Coming Up for Air Page 21

  His shoulders fall, and he meets my eye. “You’re not the only one having a hard time, okay?” His face relaxes. “You mean the world to me, Hadley, but I do have other shit going on. Hard shit. And I’m just trying to get through it.”

  I pause, full of guilt. Taking the ACT four times—twice already and two more to go—sounds really stressful. Not to mention all the other things he described. He just has to deal with this overloaded schedule for a couple more months. “You’re right.” I nod. “I’m sorry. Stanford is a huge deal.” And he still hasn’t hit those three extra test points.

  “We should blow off some steam.” It’s a desperate invitation.

  “Yeah?” he asks, tentative.

  It feels like a lifeline. “Yeah. When…when was the last time you swam just for fun?”

  “It’s been a while.”

  “Do you think you can? Like, would it make it worse? Your shoulder.”

  “Depends what you have in mind.”

  “How about we sneak over to Pebblebridge. Just you and me?” I love night swimming. There’s something about the moon and the stars, and the cool, still water. It makes me feel electric, just like he does. And the only thing I want is some normalcy between us again, to hit reset. This feels like the perfect way to do it.

  Braden smiles. “Okay. Yeah, I’m in.”

  “Great.” Thank god, I think, but my head still throbs. “Just one second.” I move to open the cabinet, grabbing myself a Tylenol, but I falter when I see Mom’s prescription bottles, lined up at the front, ready for her. A reminder of the tension between Braden and me.

  I can feel his eyes. Something slimy moves inside me. I grab what I need and slam the door closed, trying not to show my body sag in relief. I pretend I didn’t block them from his view.

  I swallow the pill dry. “Okay, just let me grab my suit and some towels.”

  He raises an eyebrow, a challenge. “Just towels. It wouldn’t be fair. Since I don’t have a suit.”

  The familiarity of it comforts me. “You’re on. Let’s go.”

  * * *

  I take in the summer night as we walk to my car. My group text is buzzing; Becca and Ty making plans, asking where I am, but I put my phone back into my purse, saving my attention for this moment. Stars are everywhere, and the moon is hanging low and bright. I lift my camera to snap a picture of him. While I’m distracted, Braden snatches the keys from my hands. I remember the smell of whiskey. “Hey, Brade, no. Let me.”

  “Do you think I’d drive my girl if I were impaired? I told you, I just had a taste. I got you. Always got you.”

  “Come on. Give them back. I don’t want—”

  “Hadley, what happened to loosening up a little?”

  This doesn’t feel like loosening up. It feels dangerous. Precarious. I fix him with the sternest look I can manage. “Promise me it was just a sip.”

  “Promise. It was nothing.” He kisses me thoroughly before walking to the driver’s side, and I find myself assessing how strongly his mouth tastes like alcohol. I cling to the fact that it was faint.

  After we get settled in our seats, Braden pulls his Ray-Bans out of my cup holder, left from sometime last week, and dramatically slides them onto his face.

  “Really, Brade? It’s dark.” Whiskey and sunglasses.

  “Dark, shmark. I need to show my girlfriend how good I look in these shades.” He turns toward me, lowers them with one hand, and winks.

  My worry slides into irritation. “I’ve seen you in those a million times.”

  “And it never gets old, does it?” When he starts the engine, with his phone plugged into the aux cord, “Oh! Darling” is pounding through my car’s speakers.

  I give Braden another pointed look, and he slides the sunglasses up, letting them sit on the top of his head. Then he turns the music down.

  I let my breath out, feeling a little better that he’s taking me seriously.

  Without breaking eye contact, he rolls the windows down, his facial expression a question: Is this okay?

  This time, it’s easier to agree.

  Finally comfortable, I stop monitoring Braden and review the image on my camera screen, looking at the picture I just took. The way I feel about him is so obvious in my photograph that I’m almost embarrassed. I can see it in the way I let the moonlight cradle his face, and the way I focus on his eyes. The way everything around him blurs.

  When the sunroof opens, Braden brings me back to the present moment. “I’m taking the dirt roads tonight. Get ready to fly, Hads.”

  He goes out the back exit of my subdivision and reaches the less developed part of town, full of newer streets that are infrequently traveled. I usually love it out here because it’s full of fireflies lighting the road like living twinkle lights.

  I look at Braden, debating. Flying is what we call standing out of the sunroof while the other person drives. He promised he was okay, and I don’t think he’d knowingly put me in any danger. And I remember my fear at the idea of losing him; I remember all the times he’s made me feel wild and free. I want that back.

  So despite a quiet protest at the back of my mind, I agree.

  We’ve gotten this down to a routine. He nods and slows the car down to a near stop. Carefully unbuckling my seat belt, I start to stand, one foot on his seat, one on mine, and I lift my head and torso through the sunroof and into the summer night. My stomach flutters in anticipation as the air caresses my bare shoulders under my spaghetti straps.

  “Ready?” Braden asks.

  “Ready,” I answer.

  He counts “One, two…,” and then he hits the gas.

  I’m prepared; he never waits until three.

  My body pushes against the back of the opening of the sunroof, and the wind immediately pulls my long hair from my face and neck. It’s exhilarating, bordering on scary. But it’s impossible to think about anything except for right now, this moment. I’m alive.

  “Thirty, forty…” He shouts how fast he’s going so I can hear above the wind.

  I yell into the night air, spreading my arms wide.

  “Fifty!”

  “Shit!” The road is a blur around me.

  “Don’t be a wimp.”

  “Okay! Okay! Fast enough!” I shout from above him and grip on to the sides of the sunroof.

  “Sixty!”

  I plead, “Come on! Stop!”

  “Seventy!”

  “Braden!”

  Four pounding heartbeats later, he slows down.

  I carefully lower myself back into the car, with messy hair and pounding adrenaline. “Braden, that was way too fast, oh my god.”

  He leans over and kisses my cheek. “You love it.”

  I used to, I think. But I don’t answer out loud.

  * * *

  We pull up in front of the still lake, and he puts the car into park, even though we both know we’re not supposed to leave it here. “We’ll be fast,” he assures me, answering my unvoiced concern. We jump out of the car, and he grabs the towels before locking it. As he starts to jog, I follow, filled with nervous, wild energy. He’s singing again.

  He’s contagious. Dangerously so.

  When we get to the dock’s edge, we look at each other. And then he starts stripping. He moves quickly again, throwing his shirt over his head and dropping his shorts. And now we’re both in our underwear. He takes my camera from me and tries to take a picture of the two of us, but I dodge him and take it back. I snap one of him, sunglasses still on top of his head, black boxer briefs, and sun-kissed skin.

  “Well, are we doing this or what?” I ask.

  In response, he drops his boxer briefs. Then he leaps into the air, yelling like Tarzan and tumbling into the dark water. This is the boy I fell in love with.

  He breaks the surface of the water, wh
ipping his head as if to move the hair out of his face. It’s grown enough that the short strands shake. Then he lifts his hand and slides his Ray-Bans back on. “Scared, Hads?”

  I carefully set my camera down in response, wrapping it in my jeans. Hesitating for just a second, I unclasp my bra and drop my underwear. And then I leap into the cold water, naked and distracted by what might linger beneath the surface.

  The next morning, I’m sitting in the back seat of Becca’s car, and we’re on our way to pick up Braden. It’s a perfect day for the beach. The sun is shining unobstructed, leaving my skin pleasantly warm, and this summer’s megahit is blasting through the speakers. All four of us—me, Becca, Greg, and even Ty—are belting out the cheesy lyrics.

  As it comes to a close, Becca’s perfect alto keeps right on singing. She laughs loudly. “Shit, I always do that!”

  “Hard to know it’s ending when the whole song hits the same three notes over and over.” Ty, sitting next to me in the backseat of the car, laughs with her.

  “Becca, did you text me the address?” Greg asks, adjusting his baseball cap. “I can’t exactly navigate without it.”

  “Greg, did you even look before you asked? I texted it to you before we left.”

  I turn to Ty, ignoring the conversation in the front of the car, and nudge him with my shoulder. “I just saw you sing every single word to that song you hate so much.”

  He smirks. “I have an ear for music.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “I can’t help it if I remember some lyrics,” he says, grinning widely.

  “Right. Just like Becca definitely had an accidental solo.”

  “Hey! I heard that,” Becca chastises us.

  I put my hands up in surrender. “Sorry! You just…you know, don’t exactly shy away from the spotlight.”

  She sweeps her hair dramatically off her shoulder. “No offense taken. I was made for the stage.”

  “Yeah you were, baby,” Greg says.

  Ty and I exchange a look, trying not to laugh.

  Being with my friends makes my whole body feel light. I’ve been looking forward to our mini–road trip all week. We’re heading about an hour away to a huge park that’s known for biking trails, hiking, and most of all, a giant crystal lake and sandy beach. Lakes are pretty much the best thing about Michigan, and getting away, hanging out, it just feels so normal. I love it.

  Greg is rifling around the car. “Wait, Becca.” He stops searching, face concerned, and declares: “We made a huge mistake.”

  “That sounds…serious,” she replies, amused.

  “It is. All our snacks are packed.”

  “I know,” Becca answers, trying to follow. “Hadley and I loaded the cooler this morning.”

  “Yeah. Which is great. And Ty and I appreciate it.”

  Ty, leaning against the car door to face me, nods dramatically.

  “But, Becs, we don’t have anything for the ride,” Greg finishes.

  “No car snacks,” Ty adds quietly, “the gravest of road trip errors.”

  When I laugh too loudly, everybody looks at me.

  “Hadley,” Greg says, “only monsters go on road trips without snacks.”

  “Yeah, Butler. Only monsters,” Ty says.

  “Thank you!” Greg exclaims.

  I shake my head at Ty, who’s loving this way too much. “Greg,” I say, “I would never, ever dream of standing in the way of snacks.”

  * * *

  A few minutes later, we’re pulling out of a gas station. Becca’s tank is full, Greg is loaded down with all the snacks, Ty is sipping an Arnold Palmer, and I’m admiring how golden the world looks through a new pair of five-dollar sunglasses.

  “Had, I hope your boyfriend is ready to go. If we leave right away, we’ll get there around noon.” Greg’s reviewing the navigation on his phone.

  “He said he’d be outside. I talked to him when I dropped him off last night,” I tell Greg. I text him to let him know we’re two minutes away; just a little late.

  “Do you have a schedule you’re trying to keep, Greg?” Becca teases, eyeing his three different bags of chips.

  “As a matter of fact, yes, I plan on maximum relaxation. And the more time we have, the more chill I get.”

  I look down at my camera, strapped around my neck, and, on the seat between us, the books Tyler and I brought and Becca’s headphones. I wonder if Greg actually has anything to entertain himself. Despite what he just said, a bored Greg is not chill. Or quiet.

  Ty notices and casts me a glance. His voice is low. “I was thinking the same thing.”

  I laugh, nodding to Becca. “You guys can share custody.”

  Ty snorts.

  “Why do you guys keep whispering back there? What’s going on?” Greg asks.

  Ty and I share a look. Were we whispering?

  He sits up straighter in his seat. “No, man. Nothing.”

  And I’m saved from answering, because then we’re in Braden’s driveway. But Braden isn’t.

  “So much for waiting outside,” Greg mutters.

  I check my phone. He hasn’t replied. I click to call him, but after a series of rings, I’m sent to his voice mail. Maybe he’s in the bathroom? I wait a few seconds, not hearing my friends or the radio, and try again.

  The third time I call, dread spreads through me like a thick fog.

  There are so many rational explanations, I tell myself, but my body understands something my mind doesn’t.

  “Hadley?” Ty asks.

  “He’s not picking up.” I sound far away. “I’ll go…I’ll go get him.”

  I throw the car door open before anyone can respond.

  * * *

  I’m barely a step into his house. “Braden?” My voice tremors through the empty kitchen. “Brade, are you ready to go?”

  Silence.

  He probably just overslept, I repeat in my head. But I don’t believe it.

  I call his name again.

  The hairs on my arms stand.

  I start moving faster, searching the kitchen and living room, then race down the stairs.

  I call for him again and again as I approach his room.

  I see his blond hair first. On the floor.

  He’s next to his bed, spread across the carpet. An empty orange bottle is on the nightstand next to him. Written across it, clear as day, is Logan’s name.

  “Braden!” He doesn’t stir. I throw myself onto the floor and shake his shoulders. “Braden, please.”

  Nothing.

  I remember my call with Ty. Check if he’s breathing. I study his chest, but my eyes have filled with tears and I can’t see clearly enough. My heart pounds as I press trembling fingers into his neck.

  And wait.

  “Please, Brade, please.”

  Thump.

  I exhale a sob.

  My purse and camera are still looped around me, and I rip them off, abandoning my camera as I furiously dig through my bag.

  You’re supposed to use it, even if you aren’t sure.

  There’s so much fucking stuff in here, I want to scream in frustration as I dump it all onto the carpet.

  There.

  I tear the packaging open.

  “Hadley?” a muffled voice calls from upstairs. Tyler. I ignore him.

  My hands tremble as I lift Braden’s head and press the naloxone applicator into his nose. “Come on, Brade,” I pray.

  Someone moves behind me. “Had? Oh my god, shit.” Ty kneels on the floor. “Do you know what you’re doing with that?” He helps me support Braden’s head.

  Without taking my eyes off him, I nod. The day before I bought it, I read the instructions online, over and over again.

  “Help me move him to his side.”

  Together, we
turn Braden’s body. “You found him like that?”

  “Yeah.” We both know what it means: we don’t know how long he’s been out. I try to regain control of my thoughts. “We have to watch him. If he doesn’t wake up in two minutes, I have to give him another dose. What time is it?” I frantically look through my pile of things. “Where’s my phone? Do you see my phone? I need my phone.” I’m starting to feel hysterical.

  “I’ve got mine. Two minutes?”

  “Yeah.” I take a trembling breath.

  “Where are you guy— Oh! Becca, I found them.” Greg’s cheerful voice grates against my bones. “Wait. What are you doing?”

  “Is everything okay?” Becca asks from down the hall.

  “No,” I snap at my friends. I hear them move behind me.

  “Oh my god,” Becca says from the doorway. “What happened?”

  “Call nine-one-one,” I tell her.

  “What?” I’ve never heard Becca sound so lost. “What do I say?”

  Tyler answers for me. “Tell them it’s an opioid overdose. And we used naloxone.”

  “What?” Greg asks.

  Becca repeats it back and then asks, “What’s the address?”

  Ty’s phone chimes. “That’s two.”

  Fear and fury are a storm in my chest. I lash out at Becca, “Figure it out.”

  I rip open the second package from the box.

  Greg grabs Becca. “Come on. We’ll go look at the front of the house.”

  I nod at Ty, and he tilts Braden’s head back while I administer the second dose.

  This time, after we turn him, Braden stirs.

  The weight of the world falls off me. I imagine throwing myself on top of Braden, sobbing into his body. But I can’t move. I can’t cry. I’m frozen, crouched on the floor, watching his breaths deepen, his limbs shift.

  A group of footsteps pound upstairs.

  Ty’s brow furrows, like he’s thinking the same thing I am: that was fast, even for an ambulance.

  “Braden Maxwell Roberts!” Mrs. Roberts’s voice booms into the basement. “What the hell is going on?”