Washed Up

Underwater

Ross

Underwater. Adjective. [uhn-der-waw-ter]. Existing or occurring underwater.

I can't keep my eyes off of Riley's wide, freckled smile and pale eyes that glow against the black of the Atlantic night. Her hand is warm and soft in mine as she tugs me after her. She takes off at a sprint and I follow her, the icy sea water splashing against our legs as we collide with the ocean and each other.

Once we're knee deep, I expect her to stop running or let go of my hand, but she does neither. She pulls me into the waves with no resemblance of fear for the ocean that almost choked the life out of her. Once I'm chest deep in the ocean and it reaches Riley's chin, she finally stops and turns to smile at me. With her pale eyes, perfect freckles, and wide smile, she's practically sucking me underwater and for a minute I struggle to say anything.

"The ocean's not so bad when you're not caught in a riptide, huh," I say, recalling her futile attempt at escaping the tide.

She glowers back at me. "Are you ever going to let me live that down?"

"Not if I can help it. It's not everyday I have to rescue someone at six in the morning."

"Apparently it's so uncommon that you told all your friends about me," she says, paddling her arms around her to stay afloat as a wave washes over me.

I fight to keep my gaze on her face and not the long legs that flutter kick beneath her. Get a grip, Ross.

"What can I say? You make an impression."

She scrunches her freckled nose. "Yeah, I love being known as the girl you had to rescue. The hot girl."

Crap. Screw Javier and his stupid big mouth. I shouldn't have told him and Ernie that I thought she was hot; I'm certain I'll never live it down.

"Don't let it get to your head," I grumble, flipping onto my back and floating on the undulating waves.

"Too late," she says, swimming beside me on her stomach and entrancing me with her eyes.

I was wrong when I said she was hot; she's more than that. She's intriguing and mysterious and beautiful. And maybe a little annoying. But still, there's something completely captivating in her reckless outlook on life.

"So you're a lifeguard, huh? That explains some things."

"Yep. I've been a lifeguard for eleven years."
Her eyebrows shoot up as her dark hair floats in a halo around her. "Eleven years? Are you serious? You've known these guys for eleven years?" She gestures to Ernie and Lucy, making out in the ocean, and Javier trying to flirt with a few new lifeguards. When I nod, she continues, "I don't think I've even known anyone besides my parents for eleven years. That's crazy."

I sigh. "We have a lot of history."

"I'd love to have history," she murmurs under my breath and I wonder if she meant for me to hear her.

I don't know what it's like to not have history. This entire island is drenched in layers of memories of my mom and dad and brothers and sister and friends. On almost every block, I can share an anecdote or an experience. Everyone knows me and I know everyone. Sometimes I hate it.

"It's not all it's cracked up to be," I say, but I know I should be grateful.

Compared to Riley the nomad, my life has been idyllic and grounded, but I think I could do with a little bit of chaos.

Riley swims a little closer to me, her hair glued to the side of her face and eyes luminous. She touches my shoulder with an icy hand and her eyes close halfway.