The breakers start about a hundred yards from shore. I can see them building ahead of us, the water rising into green walls that curl and crash in white explosions of foam. This is where it's going to get rough. If I was out here by myself, I'd be jumping the waves, whooping and hollering, having a blast, but I'm not by myself. I'm carrying Stormy, who is too exhausted to make it by himself.
"Waves incoming," I say. "Hold your breath when I say. The wave will push us closer to shore and help us. Just trust me and hold on. Ready?"
His arms tighten around my neck. I feel him nod.
"Hold your breath!"
The first wave rolls over us like a truck. The wall of water crashes over our heads and we're tumbling, spinning, and I hold onto Stormy with everything I have. For a split-second, I can't tell which way is up. My arm is iron around his waist. I will not let go. The wave passes and I kick us to the surface and we gasp for air.
"Again," I say. "Hold!"
The second wave. Bigger. We go under and the foam churns around us and salt fills my mouth. The force of the water tries to rip him away from me and I hold on. I hold on with a grip that's going to leave bruises on his waist and I don't care. Bruises heal, and drowning doesn't. There's no coming back from drowning.
We come up again. I kick. I swim. Another wave, smaller this time. We're getting closer. The water is changing color under us, going from deep blue to green to that light, sandy turquoise that means the bottom is close.
My feet hit sand. I've never felt so grateful in my life as the feeling of sand in my toes.
"I can touch!" I yell.
I'm standing. The water is chest-deep on me and I've got Stormy on my hip. My feet are on the bottom and I could cry with the relief of it. But I don't. I adjust my grip and shift him around to my front. He wraps around me again, koala style, face in my neck, legs around my waist.
I walk through the shallows. The water drops to my waist, then my thighs, then my knees. The waves push against my legs but I'm a beast and I've got my feet on solid ground. Nothing in this water is stopping me now.
No fucking way.
Sheila is on the beach. She's run the whole way, watching us. She's got my clothes and boots bundled in her arms and she's standing at the waterline. When she sees us come out of the waves, her hand goes to her mouth and she lets out a sound that I've only heard her make once before, the day my daddy died.
"I called 911," she yells. Her voice is shaking. I've never heard Sheila's voice shake. "They're overwhelmed. Rip currents all up and down the beach. Rescue is stretched. They said they'd send someone when they could but they don't know when."
"Don't need them," I say. "Call them back. I've got him. We're okay."
I walk past her. Up the beach, my feet sinking in the hot sand, carrying Stormy against my chest. He's barely conscious. His eyes are half closed and his grip has loosened to almost nothing. His body is limp against mine, the dead weight of total exhaustion. But he's breathing. Steady and alive.
I carry him through the open door of the bar. Past the wrecked first floor, past the half-finished walls and the construction supplies and the tools. Up the stairs to the second floor. Up to the third. Down the hallway to the bathroom.
I step into the shower with him and turn on the water. Warm, not hot, and it runs over both of us, washing away the saltwater and sand. He's still wrapped around me. His face is against my neck and his arms are loose around my shoulders.His legs have slipped down to my hips. I'm holding his full weight and it's nothing.
"I've got you, baby," I say again, because it's the truest thing in the world right now. "You're okay now, Stormy. You're with me and you're safe."
The water runs over us. His breathing steadies against my neck. I stand there under the shower and hold him, letting the saltwater wash off of both of us.
When the water runs clear, I turn it off. I shift him gently, carefully, and he lets me. He lets me set him on his feet, his back against the shower wall, and he sways but stays upright while I grab towels. I wrap one around him and I dry him the way you'd dry something precious, careful and thorough, his arms and his legs and his hair.
He lets me touch him. Everywhere the towel goes, he lets it. His eyes are half closed and his face is open and unguarded. For once, he's not flinching.
I strip the wet bathing suit off of him and wrap him in a dry towel. I peel off my own soaked boxers and wrap a towel around my waist. I pick him up again like a child this time. He folds against me as if he were made to be carried, his head on my shoulder, his arm across my chest.
I take him to my room. My bed. I lay him down and pull the covers over him. He's there, in my bed, exhausted and alive, and his eyes open enough to look at me.
I turn to go get him water. He swallowed a lot of saltwater and he needs fresh water. He doesn't let go.
His arms are still around my neck from carrying him and when I try to pull back his grip tightens. Not strong, he's got almost nothing left, but desperate. His fingers dig into my shoulders and his body curls toward me and a sound comesout of him that isn't a word. It's the sound a person makes when the one solid thing in this world starts to pull away.
"Don't leave me." His voice is raw, scraped down to almost nothing by salt water and yelling. "Please. Don't leave me."
I look at his face. His eyes are barely open but the terror in them is total. The terror of a person who has been left so many times that leaving is the only thing he knows how to expect.
I don't pull away. I don't put him down. I do what my body has been wanting to do since I carried him out of the water.
