She does, right beside me, like the good dog sheusuallyis.
I look up at the boy. He’s covered in sand, and his hood has slipped down, revealing the whole of his face and his thick sable hair. He’s notlaughing anymore, but he looks intrigued, which is a lot like how I’m feeling. This is the third time I’ve seen him in twenty-four hours and that seems significant somehow.
But then I recall the woman he was with yesterday—his mother, I suspect—and the way she wore a scarf over her hair, a clue I’ve refused to let myself ruminate on until now. She’s Muslim, which means he’s likely Muslim, which makes me think of my brother—missmy brother. Sadness like I haven’t felt in months bubbles up my throat, until I’m forced to swallow it back, blinking a haze of gloominess from my vision.
“Sorry about my dog,” I mumble, still not sure he understands English.
He must not because, once again, he’s quiet.Where is he from?I wonder, and then:How long has he been in the States? How long will hebein the States?Where yesterday his silence fueled my swim-induced frustration, today I feel awkward and a little anxious.
I should go.
I hurry past him, headed for the stairs. I’m all but dragging Bambi, who’s clearly disappointed about leaving her new buddy.
I’m halfway up the steps when he calls, “Wait!”
I’m so surprised to hear him speak, I freeze.
Behind me, his footfalls ascend the stairs. I sense him pulling to a stop a few below the one where I stand and pivot so his face isn’t level with my butt. Before I can stop her, Bambi lunges, dragging me down a step. I yank on her leash and, through clenched teeth, say, “Heel.”
She sits with her front paws on the step below the one her rear lands on.
“Your dog seems nice.”
I eye him, wary. “Really? She just jumped all over you.”
“I have survived worse.”
“Youdospeak English,” I blurt, and then I’m cringing at how unintentionally impolite my words sound. I attempt to clarify. “I mean, you didn’t talk yesterday—not at all.”
He tightens his jaw, watching me a moment before his expression relaxes. “I was… struck dumb. And maybe a little embarrassed.”
“What the hell were you doing in the water?”
He winces. It’s almost imperceptible, but I’m so abruptly aware of him, I catch it. “I needed to clear my head. Impulsivity got the better of me, but Icanswim.”
“Can you? Because that was…”
Pitiful. Dangerous. Stupid.
All the above.
He looks out over the water, slate and spirited. “I have experience with pools and lakes and rivers,” he says, low, emphatic, hypnotic. He speaks precisely, with a lilting accent I can’t place. “But the ocean and its waves are new to me. I didn’t realize they could be so powerful.”
“But you were wearing your clothes.”
He shrugs, chagrined.
How does it feel to act so spontaneously? To ignore risk? Consequence? I wonder how old he is—now that I’m up close, I’m thinking he’s a year or two older than me. His face has the chiseled quality of a man’s, but there’s something innocent about his eyes—a vulnerability.
“You learned your lesson? No more impromptu swims?”
The corners of his mouth rise, a tiny smile I read as assent.
“Are you new to town?” I ask, to keep the conversation afloat.
“I’ve been here nearly a year, but I am finding it… hard to adjust.”
His candor surprises me. So does the sudden sense of camaraderie that’s replaced my earlier anxiety. “Me, too. Though I’ve only been here a few weeks.”
