Spill Over

by Jolene Perry

  Was this what dying was like? Cold? Piercing? Silent? Or was it flames? Burning? Suffocation?

  When my head breaks the surface Amber’s close. Dad and Lynn are in some water fight on the other side of the boat.

  I’m suddenly fighting not to cry. Mom should be here, jumping off this sailboat, breathing, alive. This is not a good time for me to feel this way. Not that there’s ever a good time.

  I take a deep breath, go back underwater, and swim for the ladder. I stay under until my lungs burn, and I start feeling that weird tight forehead feeling I get just before passing out. My face breaks the surface, and I gasp in for air.

  “You okay?” Amber calls.

  But I don’t have the voice to answer. I should. I can breathe. I’m alive. But words won’t come.

  All I want is to push down the weight, the sadness. Death plays over and over in my head and I want that to go away, too. But I don’t know how to get rid of the weight, or the sadness or the thought of your mom is dead.

  I pull myself out of the water and go straight for my bathroom. Head. Whatever. My hands are shaking, and I keep holding my breath, as if that somehow will help me keep in the pressure of the pain I’m feeling.

  I stand in the hot shower for longer than I should. Water on the boat’s a big deal, but right now I don’t care. I slide into sweats and a plain white t-shirt and lie down on my back. My knees are up, and I stare at the ceiling with my hands resting under my head.

  How do I get rid of the heaviness of death? The craziest things bring this on. Ordering a coffee. Standing on the beach. Jumping into the ocean. It’s all random. I can’t figure out a way to avoid everything that’ll pierce me like this. Not when I don’t know what they are.

  I pull out my phone. I haven’t been answering anyone, so I haven’t been hearing from anyone. Nothing. I don’t even want to see my email inbox right now.

  There’s a soft knock on my door.

  “What.” It comes out sharper than I mean it to. I just have no idea how to make nice with anyone right now.

  “Your dad and my mom are occupying the other shower. Do you mind?” Amber’s standing with her towel around her waist, in her swimsuit top, shivering in my doorway.

  I half leap to sitting, and then all I want to do is touch her. That would make this go away. Make me forget for a while. “Yeah. Sure.”

  She has to walk right next to me—my room being the size of a large cardboard box and all. I reach out and let my fingers touch her side and then her back as she passes. She gives me a wary glance over her shoulder as she steps in my bathroom, closing the door behind her.

  Why can’t she be like other girls I’ve been with? The kind who would look at me and say, Antony, you look so sad. And then rub their hands over me and take off their top, or put my hands on their bare waist or something. Even a hug. Instead I get a wary look from Amber. Why does she think I’m this big of a jerk?

  I pull out my phone and send Hélèna a text as the shower turns on. And yeah, okay, I know this is kind of an asshole thing to do, but seriously, I can only take so much.

  I MISS YOU

  She answers immediately.

  MAYBE I’LL SEE YOU SOON

  JE L’AIMERAI

  And I would love it. A smile spreads wide across my face. Okay, so maybe Amber’s right to think I’m a jerk, but a visit from Hélèna, especially when Amber’s still so distant, sounds about perfect.

  Amber uses a nice small, responsible amount of water. The weight of disappointment adds to the rest of the weight when she comes out fully dressed.

  “Can I hang with you in here?” she asks. “Our parents get all crazy on each other when they let themselves, and I don’t think I could stomach it.”

  “I won’t be good company.” Mostly I’ll be staring at you, wishing I could have something that’s apparently off-limits and wishing I didn’t miss my mom so much.

  “I’m in the middle of another good book.” She winks.

  Right, she’s reading mine. “Sure.”

  In two minutes her head is on the opposite side of my bed and she’s stretched out on one side, and I’m stretched out on the other. She lounges with her kindle resting on a knee so she can read. I try not to watch her, but do anyway, glancing over my iPad every few minutes.

  She twirls this loose strand of hair without conscious thought. Her lips press together occasionally, and every once in a while, her eyebrows twitch. It’s killing me to not know what she’s thinking.

  Dad’s chuckle from the other room is followed by her mom’s flirtatious laughter, and now I know what Amber meant, because they sound like a couple of kids chasing each other. When I look back toward Amber, she’s watching me. Her blue eyes look soft, and suddenly her whole demeanor changes as her face pulls into a smirk.

  “Told you they got obnoxious.”

  I nod once in response, every part of my body wishing she was closer. She’s back into the book, but her leg rests off to the side and touches mine. It’s casual but so much. It sends waves through me. Never has something so relaxed on a girl’s part, made me so tense on mine.

  “Sorry.” She jerks her leg up.

  “It’s fine.” I reach out, touch the inside of her knee and relax her leg back down.

  Now, instead of smiling and making eye contact, like I’d do with anyone else. I pick my iPad back up and continue reading. I think that showing her I want her here will only scare her further away. It feels like I’m doing everything opposite of what I normally do with girls.

  After about 30 minutes, our legs are a tangled mess between us, and I can’t think about it too much because getting excited with her here, and while I’m in loose knit sweatpants, probably won’t help my cause of getting closer.

  For me, us sitting here in our hang out clothes, legs together, is way more personal than kissing. To Amber it isn’t. But it leads up to it. I hope.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have sent the text to Hélèna.

  - - -

  “The girls went to town,” Dad says.

  “I figured.” We’re outside of some small city in British Columbia. If the girls aren’t on the boat, they’ll be shopping for food or books.

  “I need to change one of the batteries. It’s not charging. I could use some help.” Dad pulls a few small tools out from under the sink.

  “From me?” I ask. To change batteries?

  “Yeah.” Dad chuckles as he looks up from where he’s crouched on the floor. “From you.”

  “Uh…okay.” How the hell am I supposed to help him with a project like this?

  Dad tugs on a small metal nub on the floor and pulls up a huge board, taking away a panel. There’s a large bank of eight batteries below us.

  “How do you know which one to change?” I ask. I don’t even know where to start with a project like this.

  “The boat tells me.” He smirks. “Otherwise, we’d be down here with electrical testers to figure it out.”

  I don’t even want to know what that entails.

  “Here.” He hands me a flashlight. Flashlights I can do. Electricity…not so much.

  Dad climbs down into the hole. It’s almost as deep as his waist. He’s standing on first layer of the hull underneath us.

  “Is that fiberglass?” I ask.

  “Oh.” He looks from the battery to his feet. “Yeah.”

  “So, we’re on a kind of plastic boat?” I chuckle. I hadn’t really thought about it.

  “Kind of.” He pulls the battery from its spot and hoists it to me.

  I nearly drop it when I take it from him. The thing is heavy—like 20 textbooks in a square the size of a loaf of bread.

  “I need the light again,” he says.

  Right. I pick the flashlight back up, and Dad sets the new battery in place. “I don’t like the idea of owning a boat where the individual
pieces don’t float if we were to be dashed apart on the rocks or something.”

  “Dashed apart on the rocks?” I force out another chuckle, but it’s not really funny. It never struck me as a possibility. Maybe it should have.

  “You know.” He stands. “In bad weather, or whatever. I like that even if the boat were filled with water, it’d still float.”

  “Oh.” Wait. “So, maybe I’m about to sound stupid here.”

  Dad laughs. “We all sound stupid sometimes.”

  “Great, thanks.” Back to my thought. “How do metal boats float?”

  “Displacement.”

  “What?”

  “Concrete can float, if it displaces enough water.”

  “So it’s just a matter of area, or space or whatever,” I say.

  Dad nods. “That’s as good of an explanation as any. I think the important thing to remember is that with enough perseverance, almost anything can float.” His eyes watch me way too carefully for a relaxed conversation about boats.

  Great. No way am I in the mood for some life-lesson today. “Almost done down there?” So I can hide in my room for a bit?

  “If you’d keep the flashlight where my fingers need to be tightening these bolts, then yes.” Dad hunches back over the battery.

  Right. When I think about displacement, what comes to mind is how I got sent from New York, to here. And now, without Mom, even New York is a completely different spot. I’m displaced, here there, and pretty much everywhere. It’s suffocating, but I’m getting better and better at pushing that feeling away.

  - - -

  Amber’s in my room again—for a movie this time on the miniature TV attached to the wall.

  Neither of us are watching. Her head’s on one pillow, mine’s on the other.

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  “What part of me?” I chuckle.

  “Pick one.”

  “It still feels like I got kicked in the chest. I don’t really ever forget it, only brief seconds pass when I don’t feel the full force of losing Mom.” Crap. That was way more honest than I wanted to go for.

  “I can’t imagine.” Her hand touches mine, and it’s like elementary school all over again. I slide my fingers through hers, and I swear her breathing changes, from holding hands.

  I want her to relax, for this to be okay. “Part of me still feels like it can’t be real.”

  “Maybe part of you will always feel like that.”

  “Maybe.” I don’t know if that’s comforting or really, really depressing.

  My bedroom door opens, no knock, no nothing.

  “Hey!” I spin to face Dad, who’s now a foot away from the bed.

  “Keep the door open, please.” He latches this little hook that keeps the door locked open when we’re sailing and then walks away.

  I want to protest, but it’ll probably make Amber more uncomfortable anyway, and I mostly just want to get back to talking. I still push out an exasperated sigh before lying back down next to her. “Can we just pick up where we left off?” I smile.

  Her fingers slide through mine again, and we lie in silence for a moment before she speaks.

  “Even though I don’t think it’s fixable, it sucks to not know my dad, you know?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve always thought of my dad as kind of a weirdo.” I hope she knows I’m mostly kidding.

  She smiles. “Your dad’s a nice guy.”

  “Yeah, I’m getting that. It’s just. With Mom, things were so different. New York, all over the world. When we were in the cities, we were always at nice hotels. I made friends with all the super rich kids, the ones who made mom look blue-collar. And then to visit Dad, in all his…natural man stuff. I don’t know. I guess I looked down on him for a long time.”

  “And now?”

  “No.”

  She raises a brow.

  “Okay, maybe still a little. But I like him now, and that’s sort of a big step for me. And I can’t believe the crap that just comes out of my mouth around you.” I raise our hands up to touch her cheek.

  She looks away and giggles. It’s sweet and makes me want to kiss her cheek, right over that little indent off the corner of her mouth, the one I just touched. How did she stay so sweet at eighteen?

  “I’m serious. Stuff never just comes out. I’m always careful about what I tell people.” Our hands rest between us again.

  Her brows twitch once, as if she’s concentrating on me. “Isn’t that exhausting?”

  “Yeah.” I nod. “It is.” I just didn’t realize it until very recently.

  “I’m tired.” She takes the remote. “Do you mind?”

  I shake my head.

  She turns off the TV, and drops the remote on the bed.

  I have no idea what to do, but I feel desperate, like our night can’t possibly be over. “Don’t I get a goodnight kiss?” I ask. Maybe I’m pushing her, but if she was anyone else, I’d have kissed her by now. A lot.

  “Is that what you’ve been thinking about all day?” Her lips push together, trying not to smile.

  “Not all day.” I let my smile spread across my face.

  “Fine.” She leans forward and quickly pecks my cheek. “Goodnight.”

  “That totally doesn’t count.”

  “Well, it does to me.” She pulls the blanket up. “Good night.”

  “You’re forcing me to share my bed with you, and that’s all I get?” I tease. Even though I’m thrilled she’s still here and plans on staying.

  “Just take it, Antony.” She gives me a gentle slug to the shoulder.

  She tugs on the blanket again and closes her eyes.

  I stare at her in the dark. Her small brows, tanned skin, thick lashes. Her eyes open.

  “Stop staring. You’re making me self-conscious.” Her cheeks turn pink, even in the dim light.

  “Sorry.” I close my eyes. “Your turn.”

  “What?”

  “You can stare at me, instead,” I say.

  She lets out a half sigh, half laugh.

  I lie still and quiet and try to settle my nerves at having her so close. When I open my eyes, she’s staring. “Caught ya.”

  “Fine.” She rolls away from me. Her shoulder curves down to her thin waist, and then the curve of her hip.

  Flashback to my night with Gem—the curves I love so much. I want Amber way more than I’ve ever wanted Gem. This is different. I like Amber. Really like Amber. Enough to know I’d love to just hold her, have my arms around her. This is all kind of a big deal for me.

  I don’t know if she’ll just chase me away, and I barely remember the last time I was dying just to get my arm around a girl. I scoot in behind her and slide my arm around her waist. “I promise to behave.”

  She answers by resting her hand over mine, and pulling me closer. The warmth of her next to me, her hand over mine, feels like everything I’ve been missing.

  I breathe in the peach scent of her hair and wonder if I’ll ever get to sleep with wanting to touch more of her.

  Fourteen

  Dad puts his arm over me as I stumble out of bed in the morning. Amber’s awake and chatting with her mom.

  “Happy Birthday,” he whispers.

  I nearly double over. She promised. My birthday. I’m supposed to be in Paris today, celebrating eighteen.

  “I…uh…” I turn and go straight back to my room.

  Dad follows, closing the door behind him and making the air hard to breathe.

  “Antony?”

  I put a hand over my face, enough deep breaths will make it go away, push it away.

  “What’s going on?” he whispers.

  “She promised she’d be home by my…” But if I keep going, I won’t be able to stop the tears.

  He sits next to me on the be
d, resting a large hand on my back. Any comforting now will just make things worse. “Sorry.”

  “We’re all sorry, aren’t we?” I blow a breath out as I stare at the ceiling. “I’m okay. I’m fine. I just…”

  “We’re ignoring this one?” Dad asks.

  I don’t meet his eyes. “Yeah. We’re ignoring this one.” And maybe every one that comes after it.

  - - -

  “Son of a bitch!” I slam my laptop closed. I thought I’d take my newfound adulthood and do something grownup like sort email, but that was a stupid mistake.

  Three sets of eyes are on me. My hands are shaking and my breath’s coming hard. “Some stupid asshole who didn’t even know Mom is writing a biography.”

  “Unauthorized,” Dad says.

  I nod.

  “You could pick someone to do an authorized one, so you’d have some say as to what goes in there,” he suggests.

  Amber’s eyes are wide and on me.

  Great. I’ve probably just scared her away, too.

  “You could do it,” she says. Her voice is quiet, soft, tentative.

  “I couldn’t do her justice.” And how would I even be able to start? All the stuff I’ve been cramming down starts to roll around inside me, but there’s no way I’m going to stand inside this stupid boat with three sets of eyes on me while I cry over my mom.

  Amber stands up. “Let’s get out of here. Get off the boat.”

  My shoulders relax. “Sounds perfect.”

  Let’s run and never look back. Leave it all in the dust. Mom’s promise, her stupid decision to go to some other third-world country, and my birthday.

  - - -

  “This break from the boat may kill me.” I try to laugh as I follow Amber up this never-ending trail to a watchtower she says we have to climb. A few hours off the boat, her having no idea it’s my birthday, and me not wanting to tell her, means that we just are. We’re just together, and it’s exactly what I need.

  “Wimp.” She laughs and keeps moving at the same impossible pace.

  Now, I’ve always worked out in gyms, but this is different. This isn’t sets and running. This is prolonged uphill torture.