We were alone at the beach, wind cleaving waves across our thighs. Sand rinding our skin. The elastic band of your bikini was twisted like a spiral pretzel stick. I slipped my fingers underneath it, turned it back in on itself, smoothed it out. Now you do me. I turned to give you access and braced against the waves. I wasn’t thinking about sharks or stingrays, just the warmth of your hand on my salt-speckled shoulders. Goosebumps.
Sting rays. Flying carpets in the sea. Growing up in Florida, we were taught to drag our feet along the sand as we waded into the water, to scuff up enough silt to scare sting rays away. If you tromped in you might startle them, end up with a barb through your heart like Steve Irwin. Shish kabobbed. So, feet together, I go a little forward. A little forward.
I don’t remember when we met. I think you were in my freshman year biology class, but I’m not sure. You crept up on me. My memory is split down the middle; we didn’t know each other and then we did.
Once, when I was quite young, I forgot to shuffle. I wrecked my way through the shallows, was two feet from the shore when the clear water before me clotted with sting rays. I froze and watched. They flew above the sand, coasting diamonds the size of placemats, fifty of them, stacked and sliding, barbs twice the length of their bodies trailing behind. A group of sting rays is called a fever. I did not go in the ocean again for many years, not even with the sting ray shuffle.
I was in love with you for two years before I found out about your parents, how many years have they been married?
They’re not.
What?
They’re not married.
Oh. We were in class. You had five siblings and all went by your middle names. Cartoonish names: like River, and Wren, and Indie, and Goldie, and Scout. All living in one mildewy house with your parents and three old black labs with white fur on their faces in the shape of hearts. Scout asked if I’d give him a dollar if he jumped into the canal behind your house. I said yes. He did, climbed out of the brackish water with mangrove seeds in one hand. I gave him the dollar. He sat on the bank and snapped the seeds like green beans, threw them back into the stream like one tosses crumbs to a duck. Not even for the tax benefits?
What?
They’re not even married for the tax benefits?
No.
I didn’t know it was possible. A love without contract.
We were alone at the beach. You were so skinny I hated you for it sometimes, but I stole glances anyway. Your body, tall and taut, elastic stretched nearly to tearing. Cardboard thin. You didn’t have soft parts.
In the girl’s bathroom at prom, stumbling from the vodka, we pressed our cheeks together when we hugged, your gold hoop earring ice on my neck. Looped in your spider arms, I stood on tip toes. Almost kissed you—pressed my lips to your ear instead. No strings attached, I said. Strings attached, you said.
At Papa Johns, you slid a napkin over a greasy cheese pizza. It was someone’s birthday, one of our mutual friends. But we acted like we were alone, put our faces conspiratorially close when we talked, bumped shoulders when we laughed. Didn’t want the night to end. Bubbly and light. I imagined pressing your warmth against me all night, kissing you for the first time in my bed. Suddenly, the idea of not dating you eclipsed the fear of being gay in South Florida. I went outside to the cement connecting the strip mall. I didn’t realize how cold the air conditioner was until I was outside in the heat. I called my mom. Asked if you could sleep over.
Are you friends, just friends? Yeah, yeah of course. You’re not lesbian? N-no. Then yes, she can sleep over.
I came inside.
You asked me, what did she say? No, I said. She said no? You asked. I told you, My grandpa’s coming over, family time.
We were alone at the beach. I clung to your torso as we shambled to shore. You were always patient with me. Let me scrape my way forward, at my pace, not yours. A little forward. The waves rocked against our knees, trying to get us to buckle forward, to lose control.
In passing, between second and third period you told me your dad cheats on your mom and she has no idea. Told me that sometimes he texts and drives but more often he drinks and drives. You looked at me as though I had answers. I said, I’m sorry. I said, thank you for telling me. I said, I don’t know what to say. The chorus of Pharrell Williams’ “Happy” began to play over the loudspeaker, signalling we only had one more minute to get to class. We did not talk about those things again.
In your olive volvo, we drove to Barnes and Noble, put the Bible in the fantasy section and Snoopdog’s cookbook in the religion section. You parked on the street outside your house. Went inside and came back out with a handle and a blunt. That night, we kissed for the first time, I know we did. But I don’t remember it. I was so crossed. It was the first time I ever got high. It felt like when you’re little and trying to wade into a rough surf: too small to clear the breaking crests when you jump, so you’re swept off your feet and crushed by the wave. Don’t even know which way is up. Your meshy swim shoes torn from your feet, face dragged across sand—crushed and flung about—and just as a small piece of your heart is coming to terms with never seeing light and breathing air again, the water pulls back and spits you out. You’re gasping, coughing, eyes stinging, grunting salt from your nose, scrambling away before the wave returns, grateful to be on land even though you know you’ll try again.
You stopped telling me things. You expected me to ask, I expected you to tell.
We were alone at the beach, the sand firm from an earlier rain. It would rain again, we knew, everyone knew. That’s why we were alone.
You were late to school one day. It was raining. You weren’t there in second period or lunch, but you walked in for sixth, a bandage on your arm, a plumpy bruise on your chin. What happened? I whispered.
What do you mean?
Where’ve you been?
The hospital.
The hospital? I gasped.
You shrugged. Faced the white board.
Why were you at the hospital?
Shhhh.
After class you showed me a picture. Scout flipped the jeep into a ditch on the way to school, the car was belly up, tires tracing the sky.
We were alone at the beach and I still couldn’t commit to you. Tense with every kiss, eyes scraping the horizon for any sign of danger. You didn’t seem to notice how the red hats looked at your short hair and frowned when our fingers brushed.
I didn’t have a car, didn’t even know how to drive. You drove me home every day. While my parents were at work, we cuddled on my bed. One time you went to the kitchen. Came back and climbed on top of me, knees forking my hips. Guess what I just ate, you said. And I tasted strawberry.
You had to put one of your dogs down before graduation. I found out at the ceremony, thought you were high at first because your eyes were ceramic glazed, red-rimmed. I never told you how mad I was that you didn’t tell me before, didn’t let me say goodbye. It felt like pins in my chest.
We were alone at the beach because the clouds were low and thick as ash, the humid air heavy in our lungs. The storm was coming, would mash grit between our toes and muddy our towels. But it was warm. We knew the raindrops would not be too cold.