“Thanks, Patty,” Jonah says to the woman who hands us the cones. Then Jonah holds the woman’s eye contact, gesturing toward the staircase. “Do you mind?”
“Nah.” She winks at him. “Just be careful.”
I trail behind Jonah as he moves up the stairs at the back of the shop. The upstairs floor looks more like an old house than an ice-cream parlor. There are a few framed paint-by-numbers, a door with a glass handle—a bathroom, maybe—and another door, which Jonah opens. It goes out onto a flat tar roof, which seems sturdy enough. This view is spectacular, a front-row seat as the neon sun dips her round belly into the ocean below.
“Wow,” I breathe, settling next to Jonah on the edge of the roof. We both dangle our legs off the edge, and I’m disappointed to find a fire escape right below us. If we fell, we would be fine, which is a shame—ice cream, cute boy, and sunset on a roof? The only thing missing is a little buzz of danger.
This is probably the longest I’ve ever been quiet in my life. We walked the whole way here in the quiet, and now I look at this boy, whose eyes seem burned out behind the smoke screen of warm brown irises. “Oh, Jonah. You look so tired.”
His smile is wry. “I am so tired. I’ve been tired for months.”
“Well, we fit together like mint ice cream and chocolate chips, Jonah, because it takes me a while to get tired. All night long, I dare the stars to outlast me, and I’d say the score’s about even during the average week. So you get some extra sleep, and I’ll stay up for both of us; how about that?”
He glances sidelong at me, not fully committing to a look. “Can I ask you something?”
“You can ask me anything, Jonah.”
I knew he’d open up, if we were alone and I was quiet enough. So I kick my legs against the gutter, happy to wait. The wind off the ocean tousles his beautiful hair, like the cold front knows all my dirty thoughts and will exploit them. I am so crazy about Jonah’s thick almost-curls that even the atmosphere knows it.
He stares down at his ice-cream cone instead of licking it, even though the mint is softening by the second, threatening to drip. “Why haven’t you asked about my parents?”
I’ve noticed the lack of parent in the Daniels household—of course I have. They’ve said enough that I know their mom is upstairs and maybe ill. The littles use the phrase my dad used to, but I don’t know if he’s dead or if he left or if something else prevents him from being around. Maybe he’s institutionalized or deployed. Jonah doesn’t watch me while I think; he eats his ice cream and stares out at the waves.
“Well, let’s just say I have my own personal fun facts that I keep close to the vest.” I take a lick of my rocky road, rotating the cone in my hand to smooth the ice cream into a rounder shape. “If there were things you wanted to tell me, I figured you’d tell me in your own time.”
“Oh.” He looks genuinely relieved. “Okay, good. I thought you didn’t ask because you already knew—like someone in town told you.”
Come to think of it, Whitney did mention something the day I met Jonah. She made him seem haunted, followed around by ghosts who tug at him in the silent spaces.
“My dad died. Six months ago. That’s what they would have told you. Heart attack.”
I take this information like a knee to my gut, an oof sound almost escaping my lips. It knocks the wind out of me, despite the breeze pushing extra air against my face. I imagine the sweet faces of this beautiful boy and his siblings, and I nearly have to gasp for breath. “Oh, Jonah.”
“I don’t like to talk about it. I mean, I’m not good about talking about it.” The ice-cream cone droops from his hand, nearly dropping to the fire escape below. “And my mom is—I don’t know. She pretty much stays in bed. We keep thinking it’ll get better, but I’m not sure how much longer we can keep it up. Silas is supposed to go to college in the fall, and . . . I don’t know. I can’t take care of the littles by myself.”
He swallows, his Adam’s apple making a barely perceptible shift at his throat. Then he lifts his hand as if to shade his eyes and instead rubs a tense space of forehead, massaging right above his eyebrow. “She does have good days. She usually goes to church on Sundays. Sometimes she gets up and showers, and sometimes she even goes to the grocery store. We’ve tried to get her to a therapist, but it just makes her cry when we bring it up. Naomi keeps saying it’s clinical depression, and she needs to be on medicine, but my mom won’t hear about it. God, this all sounds so crazy. I hear myself saying it, and it sounds crazy.”
“Jonah, I swear on my favorite vintage dress that what you’re saying is not crazy by my standards. Sad? Difficult? Yes. But there is nothing crazy about that kind of grief, especially when it’s totally justified and normal.”
“You call it normal to be despondent for six months?” With a snort, he finishes his waffle cone and dusts off his hands.
“Maybe.” I shrug. “I can’t really say. I’ve never been madly in love with someone for two decades and had six babies with him and made a life with him and then had him ripped away from me in one instant. So I’m not sure what’s ‘normal’ for that.”
He winces, taking that in. “Well, now I feel like an asshole again.”
“Again?”
His hand goes back to the spot on his forehead. “About a month after my dad died, Felix reminded me there’s a difference between grief and depression. His son has dealt with depression, so he would know. And it’s like you said—my mom’s grieving. I know that. I just think it maybe slipped into depression. How can you even tell? Six months seems like too long to stay in your room.”
I almost say that I think it’s a good sign that he said she still cries, but I close my mouth because that seems like a cruel sentiment. But what I mean is, depression, it settles like a shadow over your body while you sleep, and it mutes every frequency into blankness, into fog. Everyone thinks you can’t laugh when you’re depressed, but I couldn’t cry either, because I couldn’t feel.
Instead, I put it back on Jonah. “Are you mad at her?”
“Yeah.” He looks up, guilty and bewildered at the sound of his own voice, like the word slipped out of his mouth without his mind’s permission. “I’ve never admitted that before. I’ve never even thought it before. Maybe I’m not mad. I know it’s not her fault. I just hate this. I hate it for her, and I hate it for me, and I hate it for Leah and for Isaac, and . . .”
“You’re doing everything you can, you know. Taking care of everyone, shouldering all the responsibility to give her time to grieve?” I pat his leg. “You’re doing everything.”
Jonah bobs his head, as if he hears me but doesn’t quite believe it. I’m overwhelmed with sadness for him, but I still feel a sense of wonder up here beside him. We’re on the rooftop of the world, and I think of kids like us somewhere in Madrid or in Sydney or Hong Kong, and I wonder if they spend their summers getting as close to the stars as they possibly can.
“Well,” he says, sighing. “Am I a beach day buzzkill or what?”
“Oh, you stop that.” Then a sigh catches in my throat, too, because I don’t like what I have to say next. If I hate thinking about it, then I loathe talking about it. But I’ll do it for him. “I know I act like I don’t have a care in the world . . . but, Jonah, I’ve prowled the dirtiest back alleys of sadness, okay? And I know what it’s like to fight for your life on those mean streets. So if you need someone to vent to or someone to be quiet with or someone to talk your ear off, I can be that person. I’m not scared of the dark places.”
“Thanks, Viv.” He does look relieved, leaning back against his arms, so his chest rises toward the sky. “I thought you might bail if you knew. It’s . . . a lot, my family right now.”
“I’m a lot, too, Jonah.” Then I lean back, matching his posture exactly so that we’re stomachs up to the setting sun. “And you don’t have to worry about things like that with me. If I met a boy who was perfectly whole, in mint condition with no dings . . . well, I swear to God, I think I’d fall asleep on the spot. And you know that’s not easy for me.”
His eyes watch me from their corners until a sly smile creeps onto his face.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He can’t shoo the smile away. “I’m just . . . really glad you’re here now.”
“I’m glad you’re here now, too, Jonah.”
So we stay there above the town, being here and being now, until the last possible moment. Until the last scrap of sunbeam lights our path back across the roof and through the door and into whatever happens next.
Later that night, I’m wishing Jonah had kissed me on the roof, even though we were talking about sad things—things that could wrestle your soul and pin it to the ground. It’s late, technically, but not by my standards—maybe 1:00 a.m. or so—and I’m working on sewing projects in my room because, well, what else am I supposed to do at this hour? I’m ripping a hem on an old dress, prepping it to become much shorter and cuter, and this can be fairly boring work. So I entertain myself by imagining many different scenarios in which Jonah is a sexually aggressive person, and it’s just getting good when my phone beeps. Oh, I hope it’s Jonah, and it is. He’s asking if I’m awake, which of course I am. Beep again. Look outside? I’m glittery with anticipation as I push my window up, and sure enough, Jonah Daniels is standing below, on the driveway.
“Hey.” Night wind shifts his hair, and he shoves his hands in his pockets—as if he walked all the way over here and chose this moment to get sheepish.
“Hey.” I try to sound casual, which is difficult when you’re yelling down to someone. “What’s up?”
“I can’t sleep. Even though I’m exhausted. So, uh, do you want to go on a walk? Down to the beach?”
“With you?” I ask, teasing him. He shoots me the look that says: Give me a freaking break, Viv, I’m trying here. So I grin. “Always. Be right down.”
I’m wearing a navy-blue nightdress with thin straps and little edges of off-white lace. It covers as much of me as any daytime summer dress, so I figure it’s just as well. I pull on an oversize cream cardigan, and I close my eyes, trying to decipher how it feels. It feels like I rolled out of bed and pulled on a sweater to walk to the mailbox. Close, but not exactly right. Faux pearls. I layer strands and strands of chunky, costume pearls around my neck, and yes, precisely—I am a girl who rolled out of bed to have an impromptu beach date with a boy.
I prance down the steps and see my mother’s form in the glow of the TV. She’s watching a French film with subtitles, one hand cradling a glass of white wine. Her head turns, and she finds my gaze over the back of the couch. A knowing smile twitches at her mouth. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I’m sneaking out,” I say, ruffling my curls. “Can’t you tell?”
“Oh, yes. Very subtle.” She examines me. “Same boy? Jonah?”
“Yes, same boy,” I huff, wounded.
“I want to meet him, Viv. I mean it.”
I turn fully, horrified. “What, like now?”
“Is he here now?”
“No.” It’s a flimsy lie—too reactionary. I’m usually better than that. “Maybe. Yes. We’re just going for a walk. He couldn’t sleep.”
“Then, yes, I’d like to meet him now.” When I don’t move, she pulls herself up, lengthening through her spine. “I’m sorry if you don’t like it, but Dr. Douglas said—”
“Fine,” I snap, unwilling to hear another word about it. I turn toward the front door, but I think better of it, swiveling back to my mom. “Can you . . . not ask about his parents?”
Her head leans slightly to the side, long hair pooling in her lap. I see her gathering the fragments: I spend all this time with his siblings, no mention of parents. He’s here late at night, unable to sleep.
“It’s really hard,” I say quietly. “And recent. Okay?”
She nods, the determined-parent expression falling a little. Jonah isn’t the opponent now—a possible threat to her daughter. He’s another child, as I am to her.
Jonah stands in the driveway with his hands still in the pockets of his khakis, which are rolled up to his ankle. I like this—that even when he dressed himself and left his house, he knew for sure he’d be taking me to the beach. I grin as I walk gently across the asphalt, leery of rogue pebbles. There’s just no ever-loving way that I’m wearing shoes on a night like this; it’s bottom-line insulting to the gorgeousness of a summer night.
“Hey,” Jonah says, before I can reach him.
“Hey. Perfect timing; I was just thinking about you.” I clutch his hand, pressing my lips together. “But, just one thing. My mom wants to meet you.”
“Oh. Um. Now?”
“Yeah—I know, she’s being so weird. Do you mind coming in really quick? I swear she’s not going to interrogate you. She just wants to see that you’re a normal, functioning person, and then we can do whatever we want.”
“Sure.” I can see it in his eyes, though, that this is not the evening he had in mind. Ugh, Mom! This would have been so romantic without interference.
Inside, the French actors are discussing something passionately on the TV. My mom rises from the couch, wine still in one hand. I forget, because I’m with her all the time, that my mother is sort of a presence. She has waist-length, ’70s-queen hair and this sweeping way of walking, in flowy blouses.
I can almost hear Jonah swallow. “Mom, this is Jonah.”
“Hello, Jonah,” my mom says, taking him in. And I can guess what she’s thinking: Huh. A guy in khakis. No half-shorn hair or visible piercings or tattoos—not that she minds those things. Jonah’s just the first . . . unadorned guy who’s made it to “meet my mom” status. I can’t tell if she’s disappointed or impressed.
“See?” I present Jonah like he’s a prize on The Price Is Right. “Normal. And cute! Good job, me. Let’s go.”
I grab his hand and try to tug, but his feet stay planted.
“Nice to meet you.” He reaches his other hand out to my mom. “Sorry—Vivi just told me outside that I had to be normal. I haven’t had adequate time to prepare for this role.”
My mom smiles genuinely at this, amused as she shakes his hand. “Nice to meet you, too. I’m Carrie. Vivi tells me that she’s been spending time with your five brothers and sisters.”
“Oh. Yeah.” He glances at me, almost sympathetically, as if I do not adore every moment with them. “There are a lot of us.”
“And where do you fall in the lineup?”
Is this really more important than me walking on the beach with this very cute boy?! I ask my mom in an attempt at telepathy. What are you doing to me?!
But Jonah’s already answering the question, perfectly comfortable standing here while I am clenching his hand like, Let’s go. “In the middle. We separate it into three oldest and three youngest, bigs and littles. I’m the youngest big.”
“Sounds like fun. I’m glad Vivi found you all. Okay.” She smiles at Jonah, then at me, dismissing us. “Thank you for indulging me. Not too late, Viv. Just a walk.”
“Hmph,” I say, my back already to my mom, while Jonah calls, “Nice to meet you!”
There’s a path of worn wooden steps down to the ocean, and we take it. Jonah tells me about working at the restaurant, about the bustle and the customers and the funny line cooks who work with him. When we reach the part of the beach that is littered with driftwood debris, he bends his knees, offering himself for a piggyback, and I climb on. He hitches me up and steers us until we hit the shoreline, and I clamber down from his back and press my feet into the sand.
A single yellow flag beats against the ocean wind, and the sky stretches for every mile of ocean, and then longer and farther. We’re the only people as far as the eye can see, and all the world feels like a private show, screened on the endless black sky. The universe is unfurling its whole self to us, arms wide and beckoning.
My feet veer toward the water. “I just have to touch it, you know? It’s the former dolphin in me.”
“Careful.” His voice is soft, a warning in the warm air. He’s such a dad, I swear to God; it’s like he can’t stop himself. “The riptide can be really strong.”
I know this, of course. That’s what the yellow flag is for—to notify vacationers that the water at night can be grasping and ironfisted.
“I’ve always loved that the tides are caused by the moon,” I explain. I give him my most enticing grin, trying to melt him into a more relaxed version of himself. “So far away, but so beautiful. So powerful. I can always feel it tugging at me, too.”
“Umm . . .” He laughs, but he’s not mocking me. No, I’m not sure if Jonah could ever really mock someone, not the way that other people do.
“Maybe you don’t feel it yet because you weigh more than me. But I feel it, as real as a lasso around my waist.” I hold my arms up, as though a rope has a hold on my midsection, and I follow it toward the water, toward the moon. It’s cold, the water, but I’m up to my calves before Jonah speaks up.
“Don’t go too far . . .” he warns. “It’s not like Verona Cove has lifeguards.”
I throw my sweater onto the sand so it will be dry for the walk home. “Oh, Jonah. Lifeguards are such a myth.”
“What? Lifeguards are not a myth. We just don’t have them here.”
My knees are wet now, and I spin to look at him, talking louder so he can hear. “Do you really think that a lifeguard—one single person—could stop the universe from taking you if it really wanted you?”
“I mean, I think that’s why they have mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.” He emphasizes the last word like he’s making his point with a five-syllable fancy word that he clearly misunderstands.
“Well, sometimes the universe gives you back, when it doesn’t want to take you yet—it just wants to remind you that it could, if it wanted to.” The water hits the hem of my nightgown, and now my whole lower half feels supported. Ah yes, my soul knows this feel of submersion, of fluidity and bottomless freedom.
“Vivi, you’re getting soaked. And you can get in serious trouble for being in the water after the beach closes.”
He has waded in ankle-deep, but I’m up to my waist, and we have to raise our voices to hear each other. It’s freezing cold, but I can’t even really feel it because I’m loving this way too much.
“Jonah, for God’s sake, you used to be an otter. Give in to that instinct.” I fling my arms out, and they reflect pale moonlight, with dark freckles like pinholes on my skin. “Give in, Jonah Daniels!”
He makes it up to his knees, and I am so confused by his reluctance. I’m telling you, these beach townies, they simply do not appreciate the majesty that sidles up to their backyards. I can practically see Jonah’s brain clicking away: Must. Calculate. Risk. But I want him to shed the grown-up parts that he needs to care for the littles, and, just for tonight, do what makes him feel something.
But I like the way his dark hair whips in the summer wind, so I’ll forgive him for his pragmatism. I move toward him so I’m only thigh-high in the water, and I press my wet palm against his dry forehead. A drop of salt water slips down his nose, and I say, “Jonah Daniels, I baptize you in the name of the God of Midnight Swimming, may he—”
“The God of Midnight Swimming?”
“Well,” I say, “you may know him as the Moon, but he has many formal titles that I don’t want to get into right now. What was I saying? Oh, right. May he protect and guide you so you’ll stop being such a goddamn buzzkill and start acting like the supernova that you are.”
Jonah looks at me like I’m absolutely off my rocker. Or maybe it’s a look of amazement, like I’m a whole galaxy, glittering and vast and unchartered. But then he smiles in this way that makes me feel known. And now I can’t think of anything but snacking on black cherries at the beach earlier today. The way he licked the juice off his lower lip.
I close my eyes a split second before he kisses me, and I clutch the hem of his T-shirt to stay planted against the swaying waves. His hands are on my neck, pulling me in, and the ocean floor drops out from beneath us and the Moon himself whispers, Damn.
It is nothing like that first, quick kiss where I was moving on impulse. This is an exchange, intentional and charged: yes, we are doing this, yes, yes. The difference between a happy summer day and a hot summer night. We’re knee-deep in the ocean, and I’m starting to think I’m in over my head.
So I throw my arms around him and hang on, kissing him wholeheartedly but without the Where is this going? and Does he like me? and What does this mean?! And I know there are people who would judge me for this. Even Ruby once asked, Gosh, Viv, do you keep track of how many guys you kiss? Nope! Because listen here, sisters: it’s summer and this boy is handsome and kind, and, frankly, I want to kiss anything that makes me feel so seen. How do you like them cherries?
When we finally move apart, we’re breathing faster than when we started. Jonah’s eyes are more open than before—but not in height or width. In depth. Like he’s more awake. Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation indeed.
I expect to feel triumphant, but all I can do is stare back, clinging on to him still. My vision tilts, perspective shifting like everything I see is now one degree different—finally clicked into place. Like an opera singer onstage who believes she is the performer, only to find the orchestra—its earnestness, its unexpected soul—nearly moving her to tears. You mean to give, and find yourself taking and taking, soaking it in.
“All right, fine.” Jonah grins as he takes my hand, and we run into deeper waters, gasping at the cold and the beauty.