Float

Chapter 25

I dreamed that the storm came early. I dreamed that the public pool overflowed, and the Fletcher twins drifted past me on the flooded street on their surfboards, and that Dad called to tell me that every flight in and out of Holden was cancelled indefinitely.

It was a really, really good dream.

But I woke up to the muted blue glow of morning light streaming into the Hamiltons' living room, the gentle (and not so gentle) snores of my friends the only sound. It was peaceful, until I realized that the rain wasn't coming down anymore.

Mother Nature wasn't going to save me.

***

I felt a sense of impending doom as Rachel and I pulled into the airport terminal in her neon-green Volkswagen. It was strange to be back here, where my summer had begun, and even stranger to be watching it all from Rachel's perspective.

Dad was one of the only people standing on the platform outside of the arrivals gate. He was in his usual attire—glasses, button-down shirt, khakis, hiking boots—and had the straps of his enormous camping backpack braced over his shoulders. There were half-moon stains under his armpits and two spots of pink high on his cheeks that told me he was flustered and out of his element. It was the most I'd related to my father in a long time. I wondered if I'd looked this awkward and terrified the afternoon that Rachel had picked me up.

Rachel rolled up to the curb carefully, determined not to hit it, and rolled my window down.

"Jeffery," she called out, "you need a haircut."

Dad looked mildly offended. "Well, it's good to see you too."

His disheveled brown curls—so identical to Rachel's—were a little unruly, but I was used to that. Dad was the kind of person who got so absorbed in his research that he forgot to do simple, human things like eating breakfast, lunch and dinner, and getting his hair trimmed.

"Hi, Dad," I said, popping open my door to step out. I realized, a beat too late, that I'd forgotten to plaster on the smile I'd rehearsed. But Dad pulled me into a quick hug without missing a beat, then held me at arm's length so he could examine me for damage.

"Waverly," he said on a sigh. "You're sunburned. I knew you'd be sunburned."

"It's not even bad," I murmured.

"She's fine," Rachel called as she slipped out of the driver's side and came around to swoop in and distract her brother with a hug so tight he grunted. "A little sun never hurt anybody."

"Well, that's just not true," Dad said. "Oh—and I have your phone, Waverly. It's in my bag."

I popped the trunk and helped Dad heave his backpack into it, determined to get away from the airport as quickly as possible. The longer we were here, the longer I had to envision myself hurtling through the air at three hundred miles an hour away from all the people I gave shits about. And I wasn't prepared to cry this early in the morning.

Dad sat shotgun for the drive back to Rachel's house. I fidgeted in my seat. He'd been in Holden all of ten minutes, and already, I felt unsettled. Restless. Hyperaware of how I was holding myself and what came out of my mouth.

"Waverly picked up a job at the bookstore in town," Rachel said, meeting my eyes in the rearview mirror briefly. I caught the flicker of worry. She'd noticed I'd gone quiet. "She'll have to point it out to you when we drive by."

I did. Dad said, "Ah." I knew his tone well. He was unimpressed.

Back at Rachel's house, Dad examined the cluttered bookshelves and bountiful decorative pillows and scattered art supplies with the same level of enthusiasm. I knew, of course, that he'd always been baffled by Rachel's life choices. Her career, her personal style, the unashamed and outgoing energy with which she moved through the world. But Rachel was successful. Rachel was talented, and bright, and loved by the people she knew in this town. The only reason my dad didn't see it was because her name wasn't in the bylines of any major research journals.