Page 1 of All the Ways You Save Me
PROLOGUE
Madeline
A wave rolls in, battering my legs and threatening my balance. I wobble on bare feet and drop the hem of my dress into the white-capped froth. The gauzy fabric clings to my thighs after the water recedes. Despite the warmth from the sun, I shiver. I forgot how numbing the Atlantic Ocean is in June. I forgot how much I dread that icy bite against my skin.
I was like a fish growing up on the Jersey Shore, eagerly diving into the swells long after the summer temperatures dipped into fall. But ever since Adam’s car plunged into the icy river, and I futilely jumped in after it, I’ve been cautious around large bodies of water. As the memories of that night close around me—the sting of icy rain pellets on my face, the frigid water seeping into my clothes—I suddenly remember why I’ve stuck to the safety of my apartment complex pool.
Heart pounding, I gasp for a breath that will sustain me long enough to turn for the shore, but I can’t seem to pull enough air into my lungs. I press a hand to my chest. Is this what a panic attack feels like? If I can just get back to my chairin the sand, I’ll be fine. But the next wave rolls in, carrying me back to that winter day, to that half-solid river where I’m clambering over the rocks toward the slowly sinking taillights, chanting Adam’s name like a prayer.
I turn my face toward the sun in the hopes of dragging myself to the present. It’s not a bitter February day, and I’m not seventeen years old. The horror of Adam’s death is behind me. I spent my childhood in this water; nothing is threatening me now except my memories.
Another wave slams into me. I pitch sideways, and the cold steals what’s left of the air from my lungs. I’ve completely given up on my dress, and the fabric swirls around me. I fight my way free, but the current grabs hold and yanks me under.
Move. Get on your feet.But I can’t. I used to be a strong swimmer, but that was a lifetime ago. I’m frozen in this water like I was frozen the night Adam died. I close my eyes and see the flashing lights, hear the high-pitched sirens wailing.
Just as the next billowing wave crests over me, two strong hands wrap around my upper arms, pulling me to my feet. My eyes fly open. Whoever my rescuer is, he’s towering over me. Broad shoulders block the sun as my eyes focus on the open V of a half-zipped black wetsuit, revealing saltwater droplets rolling down golden skin. Another ocean swell shoves me in the midsection, but my rescuer spins me around, putting his body between me and the relentless surge, securing me against him. His deep, gentle voice tells me to breathe.
The next thing I know, he’s lifting me off my feet. Heat radiates from the hard planes of his chest, and I lean in for warmth as he carries me effortlessly to shore.
When he’s standing solidly in the sand, he slowly lowers me to the ground, keeping one strong arm wrapped around my back. I know I should step away, but I’m still shaking, and my sopping dress is tangled around my legs.
“I’ve got you,” he assures me. Something about his voice hasmy thoughts drifting back to my teenage years again, but not in a traumatic way this time. The low timbre soothes and comforts me.
“Thank you,” I whisper, finally lifting my gaze to his. His blue eyes connect with mine, and my chest seizes. They’re the color of aquamarine and the sky and robin’s eggs, but that’s not why they’re familiar. I’ve seen those eyes in my dreams about a million times over the past ten years. My breath catches as I take in the rest of the man’s features. His wavy mahogany hair, the straight bridge of his nose, that strong jaw with just a hint of stubble.
The rescue workers told us Adam died in the frozen river, and his body was swept away by the current. But if that’s true, who is this man holding on to me with a face that is the mirror image of the love of my life?
I reach out a shaking hand. “Adam? Is it you?”
ONE
TEN YEARS AGO
Madeline
I turn on my blinker and steer into the crowded high school parking lot, slowing to a crawl as students weave in and out of the spaces between cars. I just got my license over the summer, and I’m already more than a little nervous about driving. Nobody seems to be watching where they’re going as they cross the asphalt, calling to each other, greeting their friends they may not have seen over summer break. For the hundredth time since my mom packed up and moved our family to this town, I wish I were back on Sandy Harbor Island greeting the kids I’ve known since elementary school, excited for the start of my senior year. Instead, I’m terrified that I won’t make any friends, I’ll hate it here, and what is supposed to be the best year of my life will be the absolute worst.
Oh, and now I have to worry about running someone over, too. Nobody seems to look where they’re going in Maple Ridge, Pennsylvania. At least not in the high school parking lot.
I wish Josie were here so I didn’t have to go into the building all alone, but my older sister graduated last year.Shegot tofinish high school on Sandy Harbor before our mom unexpectedly sold our little beach house with no explanation and enrolled me in high school in this middle-of-nowhere town. I’ll never understand why we couldn’t have stayed one more year so I could graduate on Sandy Harbor, too. But as much as I pleaded and cried, she held firm, and I had no choice but to go along with her plan.
I watch a cluster of girls cross the parking lot, and my heart tugs at the way their heads tilt together in easy conversation, highlighted hair bobbing as they laugh. Will I ever have friends like that again? Senior year is supposed to be the best part of high school, but it’s the absolute worst time to be the new kid at school. My friends and I had so much we wanted to do together before we all went our separate ways to college. I texted them this past weekend, and they all sent sweet notes about how much they miss me, but they were back-to-school shopping on the mainland, so they didn’t have time to talk. I almost wish I hadn’t reached out. Somehow, the loneliness is even more painful when you know everyone is having fun without you.
I coast along the parking lot aisle, looking for a spot, and I’m momentarily distracted by another group of girls taking a selfie. I sense movement to my left and turn my head just in time to see a car pulling out of a spot right in front of me. It’s too late to slam on my brakes, so I jerk the steering wheel to the right to avoid careening into the car’s passenger door.
“Hey!” a voice calls out. I swing my gaze toward the sound, and through the windshield, I spot a guy towering in my path. I gasp and shove my foot on the brake, stopping the car inches from where he’s standing. His blue eyes connect with mine, and something flips in my chest.
It’s the shock of almost hitting a person, I’m sure that’s why my heart is pounding. The guy steps aside, sweeping his arm across the path of my car as if I’m the queen driving by in my chariot. As I lift my foot from the brake and slowly ease past, hegives me a wink. If I weren’t so shaken up by nearly killing him, and the way I can’t seem to stop staring at those eyes, I might have managed to smile. Instead, my cheeks heat, and I call out a weak apology through the open window.
I keep my eyes firmly affixed in front of me until I find an open spot and shift the car into park. As I grab my bag and exit the car I mutter, “Please let the rest of the day go more smoothly than this,” and slam the door behind me. I turn to head toward the school and immediately jump backward. Someone is standing right next to my car, blocking my path.
He towers over me, at least eight inches taller than my five-foot-five frame. A vintage band T-shirt hugs the muscles on his arms and chest, and faded jeans hang low on his hips. My gaze drifts upward, to brown hair so dark it borders on black and blue eyes like the sky where it meets the horizon on a cloudless summer day.
With a start, I realize those eyes are familiar.
Oh, no.
It’s the guy I almost killed. My stomach clenches, and I’m not sure if it’s because I’m worried that he’s come to tell me off in front of everyone, or because that thought has me stumbling backward to where I have a better view of the full force of his smile. I feel my cheeks warm, always a slight consequence for someone with my pale, freckled skin and strawberry-blond hair. But in this guy’s presence, I’m pretty sure it’s flamed right pastcharming blushand landed directly onlobster red.
