Beyond the Break

by Heather Buchta

  He crouches, setting the paddle on the board, and then he sits down behind me and places a leg on either side of me. I can feel his chest against my back, and I press into him to feel more. He wraps his arm around me and pulls me in close, drinking in the scent of me with his nose against my neck. His lips press against my cheek, my neck, my ear, and I feel drunk from it. We float for minutes that I never want to end. We don’t need to say anything. Words might ruin it, the bliss of feeling so close to a person that they feel like an extension of you.

  He starts to kiss my neck again, small kisses, cautious, and I turn my head so that I’m facing more toward him than away. He pauses, rests his forehead on my temple, and then kisses my cheek. Once. Waits. My pulse quickens. I turn closer, and his lips brush the edge of my mouth.

  I want it to be here. Not at an altar, or in a building. Not in front of hundreds of people, snapping photos and “aww”-ing at my stumbling first kiss. I want it to be surrounded by the ocean that makes me feel alive and so loved by my Creator, in the arms of the person who doesn’t have it all figured out but admits it, who understands how it feels to be let down by your parents but still believes that good things can happen and that life’s amazing and messed up and full of miracles. My thoughts are deep and swimmy from whatever Jake’s making me feel. But I want to kiss him, right here, now, more than anything I’ve wanted in my life.

  I lean back, turn my head more, our mouths a millimeter apart. His lips move away from mine and head back to my ear. “Stop moving, mannequin. You’re making this difficult.” He can sense what I’m leading him to do, and he backs away, crawls to his knees. I’m bruised by his rejection, and he must see my crestfallen face because he says, “I didn’t bring you out here to take your first kiss away.”

  It takes a moment for his words to register. He’s actually looking out for me, which makes me even more attracted to him. “What if I want to give it?”

  He stands up. “No.”

  I turn around so I’m facing him, and then I stand up too. We balance precariously on the board. “Why not?” I try to step closer, but he holds the paddle across my stomach, his arms extended, forming a two-foot span between us.

  “I want you to be sure of things,” he says. “If you’re doubting, or wondering—”

  “I’m not.” I pull the paddle down from my stomach and step closer. I close the gap between us. The paddle dangles in one of his hands, and I hope he doesn’t drop it. I touch his chest with delicate fingers, and he stares at me. Controls his breathing. I trace my fingers down from his chest to his sides, and he brings his free hand around my waist and pulls me close. Our breath’s hot and mixes together as we stand for several moments, our noses barely touching.

  His eyes blink a question, and I know what he’s thinking.

  “I’m sure,” I say.

  A dimple creases one of his cheeks, then the other, and I know that he believes me.

  I feel his lips barely touch mine, and I suck in my breath at their softness. My foot wobbles and I grasp for him, but the board’s no longer under my feet, and I’m splashing into the nighttime water with an ungraceful plop, a ring of electric blue pooling around me in concentric circles and washing over my head as I go under.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “Give me your hand,” he instructs. He’s kneeling on the board; I’m neck-deep in the red-tide ocean. It’s soupy and foamy, like grimy bathwater. I grab the far side of the board with one hand and let him pull me up by the other hand. We’re both on the board, only he’s dry. I’m a sopping mess in front of him, and the two of us look at each other, remembering what we were about to do, and burst out laughing.

  “Oh my gosh,” I say, wringing out my hair with my hands. “Is this stuff poisonous?”

  “Nah,” he says. “Well? It’s not harmful like it is in Florida, but it’s probably not amazing for you. We should get you to a shower.”

  “Awesome,” I giggle. “I’m covered in algae.”

  “Algal blooms,” he corrects and paddles us toward shore. “It’s like flowers.” I sit in a huddled ball as he stands over me. He leans down and sniffs my wet hair. “Is that roses I smell? Mmm . . .”

  I laugh and swat at him. “Stop it.” I know I smell like dead fish. It’s bad.

  * * *

  We get to shore and heave the monstrous board onto the sand. Bill’s nearby smoking a cigarette at his pickup and waves us over. He directs us to the nearest beach showers, about a block and a half away, and I’m shivering and goose bumped by the time we get there. “I’d offer you my sweatshirt, but . . .” Jake trails off, grinning at his sweatshirt that’s clinging to me like a wet paper bag. I fake kick him, and he says, “Arms up.” I shoot my arms up, and he peels me out of his sweatshirt. My T-shirt and sports bra are also drenched but not as heavy with cold seawater. He pushes on the shower, and the cool water feels warm against my chilled skin. I rub the ocean off me as best as I can, and he says, “I wonder if you’re gonna sweat blue for a few days.” I swat him and he swats back, and I catch him off guard and pull him under the shower. His hair gets wet, and he gasps from the shock. And then he doesn’t care and wraps himself around me under the shower, and we’re drenched and water’s spraying everywhere and I’m warmer on the inside than if I were in a hot tub. We’re holding our bodies close, our faces pressed against each other, our opposite cheeks kissing. I close my eyes and let the beach shower pour over me. I feel his head dip and his lips touch my shoulder. He waits, but I don’t pull away. His lips move to my neck and then my cheek. He pauses, then traces them across my cheek toward my mouth. Our lips touch again, but I freeze. My eyes open. We’re not in the ocean surrounded by God’s beauty. This isn’t a first-kiss moment. I’m wiping off algae and we’re under a rusty outdoor shower and I’m shivering. The water automatically shuts off and he pulls away, muttering an apology.

  But I grip his hand before he can move, hold him still, and reach behind me to push the shower back on. It pours over us, and he knows what I mean by turning it back on, knows it even before he sees the longing look in my eyes. He pulls me under the rusty showerhead, not holding back this time. His lips press into mine, four months of desire breaking through, and I reach for his chest. His T-shirt’s wet underneath my hands, and I grab it in fistfuls. He reaches behind my neck, gripping my hair and holding on for dear life. Our mouths explore each other—our lips, our tongues, even our teeth—slowly, like we want to know every part and don’t have to rush because we have forever now. The shower water pours over us like a waterfall, and it doesn’t matter that I couldn’t find this place on a map and there’s salt in my eyes and sand between my toes. It feels like what I imagine Adam felt when he first laid eyes on Eve—how he broke into poetry.

  We press the water back on many times, silently communicating that we don’t want it to stop, and we don’t. Minutes later, when we finally pull our lips away from each other, we stay there after the water shuts off, drenched and happy, embracing like we can’t get close enough.

  Jake breaks our hold first. It’s like he wakes up two hours after his alarm. “Shit. Curfew.”

  “Right.”

  He wrings out his sweatshirt and then reaches for my hand. We walk together, the electric blue to our left, the highway above us on the hillside to our right. Our chins are tucked down, a little embarrassed by this new closeness. At least I am. Is he? What do you say after a first kiss? Talking about it would be weird, but talking about anything else would feel awkward and forced. As if he can sense my worry, he rubs the inside of my wrist with his thumb, and my heart calms again.

  On the drive back, the heater’s blasting, and he has to turn on the defroster because our wet clothes fog up the windows. Worry creases the edges of my tired brain, wondering what this kiss means for us, for God. I counter it by reaching for his phone and making him a Spotify playlist of my favorite worship songs. My eyes start to blur, so I lean my head on hi
s shoulder and doze off. Some time later, he nudges me when we drive by the power plant.

  “See?”

  He points. Just the tips of the “boobs” blink red.

  “Can’t believe you woke me up for that.” My words are slurred with sleep, but he knows I’m smiling.

  “Yes you can.”

  I burrow back into his shoulder, and he turns just enough to kiss the top of my head. I must fall back asleep immediately because when I open my eyes a moment later, we are parked in front of my house and the car smells of strong black coffee. He must’ve stopped to grab one rather than make me stay awake to keep him up.

  “We’re here,” he whispers.

  Disappointment creases my eyes. “But your aunt. I was supposed to meet her.”

  He taps the car’s clock on the dash. “Your dad’s a military guy, and it’s after twenty-three hundred. So.” He opens his car door and walks around to open mine. “Next time.”

  I love that there’s a next time. And infinite times after that.

  We’ve reached my front door, and we stand under the porch light.

  “What?” I ask. “Do I have seaweed on my face?” I wipe my cheek and check my nose with the back of my hand.

  “You okay?” He clears his throat. “You know.”

  Oh. With the kissing. The only thing I’m afraid of is that he’ll think because I’m okay with this one thing, I’m okay with all the things.

  I lick my lips. “I’m not like that, you know.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like, now that we’ve done this, we’ll do other stuff. In fact, I think this was a one-off.”

  He cocks his head to the side, and my palms sweat even though I’m cold.

  “Like, I’m okay that we did it,” I ramble, “and I don’t think God’s against it, at least I can’t find it anywhere in the Bible. But.” I pull my shirt away from my stomach. It’s still damp, chilled from the night air. “It doesn’t mean I’m going to do it all the time now. Or even one more time.”

  “A one-off,” he repeats.

  I nod. “Our relationship’s more than that. And I just don’t want it to be defined by just physical stuff. It’s just”—Oh no, I’m sounding like Kelly praying with all the justs—“I don’t know, I still want to be an example, and . . .” I stop my sentence there. I don’t know why.

  “So you’re like a kissing one-night stand.”

  I laugh. “That makes me sound like a player.”

  He holds out a hand to high-five me. “Well good night then.”

  I push his hand away, pull him close and hug him. “Don’t you dare.” He wraps his arms around me and we nuzzle.

  “I got it,” he murmurs into my neck and ear. “One and done. Harsh. But worth it.”

  I kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you.” I start to pull away but he has a hand around the back of my neck, and he holds me still, quiet, against him. Desire’s making me dizzy. I pull away and he lets me, but then I tug at the belt loops of his wet jeans and look up through my eyelashes.

  “So,” he starts and puts his hands on my waist. “Since this is a one-night stand—a kissing one-night stand,” he clarifies, “then the night’s not over for fifty-two more minutes.”

  He pulls me in, and I let him, our lips finding each other like they were meant to connect from the beginning of time. Last kiss, I promise Jesus. After tonight, I’m done.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  It’s been four days since I swore off another kiss. I’ve only seen Jake once, so it’s been pretty easy. Plus, his aunt was there. I finally saw his apartment, and it’s small but cozy. Lots of gray carpets and pastel drapes. His aunt was sweet, her hair in a tight bun even when she wasn’t on a flight, and she offered me water with lemon. His bedroom was like his coffee—plain. Sheets, two blankets, nothing on the walls, and a couple of books on one of his nightstands. He had to head back to the base that day, so we exchanged Christmas presents in front of his aunt. Pastor Brett dared the youth group to accept the five-dollars challenge—buying presents for our friends that were thoughtful rather than over-the-top, in light of the Christmas season and God looking at the heart rather than the outside fluff. Jake bought me a snow globe. It says HAWAIIAN ISLANDS across the bottom and instead of snow, it has sand. Inside the globe, there’s a tiki pole flanked by two palm trees. The pole has five wooden signs with arrows pointing different directions: Waikiki, North Shore, Lahaina, Hanalei, and Kona. I grin. “It’s like a Hawaiian GPS. I’ll bring it if we ever take a trip there.” I bought a pack of blue neon glow sticks—the color of our LED surfboards and the La Jolla red-tide waters—and I made him a sign with seashells and the glow sticks that reads THIS WAY HOME. It’s funny to me that we both got each other things that talked about direction. Mine was super cheesy, but he loved it. I could tell by the extra-long embrace down at his car before he headed back to Pendleton. He whispered, “You’re my GPS.” I turned to him to ask what he meant, but he turned me away and pecked my cheek. “One-off,” he joked. Then he drove away.

  It’s now Christmas Eve, I’m getting ready for midnight Mass (I go every year with Lydia; it’s tradition), and I’m in the bathroom I share with Matt. I run out of toothpaste, so I open his toiletries travel bag, looking for some, and I see four condom packages. Matt’s in college. He’ll be twenty-one on March 1. But still, it takes a second to process. Matt’s really doing that? I thought maybe he was doing more stuff than me, but that’s like the most stuff.

  I don’t know why, but I take one of the condoms out and look at it, reading the fine print. I figure he won’t notice, so I open it and feel the texture between my fingers. It’s slimy and kind of gives me the willies. I stretch it, and it snaps out of one hand, slingshotting to the other. Then I start unrolling it up my arm. I don’t know what possesses me—it’s not like I want to use it or anything—I think I’m mesmerized.

  Just then, Matt walks through the doorway, and there I am, my tube of mascara open on the sink and my hand high in the air, gloved with his condom. We look at each other in the mirror. He probably would’ve laughed if he didn’t suddenly remember how mad he’s been at me. “What are you doing with that?” he growls, motioning at my condom arm.

  “What are you doing with it?”

  “You really want me to answer that?”

  “No. Ew! Don’t be gross!” I peel it off and throw it in the sink, then stomp out, embarrassed.

  “It’s not a party balloon,” he shouts after me as I race down the hall. “Leave my stuff alone!” Then he adds, “Dad! Lovette’s stealing my condoms!”

  I careen back to the bathroom. “Shut up!” He laughs low and mean. I whisper, “Don’t you have another country to go to?”

  My words seem to punch him in the face. He tips back on his heels. “No. Haven’t you figured that out by now, genius? I’m honest with our parents.”

  My heart sinks. “They said no?”

  “Not exactly. I saved up. I had the money. Told them I wouldn’t ask for a penny. I thought it would make them see how thoughtful I was. Instead, I was told that if I chose to spend my hard-earned money on studying abroad, Mom and Dad would choose not to spend their hard-earned money on tuition next year.”

  “No.”

  “I called their bluff and told them I’d take out loans. ‘Oh,’ Dad added. ‘And you’ll break Mom’s heart.’ How dare I put myself at such a health risk when they’ve been through so much already.” He crumples the condom foil wrapper and throws it at the trash can. It misses. “You know how her headaches escalate when she gets upset.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “No shit, Sherlock.” He hisses his words. “But your comment at Thanksgiving got them asking questions about my plans. So I was honest, because I actually care about their feelings.”

  It’s a low blow, and I know he’s talking about my surfing. He’s not outing me,
but he hates me for it. I don’t know which is worse.

  * * *

  Christmas is subdued. We’re playing the part of the happy family that we usually are. The breakfast smells great, presents are under the tree, we all thank one another for our gifts as we unwrap them, but our smiles are strained, our conversations those of understudies to the usual actors on stage. Recited lines. Mom rubs her temples a lot, so we make an extra effort to pretend to be relaxed, stretching out on the couch, not looking at our phones. I’m relieved when a couple of Matt’s friends show up to watch football. I retreat to my room and flop onto my bed. “Happy birthday, Jesus,” I say. I pull out my Bible and read His birth story in the Gospel of Luke, lose myself in giddy angels and awestruck shepherds. Everyone who hears about the Savior’s birth is “amazed” and probably talks about it like it’s the latest TMZ story. But Mary “treasures up” all the things and ponders them in her heart. What does “treasures up” mean, anyway? Is it a good thing? I wonder what she thought about. I wonder if she was quiet about it because the angels told her that her son would someday die for the sins of the world, take the place of her and everyone else. I wonder how she felt knowing that God’s wrath would be poured out on that child in her arms. That’s a lot to think about for someone my age, and she was probably younger. Probably fourteen or fifteen. My eyes travel to the snow globe on my nightstand, and I lift it in my hands and shake it. Sand rains down on the palm trees, the signs with all their different pointing fingers. I hear and feel Jake’s whisper against my ear, “You’re my GPS.” I suddenly feel selfish that I’m almost seventeen, and all I’m thinking about is when I can kiss Jake next. I push it out of my mind. Maybe God told Mary it would all be roses.

  I last six days and four hours before I become a kissing bandit. I’m in love with kissing. Anytime I get a solo moment with Jake, I find his lips with mine. When he picks me up in his car. When he drops me off at night. When we both get bathroom passes at school and intercept each other in the math wing. When we walk through the Manhattan Beach alleys between the million-dollar houses stacked together garage to garage. Everywhere. It’s fun and new and does something to the inside of me that I never want to end.