by Mariah Dietz
I shake my head.
She frowns. “That was anticlimactic.” Disappointment rings in her voice as she leans back on my bed, grabbing her coffee. “Continue.”
I tell her about almost kissing him. About him almost kissing me.
“Ohmygod. Ohmygod. Ohmygod.” She shakes her head in tight little jerks. “This was not what I was expecting. So, why are we mad at him?”
“Because Pax asked me to go help him with his computer tonight, and he totally ghosted me, and Lincoln showed up. I don’t know what happened to him, but he was in a dark place and was all over the map, and it led to him accusing me of humping his goddamn leg. I mean, this guy’s ego is literally the size of the Pacific Ocean. It would have taken Magellan twice as long to cross it.”
She blinks slowly, and I know she’s trying to understand how things ended up where they did as well. “What did you say?”
“I don’t know. I was so mad, I can’t even remember.”
“I don’t understand.” Poppy reaches for the top pack of Oreos and pulls the resealable plastic back before passing it to me. “I don’t know if these are going to be strong enough for tonight.”
Tears prick my eyes again, and these ones aren’t from anger or even sadness, but caused by her sympathy. “That’s why I called you.”
Her smile is a thin line of hope that falls as she wraps her arms around me. “Guys are so stupid. I love you, Rae.”
I lean into her, resting my forehead on her shoulder. “Maybe we should do what Pax said and forget all athletes. Maybe they really are just a bunch of douchebags.”
17
“Raegan. Be careful.” Lois watches me carefully. Reluctance has her reaching out to me, though she’s thirty feet away.
I smile in response and lean a little closer to the water. We’ve stumbled upon an illegal drift net that got tangled in the engine of the boat. Hans is attempting to reverse the engine in hopes it will untangle, while I gently lead it out of the way. One of the reasons I know cetology is right for me is my ease out on the ocean. Many come out here and freeze, hating the cold dampness that enrobes you and the choppiness of the water, which causes many to feel sick and off-balance. Out here, things make sense to me. The water, the waves, the tides—there’s reason and explanation for each, unlike the rest of my life.
It’s been a week since I left Lincoln in his kitchen to drown out whatever demons he was facing. A week since I allowed Poppy to realize my crush on Lincoln ran deeper than she’d realized. Seven days since I’ve been able to sleep a solid stretch.
“There! You got it!” Joe yells as the engine fires rather than cutting like it has a dozen times before. I use both hands to tug the rest of the net free and pull it into the boat, hopping back over the rail and into the body of the boat where Lois grabs hold of my shoulders and Joe helps further pull in the net.
“Shit.” Hans appears, our shared relief not stretching to his expression.
One glance out at the net confirms why. Several animals are caught between the large holes, many aren’t moving, likely dead.
“Let’s pull the rest of it in. Maybe a few can be saved.” Joe pulls harder and faster at his own instruction, and we follow suit, the sound of our hearts breaking with each thump as another animal falls into the base of the boat.
It’s dark by the time I get home. Within a month, it’ll be dark by the time I leave class. Living this far north, summer nights stretch on, but during the winter months, the days become painfully short.
I head into the house, my body aching from being cold for so long. It took us all day to pull in the entire drift net and work to save the few animals that were still alive. Another two hours to wait for the coastguard to arrive, and then we had to transport a young seal back to the aquarium to get medical attention. Greta tried to see the positive side, focusing on how we found the net before it could do more damage, and how we were able to save some of the animals impacted. Hans and Joe refused to see the positive in the situation, though. With more than thirty years between them, they’ve grown skeptical about things ever-improving. Too many illegal drift nets and poachers, too many failed and unenforced laws, too long between sightings and positive stats are blows that continue to beat them into a constant stupor of negativity.
“Oh my god!” Mom is out of her chair and rushing toward me before I can get the door closed. “What happened?” Her eyes are frantic and wide as they rake over me, her hands both outstretched, waving like she doesn’t know where to place them.
There’s commotion, shifting, and movement as I look down at my sweatshirt and sodden jeans. I’m covered in dirt and blood from today. “It’s not mine,” I tell her. “I’m fine.”
Mom shakes her head, her eyes raking over me again and again, not believing my words. Her attention stops on my hand, which she pulls into her grasp. “You’re hurt.”
I fight a wince because my take home of the day is a deep cut from a fish hook that got caught on the top of my hand between by thumb and forefinger that tore my skin a full inch before I even realized I’d gotten cut.
“You can’t do this,” Mom says, keeping my hand pinned between hers as her eyes meet mine. Hers are several shades lighter than mine, tinted red because, like me, she gets teary when feeling overwhelmed. “You promised. This was a part of our deal.”
“I didn’t,” I tell her.
“Raegan.” Her tone is a warning, a threat because my omission of truths last year created an entire web of lies that has her still doubting me.
“I swear, Mom. I was with the Aquarium team. A huge drift net got stuck in our engine, and we just pulled it into the boat. This is from a seal pup that was caught in it.” I wave to the blood covering the front of me.
She stares at me for several more beats before accepting my honesty. “We should probably get this stitched.”
“It’s okay. It’s not that deep.” She’s not listening to me, though, and the thin scab on my hand hasn’t had enough time to set, leaving a slender trail of blood to stain much of my hand and wrist.
“Jesus,” Pax says, appearing beside Mom. Beside him are Lincoln and Caleb, and I realize the motion I’d seen when Mom screamed was Caleb leaving, likely to get Pax.
Lincoln’s lips are parted, his brown eyes raking over my torso again and again like he’s trying to make sense of the scene before meeting my gaze. A silent question hangs between us as Pax fires off questions as quickly as Mom had.
“I’m going to take a shower,” I tell them, disregarding the entire lot.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Mom asks.
“I’m positive. I wish I could say the same for the seal.”
Mom’s shoulders fall, reading the defeat I’m currently drowning in.
It takes me too long to untie my boots, my fingers stiff and sore from rope burns and small cuts I endured because I’d removed my gloves to get better traction after the net had continuously slipped from our hands. My boots fall with a thump, and then I peel off my layers, shedding the dirty clothes and leaving the only traces of my day on my hands.
The spray burns initially, my body still too cold for several moments before the warmth infiltrates and spreads over me.
Once dried, even my hands barely show any evidence of today’s events. My cut, though wide, isn’t half as bad as I’d feared. It still insists on bleeding, but with so many tendons and muscles in hands, I made off easy.
I clutch my towel, listening to ensure the others aren’t near before I open the door and make a quick escape to my room, where I pull on a pair of yoga pants and a tee that says ‘I love naps.’ I should blow dry my hair. It would probably make me feel warmer, and I know it would make me look a step up from the drowned appearance I’m currently sporting, but with my intention to get over Lincoln still fully intact, I dismiss the thought and tie the strands into a quick knot. I go to hang my towel up and gather my dirty clothes to shove in the washing machine.
I rip off a paper towel hanging over the sink in the
laundry room, pressing it to the cut on my hand, grab another to clean up the smears I left on the washing machine, and turn to find Pax staring at me.
“What happened? The unedited version.”
“Nothing, I swear.”
“Rae…”
“Paxton, I swear.”
Lincoln appears, his attention shifting between Pax and me before he lifts a small tube. “This what you want?”
Pax grabs it, glancing at the label before tossing it to me. “If you’re…”
“I’m not. I didn’t do anything.”
Pax blows out a long breath. “Do you need help?”
I shake my head, gripping the small tube of super glue he tossed me. “It’s not that bad.” I switch off the light, heading toward the bathroom. Pax veers off, heading back to the kitchen, but Lincoln follows me.
“What happened?”
“Oh my gosh. How many times do I need to tell you guys? It was nothing. I got cut on a fish hook.”
“I mean what happened that has them so off balance?”
“It was nothing,” I mutter, grabbing the small medical kit we keep in a tub under the bathroom sink.
“Then why don’t they believe you?”
“Why do you ask questions and expect answers when you don’t answer any of my questions?”
“What questions have you asked?
“What had you so upset the other night? Expectations?”
His gaze drops.
“Exactly.” I begin to turn, stopping when he takes a step into the small space, his presence once again consuming every inch of space.
His eyes rebound to mine. “My dad wants me to quit football and become a corporate lawyer.”
I pull my chin back, shock still radiating like I’ve been slapped. “What? Why?”
“Because in his eyes, that’s what I was born to do. To take over the legacy he’s built.”
“But you’re too good to quit. You’ll be a first-round draft pick. Easy.”
He scoffs, his gaze travelling around the small bathroom painted a light blue to match the new gray tiles that were installed two years ago when the bathroom became solely mine. “I spent nearly half of last season out because of my shoulder. The only way I’m going to get drafted is if we win every game this year and next.”
I pull my shoulders back, unable to make empty promises, no matter how badly I want to. “Did you know that sixteen thousand whales are killed each year? Sixteen thousand,” I say the number again because it’s a fact that deserves to be heard a dozen more times. “And it gets worse. The numbers get bigger. Sharks? Over a hundred million. Every. Single. Year. Slaughtered. And those numbers don’t even account for the thousands dying from pollution. From drift nets.” I pause, realizing I’m starting to get on a tangent that I could easily go on for hours about, sounding more like Joe than Lois or Greta, who teach with hope and care.
“I wanted to stop the numbers from growing, so last year, I met a group who wanted to save marine animals. We collected information, helped count different species, and checked on them. A few times we’d come across illegal hunters or poachers, and we’d report them, but it never made them stop. They’d move on, maybe getting fined in the process, but they made so much that it didn’t matter.” I sigh, considering the damage they caused and the high sums they collected while doing so. “One day, we came across a boat that was trying to separate a baby whale from its mother, and we knew there was a good chance that the authorities wouldn’t get there in time or even come at all, so we intervened.” I think back to the moments that escalated so much quicker than I could have anticipated. “A guy on our boat got hurt really bad. Several did.”
His jaw grows tight as he turns his head a fraction. “Were you hurt?”
“We couldn’t just walk away from it all. We were so tired of watching them make their own rules.”
“You almost needed a lawyer,” he says the words like he’s dusting off a memory, one I wish he’d have buried a bit deeper.
“I didn’t need one. My parents were just paranoid.”
“You broke your arm,” he says, his eyebrows lowered as he dusts off another corner of the past. “I had no idea it was related.”
I shrug away his concern, but his gaze is on my arm, tracing the edge of the scar that peaks out under my tee, a reminder of that day and my choices. “One of them had a fillet knife, and I got too close.”
Lincoln’s eyes flare, an angry war taking place that keeps me silent for a full minute.
“He wasn’t trying to hurt me, not really. He was just trying to scare me because I was cutting their net. But it was slippery, and there was a lot of pushing and shoving, and it just got … really intense.”
“And they thought you were out again today?”
I nod once. “I didn’t. I wasn’t. Today was nothing.” Admitting this doesn’t feel good. Last year, I promised my parents I wouldn’t associate with the group—wouldn’t fight a war I didn’t understand and was ill prepared for. Yet, every day I see the carnage of the side we fought against and I continue to keep my distance, though it feels like I’m allowing them to win each time I do.
I twist off the cap of the glue with my teeth, but Lincoln intercepts the small silver tube. He takes my left hand in his, folding my wrist to give himself the optimal angle. His eyes meet mine. I swallow back memories from that night a year ago and more from only a couple of weeks ago—both of them inflicting pain and neither offering a resolution. His gaze moves to my hand, squeezing a thin line of glue along the wound.
“You, Raegan Lawson, are badass.”
“I’m a coward.”
“That’s bullshit,” he says.
“You quitting football is bullshit.”
He stands opposite of me, his eyes raking over my face. It feels like we’re exchanging another conversation where I again don’t know the subject or even the language. And it ends too soon, as Pax reappears, a box of butterfly bandages in hand. He stops in the doorway, his attention volleying between Lincoln and me before his brow creases heavily with accusation. “What’s going on?”
“My hands are sore,” I explain, extending them to reveal the many rope burns and nicks.
Pax turns his attention to Lincoln for confirmation, but Lincoln doesn’t say or do anything except stare back.
“Thanks for the bandages,” I say, grabbing the box from Paxton. I open the lid and rip one open using my teeth. I fumble with the edges, folding one half of the bandage before getting the protective film off the other side.
“You’re a train wreck,” Pax says, taking the bandage from me and tossing it into the trashcan.
“You want to stop judging and help? Lincoln picked up your slack, but you’re about to be fired.”
He snickers, plucking the box from my hand and making quick work of applying two small bandages across my cut.
“Are you guys having another team dinner tonight?” I ask.
Pax shakes his head. “We were gonna watch some tape. Coach Harris gave us a damn cassette, and the only people I know with a VCR is Gramps and Mom and Dad.”
“You should have chosen Gramps. He likes to watch tape and Camilla’s been baking cookies to test for their church’s bake sale next month. She’s determined to have the best ones.”
“Yeah, well, I was kind of hoping you’d be interested?” he says, wadding up the small amount of trash and shooting it at the garbage.
Pax and I haven’t watched tape together since he moved out. “Why?” I don’t mean to sound so abrupt, but the question catches me out in left field.
“Because it’s Colorado State, and Coach is worried.”
“I’ll tell you what. I’ll watch film with you if you can get your football team to clock hours next week for a beach cleanup. It would give you good community service, and it would help the ocean.”
“There’s no way they’re going to agree to that,” Pax says.
“Convince them, team captain.”
“How many ho
urs?”
“Two.”
“Seriously?”
“I will move the event around you guys, and I’ll even make sure two news stations are there.”
Pax sighs. “Deal.” It’s a begrudging agreement, but the whisper of a grin confirms he would have done it for me regardless. “And no naps while you’re watching the game,” he says, pointing at my shirt.
“If we’re raising the ante, you might have to feed me.”
“I blame Mom for your negotiation skills.”
“That was all you and Maggie.”
He laughs, his eyes drifting to my hands, his smile sobering. “You good?”
“You’d think I was fragile or something.” I turn, setting the first aid kit back under the sink. “Let’s go.”
Pax sits upright, tracing the skin around his mouth with fingers, again and again. He’s nervous.
Lincoln is next to him, a backward baseball cap covering his dark hair. Mom and Caleb are on the opposite couch. Mom’s going over resumes for an open teaching position, and Caleb keeps alternating between watching the film and playing a game on his phone. I’m in the recliner which sits empty until Mondays when Gramps visits.
“They’re physical,” Pax says, watching another play where Colorado takes down the offense like a bunch of bowling pins.
Lincoln’s silent, watching as wide receiver after wide receiver is leveled by their defense.
“Wait,” I say.
Pax hits pause, looking at me for direction. “I recognize him. Play that again.”
“He’s a sophomore,” Pax tells me.
I turn to my phone, searching his name, and see the face that looks more familiar, the one at least twenty pounds lighter with shorter hair. I spin my phone so Pax can see it. “Recognize him?”
Pax pulls his chin back. “He played for Arizona two years ago.”
I nod. “He was kicked off his high school team for excessive force after he caused a kid brain damage. It says he changed his name last year after his parents had an ugly divorce, and he transferred. Red shirted it last year.”
“Shit,” Pax blows the word out.