by McCall Hoyle
The guy can’t seem to take a hint. “I can call someone for you.”
“No, really, we’re fine.” Chatham’s jaw twitches, like the day Ms. Ringgold returned his failing quiz. Except for that day in English class, I’ve never seen this curt side of Chatham.
Now the girl moves in, descending the few steps separating us and plopping down beside me. “Don’t be scared.”
Is my fear that obvious? I tighten my death grip on the step under my sweating butt cheeks, praying that the little cherub will quit wiggling and that these well-meaning people will just leave us alone.
“You have to go up.” She glances back over her shoulder to her father. “Right, Daddy?”
“It is beautiful, but . . .” His voice trails off.
The girl laughs. She can’t be a day over seven, and she’s laughing at me. “There’s nothing to be scared of. That’s what Daddy said.”
When Chatham chuckles, I shoot him the best evil glare I can muster, careful not to move my head too fast and risk sliding off my seat.
“I’m not—” My voice cracks. I swallow again. But my mouth’s bone dry, and my tongue’s swollen like a waterlogged sponge. “—scared.”
The little girl’s eyes narrow, like she’s totally on to me.
“I’m fine—really. See?” When I release my hold on the metal step, my upper body lists to the side.
“Uh, yeah.” She looks toward her father for guidance. He offers his hand, and she stands to take it. They move to squeeze by us, followed by Mr. Overly Eager Ranger Dude. I hold my breath when they pass, as if their movement may send me plummeting to the checkered tiles below.
“Well, enjoy the view, then.” The ranger grins at Chatham. The three of them leave without a backward glance.
When I peek at Chatham, a mischievous smile breaks on his face.
“What?” I cross my arms.
“Nothing.” He presses his lips together in a straight line, but the indentation popping in his left cheek is a dead giveaway that he’s trying not to grin. “I’m just glad to hear you’re not scared, that’s all.”
“I’m not scared.” Huffing, I force myself to my feet. The step under my foot sways, and I grab the handrail to steady myself. Curse Chatham for being so cute. Curse Mom for forgetting my anniversary. Curse my pride.
I’m climbing this lighthouse if it’s the last thing I do. And it might very well be the last thing I do. But at least if I’m pushing up daisies at the Motel Deep Six, I won’t have to worry about seizing anymore.
I heave one leg up to what I’m calling the seventy-fourth step and occupy my brain with simple mathematics. Seventy-one steps is about one-third of the way. If I can get to one hundred and eight, I’ll be past the halfway mark, and then it will all be downhill.
Actually, it’ll be all straight up. My math is better than my analogies.
I focus on placing one foot in front of the other, avoiding the views out the occasional peep windows. The last thing I need is a visual reminder of the heights we’re reaching. Dragging my white-knuckled hand along the rail, I pray I’m not leaving behind a trail of moisture and that Chatham can’t see my legs shaking beneath my jeans.
“Almost there,” he chirps, obviously unfazed by the height. There’s definitely a disconnect between my definition of “afraid of heights” and his definition of “afraid of heights.” In any case, I ignore his optimistic outlook. A little over halfway is not almost there.
Don’t look down. Don’t look down, I remind myself. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right, I chant to myself, so focused on not looking down I forget to not look up either. When my chin tilts up and back past the ninety-degree mark to survey the remaining distance, the close walls swim before my eyes.
I pause. Not good. Black spots whirl across my vision, and Chatham bumps me from behind. My heart skips a beat as my chest constricts. “Oh, my gosh! You scared me.”
“Sorry.” He looks away, his smile wavering.
I really, really want to sit down, but I can’t even do that because my knees are locked like steel traps. To top it off, I’ve lost track of the number of steps again. I suck down a lungful of marshy air, willing my knees to unlock. Miracle of miracles, they do, and I hoist a leg up to the next woven tread.
“Hey,” Chatham whispers, careful not to scare me a second time. “I can see the top.”
I resume counting but have to start over because of all the interruptions. One. Two. Three. Four. I drag myself upward with the clumsy gait of a zombie. I will not be fooled into looking up again. If that dizzy vertigo feeling hits a second time, they’ll have to call in emergency personnel to get me out of here.
At twenty-seven, I estimate that with all my stops and starts and miscalculations, we must be at least three-quarters of the way to the top. I’m rechecking my addition when all of a sudden the dim interior brightens. I lift my eyes a fraction of an inch. We’re nine steps from the top landing.
A sudden rush of air escapes my lungs. My spine straightens. If someone didn’t know me, they’d never guess how terrified I was. They’d see this normal-looking girl in trendy clothes with a cute boy at her side, climbing a lighthouse.
I pause on the landing opening up to the lantern. Outside the watch room is a narrow balcony with these wimpy iron spindles that look like something off one of the colonial homes we toured on vacation in Williamsburg, Virginia. I’d expect a lighthouse built to withstand hurricanes to have something a little more substantial separating me from the one-hundred-and-sixty-five-foot plummet of death.
“You did it,” Chatham whispers, wrapping his arms around my waist from behind and resting his chin on my shoulder.
It’s really hard to breathe with nothing but Ayla’s shirt and his white button-down separating us. “I told you I wasn’t scared.” My voice shakes a little too much to convince even myself. How can I possibly be expected to think with him pressed against my back?
“Right.” He laughs, his soft breath tickling my ear. “I forgot.”
I don’t dare move.
“And since you’re not afraid, we’re going to check out the balcony.” He nudges me gently across the threshold.
Hormones must have hijacked my better judgment, because I step out onto the gallery. If this was an essay, Ms. Ringgold would ding me for the cliché, but I can’t help it: the view literally takes my breath away.
Looking out over the pine trees and the marshland to the Atlantic Ocean beyond, I feel like Leonardo DiCaprio on the prow of the Titanic shouting, “I’m the king of the world!”
“It never gets old,” Chatham whispers, sensing my awe at the raw beauty of the land and water surrounding us and my need to devour the scenery with all of my five senses.
“How could it?” I murmur, drinking in the scene. This place is a maritime garden of Eden. It’s a place for new beginnings where anything is possible, a place to take a leap of faith—the place where I should tell Chatham about my epilepsy. I can almost feel a miniature cartoonish Ayla perched on my left shoulder chanting, Tell him, tell him, tell him. But I don’t. There’s still plenty of time on the way down or on the ride home. Right now, I just want to enjoy the moment.
When Chatham laces his fingers through mine, I don’t freak out. For once in my life, I don’t worry about sweaty palms or chewed fingernails. I just relax and enjoy being on top of the world with the most wonderful boy in the history of the universe.
“And look what you’ve accomplished.” He gestures with his free hand to the horizon. “You conquered your fears.”
“Yes.” I meet his direct gaze. “Yes, I did, didn’t I?”
“Emily Dickinson would be proud of you.” He squeezes my hand.
“How’s that?” I follow his gaze out to sea.
“Remember that quote we annotated? The one about fortune befriending the bold?”
I smile, nodding. “Yeah.”
“She was right. You know? If you hadn’t been brave enough to climb this lighthouse, we wouldn’t have be
en fortunate enough to be up here together.”
He slips his free hand behind my neck, pulling me toward him. Before I have time to worry about being awkward or not knowing what to do, he’s leaning in for a kiss.
On the lips.
My lips.
Instead of being clumsy like I imagined it might be, I realize it’s a lot like breathing or blinking or any other involuntary process. Or maybe it’s just that Chatham’s mouth is warm and he tastes like oranges and the beach. Whatever it is, my lips part instinctively as I melt into his chest. My heart bangs against my ribs, and it has nothing to do with my fear of heights and everything to do with the boy in front of me.
I remember something else Emily Dickinson said, about how she knew it was poetry when she felt physically as if the top of her head were taken off. And I totally get it, but it’s not poetry that’s blowing the top of my head off.
It’s Chatham York. It’s like I’m a balloon, and Chatham’s the oxygen. The more I hang around him, the more I stretch and grow.
Please, God, please, I pray for the first time in a really long time. Let this balloon last.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
That it will never come again Is what makes life sweet.
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.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Will there really be a “Morning”?
EMILY DICKINSON
Your mom wouldn’t want you to head out into that.” Chatham points through the foggy window to the monsoon outside.
“A Category Five hurricane won’t stand between me and my phone.” I inch backward toward the front door as I speak. “If there’s any chance of me stepping foot outside the house again before my fortieth birthday, I need to call home now.”