Page 12 of The Summer I First Saw You
I grab my phone, the chicken, and my bourbon, and walk quickly to my room. I swear to God that I will not think about her bent over in those pants. I definitely won’t think about those pants pulled down to her knees.
But if it did happen, it would be nothing I could stand to admit, even to myself.
8
DAISY
Inever wanted to major in English. My mother insisted it was a good degree to get before applying to law school, and though I’d never necessarily wanted to go to law school either, she’d been talking about it for so long it was hard for me to even imagine what I’d do in its place.
I walked into Dr. Cooper’s creative writing class the first day of the term with my stomach in knots, knots that tightened when I realized there were only twelve desks in the room, arranged in a circle—and that my ex-boyfriend was already in one of them, fresh off a summer in Greece with the model he dumped me for.
I’d spent an entire summer tortured by our breakup. Tortured by the way he’d said he was looking for “more,” and the way I’d secretly agreed when he’d said I was too aimless and unambitious. And now I was going to spend an entire semester across from him, failing at this, too, proving he’d made the right decision.
Dr. Cooper entered the room without looking at any of us, as dickish as I’d expect of a guy who’d just had a book optioned by HBO. Already, I foresaw an entire semester of him scoffing atmy writing in front of the others, confirming every ugly thought my boyfriend ever had about me.
“Give me a paragraph or two about a favorite childhood memory,” he announced without preamble. “You’ve got five minutes beginning now.”
There was a moment of panic as we scrambled to open our laptops and start typing. The pressure to create something fast made the task nearly impossible—pressure that got worse when I discovered he was reading over our shoulders as we typed.
I managed only five lines—about the elation of catching my first wave without needing Liam to push me—before he called time and asked for volunteers.
My ex went first. He’d written about walking on stage when his dad won his first senate race, and the reminder chafed. No wonder he’d wanted more. His dad was a fucking senator and his mom was a lobbyist, while my mom was a receptionist and my dad was homeless, living somewhere on the streets of San Francisco.
The next student described sailing through the British Virgin Islands. A third volunteer wrote about getting a pony for Christmas. I sank lower and lower in my seat as the hour came to a close.
“What’s interesting,” said Dr. Cooper just before he dismissed us, “is that the very best writers are the ones who weren’t certain enough of their work to read it aloud.” And then he turned to me. “Be a little braver next time, Miss Doherty. Yours was the only one that deserved to be heard.”
God, I’d been so shocked. So thrilled. And when I glanced at my ex, something had changed in his expression. It was as if there was something more to me and he’d missed it, which was exactly what I wanted—to beenoughto someone.
I wanted it so badly I’d have believed anything. And I did.In that moment, I really believed it was possible there was more to me.
The problem with amazing moments like that one is that they’re simply waves. A temporary high. You forget that the bigger and better a wave is, the harder it will eventually crash. The wave I took last fall…it crashed harder than most. Nine months have passed, and I’m still trying to take a full breath.
I push myself out of bed. The first hints of the sunrise are appearing over the horizon, lighting up the sky in swaths of gray and violet. Soon the sun will be a bright orange haze across the water, and I want to be out there when it happens. I want it to erase the memory of school, of all my failures.
I pass Harrison’s closed door and keep walking to the garage.
I give the board a quick wax and cross the street, fighting the same nerves that hit me over the weekend. I dread the cold water. I dread the possibility of getting hurt. But what mostly scares me is how much I have riding on this.
I came back Sunday, exuberant and hopeful for the first time in ages. What if that doesn’t happen today? I got a piece of myself back, but it was a shard. A sliver. There are so many more pieces to go. I’m scared the men in my past have managed to keep the rest for themselves.
I reach the bottom of the stairs, secure my leash, and jump without hesitation this time, paddling to the lineup, ignoring the guys on the better end of the break.
I take one conservative wave after another, noting the errors I make occasionally and the errors I make consistently. What I love about surfing is that you know what you’ve done wrong and can fix your mistakes, as opposed to real life, where you think everything’s fine until you find yourself dumped unceremoniously by the boyfriend who won’t tell you why.
Except if I’m ever going to get to the point where I can surf directly in front of the cliff face, I need to be less conservative,and a monster wave is forming, one that will peak closer to me than it will the rest of the guys in the lineup. But that voice in my head says,I’m not ready yet.
Maybe that voice is wise. Maybe that voice understands my limitations. Or maybe I’ve just spent so much time letting men tell me I’m worthless that I no longer know what I am or what I can do.
“Fuck it,” I whisper, and I start paddling hard. The power of the wave under my board is unnerving and thrilling at once.It was a bad idea, and I’m not ready and—
“Just push up, Daisy,” Harrison says in my head. “The rest will take care of itself.”
And so I do. I push up and let nature take over…back foot, front foot, ass tucked in, arms forward, eyes on the horizon.
Back in the lineup, someone cheers.
The sun is on my face, the breeze is blowing, and the water has washed me clean. All the shit I woke up thinking no longer matters.
