I hesitate. “No.” How do I put this into words? “One day, God’s going to bring me His best.” I stop. “Not that you’re not His best. It’s just—I mean, hopefully I’ll be the best to that guy, too.” I groan. Why is this so hard to verbalize?
“You believe your husband is going to kick ass and that he’s worth saving every kiss for.”
How does he do that? “Yes. Exactly.”
“And you want your man to know that you believed in God enough to hold out for him because you knew he’d be worth it.”
“It’s like you’re in my head.” He laughs, and it brings my thoughts back together. “So why have all these intimate memories with someone who’s not my husband?”
“Then what are we doing?” he says, and it’s soft, almost romantic.
“I don’t know,” I murmur and press the phone closer. I’m afraid he’ll want to hang up, to end things right here.
“I like you,” he says, unashamed. Relief floods through me. “I like making memories with you. If I don’t end up being your husband, are you gonna be embarrassed about this some day? About us?”
“No!” I blurt out. “I love us!” Then I gasp because I don’t know why I said that, and I wasn’t thinking, but it just came out. “I mean—”
He chuckles under his breath, and I remember how it felt when his lips tickled my ear at the Venue, when he asked for my phone number. “Good,” he says, with the tone that tells me one corner of his mouth is turned up enough to dent one cheek. “I love us too.”
He exhales loudly through the phone. “All right then, no kissing. God.”
I giggle. “I hope you’re talking to Him and not using His name in vain.”
“Oh, I’ll be talking to Him all right. I’ll be begging Him for some serious self-control.”
I ignore that. “Great! Number three. Everything in between kissing and sex.”
He whistles the sound of a cartoon bomb dropping from the sky. “Damn, you bring it.”
“Maybe I should make that number two.”
“Make what number two?”
“The stuff in between.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what this stuff in between is. I think you’re going to have to specify.”
Blood rushes to my face again. How can he do that so many times in one conversation? I lower my voice. “You are not making me say it. You know. The stuff.”
“Between kissing and sex? Lots of words come between kissing and sex in the dictionary. Like mac and cheese. Can we eat mac and cheese together? Does that need to be a husband-only memory?”
“Stop! You’re totally making fun. Look, clothes stay on, hands stay off. If that’s too hard for you to comprehend, then maybe you should rethink college.”
He groans. “College apps. Don’t remind me.”
I’ve been putting off the future. The present has been enough. “You applying for local?”
“Maybe . . . ,” he trails off. “Hey, don’t change the subject. We’re making a list here.”
I laugh. “Do you wear a watch?” I wince as soon as I say it. How do these things come out of my mouth before I think?
“Huh? Uh, yeah. My diver’s watch. You’ve seen it. Why?”
I think back to my husband list. Wears a watch. 6’2”. Makes me laugh. “Just curious,” I say, biting my bottom lip with my teeth to keep from smiling too wide.
“Do you have a number four?” he asks.
I don’t, but I should. I need to make sure I can do this boyfriend thing and not lose sight of God. “How about—no dark rooms alone together?”
“Okay, probably a good idea. ‘See numbers one through three.’ Are we done with our rule book?”
“For now,” I say.
“Good. How about we make a schedule for surfing?”
“Yes!”
“You tell your parents yet?”
“I’m still surfing, so . . . no.”
He sighs, but his words are gentle. “It’s only gonna get harder the more you wait.”
“Are you honest with your parents about everything?”
He’s quiet for a handful of awkward heartbeats. Finally, I hear his voice. “So I’ll pick you up at six in the morning?”
I exhale and it comes out as a one-syllable laugh. “No. I need to work on leg strength. I’ll bike to Mike’s and meet you at six forty.”
* * *
I fall asleep around 3:00 a.m., my 6:00 a.m. alarm blaring way too early. I text him that I’m skipping surfing this morning, hit the snooze, and then pedal to school on wobbly legs, so tired that I don’t even think about the repercussions of Cecilia’s prank.
It doesn’t hit me until Tuesday, when somebody has taped a blown-up condom on my locker. I’m so shocked, I can only stare at it. Lydia arrives, rips it off, and holds it high above her head. She shouts in a voice that could cut glass: “Who’s the boy with the small penis who donated his condom as a flotation device for my chihuahua?”
The crowd of students laughs, and I wrap my arms around her. “Thank you,” I whisper.
“They’re all tontos. I got you.”
I wish I was strong like her. I don’t normally feel weak, but ever since Cecilia did that last week, I’ve felt like I have a “Kick me” sign taped to my back. Take this, please, I say to God. Help me not feel dumb.
In English class, Cecilia smirks like she’s won some contest. At first, I think it’ll get better if I wait it out, but as each day passes, I find myself dreading her smirk more and more. If she walks by my desk, I look at the bulletin board. It feels like she’s taller than I remember, and her sweats swish louder when she walks.
Our whole friend group has been especially nice—I wonder if they notice how dumb I feel—and Niles even offers me his Hot Cheetos, which might as well be his firstborn. Kelly’s been affectionate, putting her head on my shoulder at lunch, playing with my hair when she talks to me, the usual Kelly stuff.
Lydia slaps me on the butt when she notices me slouching, and it works. I stand tall. “Tontos,” she reminds me, and I smile. It’s amazing how the right word from a friend can be a perfect answer to prayer.
Jake makes sure I’m okay in his own quiet “new boyfriend” way. Nobody can really tell that anything is different, but I know. He doesn’t even hold my hand as he walks me to class, but his shoulder stays connected to mine, gently bumping me on purpose here and there just so I’ll look up at him, and he always looks back at me in a way that makes me feel like I’m the star of a TV show.
* * *
The following Wednesday night at youth group, Kelly pulls me into the bathroom.
“Listen, I’ve felt God’s conviction all week and this has been on my heart, like, every second.” She grabs both my hands and then scrunches her eyes like it’s painful to speak. When she opens them, she says, “Lydia’s starting rumors about you.”
I cock my head to the side. “Really?”
“Yeah. She told our whole friend group that you and Jake were dating. And I tried to tell her that you don’t date, but she called me some name in Spanish, so she’s clearly out to get you.”
“We are dating.”
Her hands drop from mine. “But.” She shakes her head like she’s waking up from a bad dream. “I thought.” Her mouth opens and her lower jaw shifts to the side. “But I was going to date him.”
I’m thoroughly confused. “You have a boyfriend.”
“Well, uh, yeah! Now I do. But back then. And you can’t date someone who your best friend dated.”
“Wait. You never dated him.”
“Duh. He had a girlfriend.”
“They broke up.”
“TFTI!”
Thanks for the invite? Invite to date him? I’m so lost. “I didn’t know you’d want to date him if you were with Dave!”
“I don’t!”
She blows out a exasperated groan. “But I could have! Like, before, when I almost did.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Probably only because he didn’t pray about it. Anyway, it means you can’t. Friend code.”
This surge of protection swells in my chest. It hasn’t even been a week, but I don’t like anyone telling me I can’t be with Jake. I’ve always been honest with Kelly. I take her hands in mine, the way she would, and tell her with sincere eyes and a loving voice, “I’m already dating him, Kells. And I don’t think ‘friend code’ is in the Bible.”
“Uh, yeah it is . . . Proverbs . . . ‘Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.’”
I’m pretty sure that has nothing to do with friend code. “What? Who’s the third strand?”
“We are, you and me! We’re three strands!”
“Kelly, that makes no sense.”
She scrunches her face, and I think she sees it too. “Okay, whatever. Look, if you date Jake, you won’t be able to give your husband everything like you wanted to.”
Ouch. That took a turn. I pause, rubbing my eyes with the backs of my wrists.
“I know.” I link my fingers in the side loops of her jeans. “I actually think it’ll be okay. I’m being careful.”
I see the inner wrestling match contorting her face. But she looks at my fingers looped in her jeans and relents. She smiles weakly. “I hope so. It’s your future you’re forever altering.”
“Geez, Kell.”
“I’ll pray.”
“Thank you.”
But as we walk out of the bathroom, she adds, “I’m sure you’ve seen his Insta.”
She knows I’m on social media maybe once a month, so I don’t know why she said that, but we’re back in the youth room and sitting down for Brett’s talk before I can respond.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I never check Instagram. I forget about it as the next two weeks fall into a rhythm of workouts, homework, job, and surfing. Mondays and Thursdays I bike to the beach, do a leg-and-arm workout on the sand, and have my morning Bible study. After work, Jake meets me at Mike’s, and we surf at night. Tuesdays and Wednesdays, we surf before school. After work on Tuesdays, I run the six miles home from Billy’s Buns. And Wednesday nights, we meet at youth group and smile at each other from across the room. During worship and Brett’s talk, Jake sits next to me and our arms touch, elbows to wrists. Sometimes I remember the sermons. Other times, I’m too focused on smoothing my arm hairs from standing on end from his touch. I know he notices. He keeps his eyes down during worship, his eyelashes brushing his cheeks, and it looks like he’s praying, but he’s really hiding his smile. His dimples give him away.
* * *
Jake coaches me in a way that would make Old Man Mike proud. Out on the water, he’ll watch me free surf for a few sets and then point out where I’m weak, giving me drills to improve them.
One night, about two weeks into our training plan, we’ve borrowed Mike’s shortboards to work on connecting turns. The moon isn’t full, but the night is clear and the crescent reflects off the white of our surfboards, making them bright against the dark ocean. We’re past the break, straddling our boards as the water laps softly, tap-tapping against our wetsuited thighs. “So, you’re doing great on your basic rail turn,” he says, using his hand to demonstrate what my board is doing while I ride. “You know how to place your weight on the outside rail down the wave and then the inside rail on the way back up.”
“But I can’t turn to head down the line without slowing down.”
“Exactly. Your rhythm is off. You’re compressing your stance at the bottom carve, but you’re not extending enough at the top carve.”
“Really? I feel like I am.”
“You’re on your haunches like a bunny rabbit.”
I splash him. “So then what?”
“So when you do the top carve next time, try a soul arch, just to get the feel of extending.”
“A soul arch?” I say. “On the top of a wave? I’ll totally fall!”
“That’s the point. I want you to fall.”
“Why?”
“You’re afraid to.”
I sit up straighter on my board. “No, I’m not.”
“Well, something in you is. Maybe you need to get your brother out of your mind.”
I never thought I was thinking about Matt. But maybe I am. Maybe something in me is afraid I’ll fall like him.
“It could happen,” I say. “A head injury like my brother’s. I mean, I know it was a freak thing. But it could happen.”
He shakes his head. “Not the way you surf. Besides, your brother fell forward, and his board hit his head from behind. Remember for this drill you’re falling away from the board. Above it. The board can’t smack you from behind if it’s in front of you.”
“That’s if I finish my turn. If I don’t, I’ll fall backward down the wave, and the board will be above me.”
“Well, then, finish your turn.”
Annoyed, I twirl my legs in fast eggbeaters and turn my board, then flop onto my stomach to paddle for the waves.
I catch my first attempt, riding down the line to the left. After my bottom side turn, I ride back up the wave, and at the top, I try for a soul arch. I extend tall, but I haven’t finished my turn, so I end up panicking and leaping behind the wave. I dive headfirst and feel the leash tug at my ankle hard as my board gets pounded by the wave.
“Again!” I hear him shout as soon as I surface.
The second time, I complete the turn and start to arch my back and tip my chin to the sky, but I lose my balance and back flop.
When I pull myself back onto my board, I swallow a mouthful of seawater, and it makes me cough and gag a little. I blow snot out of my nose and wipe it away with my hands.
“Again!” I hear from across the water.
The third time I don’t complete a soul arch, but I feel my legs straighten, my knees almost locked, and I get what he means about extending my body. I’m tall and leaning, so I attempt the topside turn. I’m on the outside rail, and there’s such little surface area of the board in the water that I fly down the face of the wave. I feel the bottom of the board slap the water, and I bend my knees to absorb the shock and create some drag to ride it out.
I pump a fist in the air at the bottom, and I hear him whooping behind me. I just connected my first rail-to-rail turn, bottom side and top side.
He paddles up next to me. “That was sick!” He holds up a forearm, and I tap it with mine. I’m grinning so big my cheeks hurt, even though my teeth are chattering.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you warm.” He means a shower back at my house, but I honestly feel warmer when he’s peeling me out of my wetsuit at Old Man Mike’s and wrapping me in a towel.
* * *
It’s been three weeks since we started dating, and I’m wondering if anyone else besides our friend group notices. He calls me “Lovey” sometimes instead of Lovette, and I guess that’s something, but I’ve called Kim my coworker “Kimmie” or “Kimber” and nobody assumes we’re an item. Before, I didn’t want others to notice, but now, I’m dying to tell everyone. I want to wear a sign every time we’re together that says “I’m with him.” We talk on the phone, we surf, and we walk to classes together, but other than that, it looks like we’re just buddies. That used to make me feel relieved, but now, it bums me out if I’m totally honest. We definitely hug more, and he’ll throw an arm around me sometimes after a good surf session, but it’s brief because it’s not like he can do that when we’re carrying our boards from the beach.
On November 10 at youth group, Brett announces the annual lock-in scheduled for February. This year, our theme is Six-Sport Saturday, and before we lock ourselves in the church for the night, we’ll be outside doing
six sports over the course of one day. Our first sport will be skiing or snowboarding up at our local ski resort, Mt. High. I wonder if Jake looks as good when he’s snowboarding as he does when he’s surfing.
During big-group game, all fifty of us have a balloon tied to both ankles, and we’re hopping around the room like one-legged kangaroos trying to stomp on one another’s balloons. Once both of our balloons are popped, we’re out, and tonight it’s girls against guys. Dave and Jake team up against me, and I’m sprinting on one foot across the thin layer of carpet. Dave lands on one of my balloons with two feet, making a loud firecracker sound when the latex explodes under his weight, and I see my chance to stomp on one of his balloons with my other foot. Unfortunately, it was a setup. Jake surprises me from behind and pops my last remaining balloon as I stomp down on Dave’s. Dave sacrifices only one of his balloons, but I’m out.
They high-five each other and take off to corner another girl. On the sidelines, Kelly waves me over. “They team up on you too?” she says. “Gah! Why didn’t we think of that?”
“I know, right? They’re like pack animals. Find the defenseless one.”
She rubs her hands on her jeans, then reaches her arms high and stretches, like she’s trying to look casual. “So I take it things are still good with Jake?”
“Yeah. Really good. He’s great.”
She’s quiet after that, and then we’re dismissed to small groups. Tonight’s topic is about the danger of gossip.
Some girls are sharing about the horrible gossip at their schools. Jill says how this girl at her school, Jenny Kitchins, had an STD and how someone posted about it online in the school’s math chat room.
“That’s horrible,” Christa says. “Wait. Jenny Kitchins from Green Elementary?”
“Yes!” Krista (with a K) responds. “I heard the same thing. Can you believe it?”
“Do you know what kind of STD?”
“Girls!” our group leader Candy interrupts. “We’re talking about how gossip can be damaging. We don’t need to know details.”
Beyond the Break Page 15