Page 16 of A Summer Thing

“Eli—Elijah, Big E, my oldest brother,” he replies, shifting in his seat as he tugs the hem of his shorts down his thighs.

They only move the smallest bit down his inked skin before retreating right back up again.

And then he continues with, “I spent a lot of late nights in our friend’s garage getting tattooed by him, as you can see.

” He chuckles and my eyes dart toward the sound, the vibrato of it echoing straight through me.

I nod in response to his answer, my mouth parted with an absence of words.

But thankfully, or not, the boat rocks beneath us, tipping us from side to side with a violent shake.

Boss—the strongest guy on the whole goddamn football team—crashes into the water below, from where he jumped off the roof with a loud holler.

A bunch of the guys cheer him on through their laughter, and the girls do, too.

Unease washes back up against my insides, uninvited.

With Jude as a welcome distraction, I almost forgot why I came up here to begin with.

But of course, the reminder opens the doors, anxiety trickling back into my bloodstream.

I clench my hands around the seat cushion, willing the invading thoughts to recede.

“Talk me through it, Little D,” Jude says. “It might help.”

My breath catches in my throat as my eyes meet his.

And I have the unexpected, abrupt urge to cry.

How easily he can see my mess. How easily anyone else might be able to see it, too.

I swallow past the vulnerable feeling, shoving it somewhere deep. Maybe it’s his strengths, and not my weaknesses, that make it so easy to see, I tell myself. Maybe.

“I’m good,” I say with a sharp shake of my head. “You probably want to steer clear of me enough as it is.”

He chuckles lightly, but there’s a hint of sardonicism to it. Proven when he says, “I’m sure the things I’ve had going on up in here—” he points at his temple with his index and middle fingers, words scrawled across them that I can’t make out, “would give your shit a run for its money. Trust me.”

His words make me crack a smile even though they shouldn’t.

I shouldn’t find it comforting that he’s been through something, too.

But at the moment? I just do. It makes me feel a little less lost, a little less broken, and I guess I’m desperate enough to take that where I can find it.

As messed up as it sounds, as messed up as it may or may not make me, it makes me feel a little less… alone.

“Tight spaces,” I say—much to my own surprise, my throat closing around the words. “I hate tight spaces, feeling trapped.”

He nods with zero trace of judgment. “So, being on a boat made for eight, with—what, fifteen of us—is probably pretty fucked for your psyche, huh?”

I nod in response.

“If you’d said something, we could’ve stayed back—”

“I wanted to try,” I interrupt. “Honestly, it’s not that bad.” I swallow. “Not too bad.”

The corner of his lips tug with understanding. Shifting forward in his seat, his inked elbows resting on his inked knees, he studies me from beneath dark lashes. Gray eyes dip into the ocean of my own, and my breaths catch in my throat, only loosening once he starts talking again.

“Feel free to tell me to fuck off,” he says, “but what is it about tight spaces that make you anxious?”

How he knows it isn’t a simple fear, a simple reaction born out of a normal life, is beyond me.

But it’s easy to see he does. The latent storm in his gaze grows darker, rolling in with the knowledge he somehow holds.

It draws me in. In a comforting sort of way.

And it’s because of that, maybe, or because I feel open and inexplicably calm when Jude is near, that I tell him.

I tell him everything.

The words spill from my mouth, and I can’t stop them.

I tell him about Quinn, and how close we used to be.

How he was my best friend, and Addy’s too, even at that age when we should have been butting heads and fighting like cats and dogs.

How he was my fiercest protector. My greatest ally, and my biggest supporter.

How at twelve years old, in the sixth grade, he was actually Addy’s first boyfriend, and first kiss, too.

How much we both loved him.

And then—

And then I tell him about the crash. And our overturned car. And the weight of Quinn’s body on top of me, trapping me beneath him. How I thought I’d die from the suffocation alone. And after that, from the agonizing, incomprehensible pain of losing him.

I wince, my words cutting off abruptly.

Wrapping my arms around my middle, I draw my legs up until my bare feet are resting at the edge of my chair.

Five, four, three, two, one. Five, four, three, two, one, I count backward again and again.

Not for the sake of the steps but for the sake of my racing heart.

For the burn of tears surging behind my eyelids, threatening to spill free.

I swallow past the knot in my throat, past the overwhelming urge to cry.

I want to kick myself for thinking now was a good time for this conversation, my emotions already so close to the edge after last night they’re practically ready to dive off the lip and freefall.

“Sorry never fucking cuts it, does it?” Jude says, clearing his throat.

The softness in his voice is jarring, folding the moment into one I want to hold in the palm of my hands.

When he runs the backs of his fingers down the length of my arm in a comforting gesture, I’m almost sure I can.

“But I am sorry that happened to you. It’s fucked. And I’m sorry for your loss.”

My throat swells with his words, with the feel of his hand smoothing over the surface of my skin, and my nose stings with the pressure of tears once again.

But when my eyes catch Jude’s, they ease almost immediately. Because his gaze has become nearly impenetrable, as hard as a mass of ice drifting at sea. It reels my thoughts from my own pain to what I suspect might be his.

“I lost someone in an accident, too,” he confirms, and my heart— my heart —it stills inside my chest, before constricting, aching uncomfortably with understanding.

I open my mouth, my lips parting, but I can’t find the words. I can’t dislodge them from where they’re stuck in my throat. He lost someone in an accident, too. The knowledge pours over me, through me, coating me in grief. Both his and mine.

I hate it for him; I hate it for both of us.

“We were sixteen when it happened,” he continues, and his shadows that are so close to the surface now push mine at bay.

“It was the summer before our junior year, and we… we had just started talking again, after a break of some time. She’d been going through a lot—more than I knew, really—and anyway, she uh…

she got in her car under the influence one night, and she didn’t survive it. ”

Layers of shock, pain, and sadness bloom beneath one another inside my chest. “My god, Jude. I am so sorry. That’s—that’s awful.” I swallow thickly, wiping a stray tear from my cheek.

“I appreciate it.” He hums thoughtfully as he rakes a hand through his hair.

“Anyhow,” he pushes back in his seat with a slow shrug, his artfully drawn shoulders lifting and falling with the movement.

“All that to say, I get it. I dealt with a lot of anxiety, too. For a long damn time. The only thing that helped were the anti-anxiety meds my parents had prescribed for me. And, well, I don’t intend to overstep, Declan, but it might be helpful to look into—if you haven’t already. ”

I nod, clenching my teeth to stave off my renewed tears.

The sky is streaked in a rainbow of impossibly vibrant colors beyond the water, and it feels like a sign. A message from Quinn to listen to Jude’s advice and get my shit together.

The honest truth, though, is I have thought about it—seeing someone and getting on something that might help.

But almost anyone with anxiety knows that just the thought, just the suggestion of doing that very thing, brings on a massive wave of anxiety in itself.

So shoving that shit down into the dark hole of your consciousness becomes the norm.

Until the next time someone suggests the same thing, or until you grow so tired of fighting yourself that it feels like the only answer.

One I’m not willing to accept yet.

“Yeah, I might,” I say, but it tastes like a lie.

“Good,” he responds, and silence falls between us.

I clear my throat, tearing my eyes from the floor of the boat to his.

“Thank you, by the way, for sharing all that. I hate that you know that kind of loss, too, but at the very least, it’s nice to know someone understands all this…

” I lift my hands, circling two pointed fingers around my head, “chaos.”

“It’s nothing. But thank you, too. For the same.”

Our stares linger, and it’s like we take a collective sigh. Not an actual sigh, but something akin to it that has us relaxing in our seats, taking an easier breath, leaving our souls feeling just a little bit lighter, too.

In an attempt to steer our minds in a lighter direction, I decide to finally ask about the nickname he’s given me. “So… what’s with the Little D, by the way?”

His burst of laughter is unexpected, and my curiosity grows.

He opens his mouth, but closes it again, a color bordering on actual pink rising up his cheeks. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s embarrassed, but I’m not sure Jude is capable of embarrassment.

“It’s uh…” He clears his throat, biting back a chuckle with a shake of his head.

“Well, fuck. This is going to come off bizarre no matter how I try to spin it, so bear with me. It’s something we do back home, with my family.

And with our friends and whatnot. Based on seniority, or stature or whatever.

So, I dubbed you Little D. Honestly, I said it without thinking.

It’s more of a habit, really. And we’ve been around each other a bit recently, so…

” he continues to ramble, which for Jude, is kind of impressive.

The warm color in his cheeks deepens, blooming further beneath his cheekbones.

And I can’t help but smile.

Jude is embarrassed, and it’s really something to see.

Skimming a rough hand through his hair, his eyes drift back to mine. His lips tip up into a smile, too. A slightly nervous smile—if Jude even does nervous, as well. It makes the corners of my own lips tug higher, my own blush washing over my cheeks as his stare reaches deeper, pulling me in deeper.

Goosebumps break out along my skin, and a soft chill races up my side. I fold my arms around myself and rub away at the feeling.

He misinterprets the gesture. “You cold?”

“Oh, no, I’m okay.” I shake my head, but I can’t chase away the chill.

His eyes drift over me, a soft, “Just a sec,” passing through his lips before he stands up and disappears around the side of the boat. He returns a moment later with a dark hoodie in his hand. My fingers brush against his as he holds it out for me and I take it from his grasp.

Tipping my face down, I pull his sweatshirt over my head.

It smells just like him. Like I remember him smelling when his lips brushed against mine on the balcony. Like warmth, and the hint of flora, and the shift in the air just before a thunderstorm.

Tiny flutters erupt in my stomach.

“Thank you,” I say, and my words are soft breath of air.

A slowly-rising smile tugs at one corner of his mouth—knowing, intentional—and the butterflies… they go wild. Fluttering wings flit against my insides, leaving me speechless, breathless.

It’s a lot nicer, though, than the anxiety that usually fills its space.

______

A week, and another, pass by after our day on the lake, Addy and I hanging out—staying in and watching movies or going out with Boss and his friends, with Jude—the first of which, by the way, did apologize profusely for leaving me stranded in the club parking lot that one night.

Addy was toasted, so I didn’t really blame her. Though she apologized too, admitting that in her alcohol-leaden mind, it seemed like a good opportunity for Jude and me to get to know each other.

She wasn’t wrong.

It opened a gateway… to all of our conversations that followed.

And now, those beginning threads of our friendship have wound themselves together, forming something a little stronger day by day.