Out of Nowhere (22 page)

“Somewhere in my neck,” he said, his fingers lazily stroking my leg, which I’d thrown across his abdomen.

“It’s right about…” I inched closer and kissed the correct spot. “…here.”

“Hmm. What else can you find for me? I like this game.”

I ignored him. “Do you know what happens when your jugular vein is severed? You bleed to death in a matter of minutes.”

His eyes popped opened and he looked at me. “What kind of pillow talk is this?”

“Your scar…” I held up my hand, positioning my thumb and forefinger about half an inch apart. “It’s this close to your jugular. If that glass had hit just a little further to the left…”

“I know. The doctors mentioned that more than once.”

“Doesn’t it freak you out?”

“Why would it? It didn’t happen. I’m still here.”

“It freaks
me
out.” I disentangled myself from him and sat up, shivering at the sudden loss of body heat. Cole’s room was always colder than the rest of the house. And messier. Much like his car, his room was littered with CDs and sports equipment and grains of beach sand. It was like a showcase for all his passions in life. The sand, especially, seemed to follow him everywhere, as if it exuded from his pores.

“What?” I said. He had a weird expression on his face.

“You can watch gory surgeries without blinking an eye, but just the
thought
of my jugular vein getting nicked sends you over the edge. Why is that?”

I sat crossed-legged, facing him. “Well, I don’t know those people,” I replied, like this was obvious. “If it was you on the operating table, there’s no way I could watch.”

“Because you love me.”

“No,” I said, annoyed by both his cocky grin and the fact that he was right. Still, we hadn’t exchanged the big L-word yet and I wasn’t about to go first.

“Sure,” he said, nodding. “Keep denying it.”

I could feel my face getting warm, so I shifted my attention to the small framed poster that hung on the wall next to his bed. It showed a giant green-blue wave, curved like a tongue. A lone surfer skimmed along the white spray at the bottom, dwarfed by the massive swell of water behind him. I noticed it each time I came here—the sheer immensity of that wave unnerved me—but I’d never thought to ask him about it until now, when I needed a good distraction.

“Where is that?” I leaned over him to get a closer look at the picture. The wave looked almost fake, like it was made out of glass.

Cole’s teasing grin disappeared as he looked at the poster in reverent awe. “Mavericks. It’s a surfing spot in Northern California.”

I should have known. “Are the waves always that high?”

“During the winter, yeah. They can crest at about fifty feet.” He started talking about storms and underwater rock formations, but he’d lost me after “fifty feet”. Seeing the blank look on my face, he flipped onto his stomach and opened his laptop. “I’ll show you,” he said, and I dropped down on my stomach next to him, not sure I really wanted to see. It would be different if we were talking about some faraway surfing spot he’d never actually go to, but I knew from the flash of excitement in his eyes that he
did
plan to visit this Mavericks place.

My horror grew as we watched some videos on YouTube of Mavericks surfers, crazy people like Cole who were constantly chasing the ultimate rush. This place was nothing like Vickers Beach with its manageable little waves and sandy ocean floor. In the YouTube clips, the water was dark and foreboding, lifting and tossing surfers like they were weightless, pushing them toward the black, jagged rocks on the shore.

“Uh, Cole?” I said as the waves spit out yet another surf board. “This is just a dream of yours, right? You’re not planning on actually doing this, are you?”

“Hell yes.” He clicked stop on the video and met my eyes. “Didn’t I mention it?”

“No,” I said slowly. “I would’ve remembered.”

He turned back to the computer, bringing up Google and typing
Mavericks
into the search bar like he’d done it a million times before. For a moment, all I could hear was the hum of the laptop and our breathing. I stared at the screen in front of me, not seeing the words. “I thought you wanted to go to Hollywood and become a stunt double.”

“Oh, I do.” He clicked on a link and a picture of a colossal wave appeared. It was similar to the one on his wall, only this one featured a different surfer, his arms spread wide as he rode the wave. “But I want to try this first.”

I concentrated on the screen as he scrolled down the page, the words now sinking into my brain. Hazardous conditions. Strong currents. Shallow reefs. Dangerous rocks. Freezing temperatures. Death.

“Wait a second.” I seized his hand to stop him from skipping over that particular section. “Jesus, Cole, people have
died
surfing here. Experienced, accomplished surfers,” I added after I’d skimmed over the details.

“I’ve been surfing for ten years,” he said, unmoved by my horror. “I think I can handle it.”

I pushed myself to my knees and sat up, almost jostling the laptop off the bed in the process. Cole grabbed it just as it was about to slide off. “But why?” I asked him. “Why risk your life for some big wave? It’s just stupid.”

“Riley, relax.” He calmly closed his laptop and placed it on the floor beside the bed. “I knew you’d freak out.”

I gave him a
well, duh
look. “You can’t tell me you’re going to one of the most dangerous surf spots in the world, where people have
died
, and expect me to be okay with it.”

He swung his legs off the bed and stood up. “No,” he said, digging into his pocket and coming up with an elastic, which he stuck between his teeth while he smoothed back his hair. “But it’s just me that has to be okay with it, right?”

I watched him as he secured his hair and pulled on a T-shirt, his usually serene face creased with irritation. I’d been seeing this look more and more often lately. The closer we became, the more anxious I felt about his impending move, and the more I questioned him on the logic of driving across an entire country, alone, to risk his life so some actor didn’t have to. And also, apparently, to ride a wave the size of a large building. I knew he was getting fed up with my constant negativity, but Cole being Cole, he always kept his temper.

“So you’re really going to do this,” I said, feeling that familiar tightness in my chest, the shortness of breath. Why was he just telling me about Mavericks
now
?

Maybe
, I thought,
because he knew you’d freak out
.

“I’m an adult,” he said evenly. “I can take care of myself. I’ll be fine, okay? Stop worrying so much.”

I closed my eyes and started counting silently backwards from one hundred, like Dr. Maser told me to do whenever I felt an anxiety attack coming on. Cole was back on the bed before I even got to ninety-seven.

“Riley?” His face was close to mine, his hands on my hair. “Are you okay?”

I nodded quickly, still counting. After a moment, I opened my eyes to find him sitting directly in front of me, his eyes full of concern. “California is so far away,” I said, touching my forehead to his. “It’s going to take you days to get there. What if your car doesn’t make it? What if you break down on some freeway in the middle of the night or fall asleep at the wheel while you’re driving?”

“What if I don’t? What if my car works great and I stop when I get tired and I make it to California with no problems?
What if
…” He held my face between his palms and pulled back to look at me. “…nothing bad happens at all?”

“What if you drown at Mavericks?”

“What if it turns out to be an amazing experience?”

“What if…” I sighed, finally out of things to worry about. Well, except for the one thought that constantly haunted me: What would happen to us when he left? I knew a long-distance relationship wasn’t something I’d be able to tolerate easily, but that was my issue to deal with. He’d had these plans long before he met me, and I couldn’t stand in his way.

Suddenly, my mind flashed on the break-up email Adam had sent me almost exactly a year ago. The entire thing was basically an inventory of everything he hated about me while we were together, all my relationship faults.
Too needy
was pretty high up there on the list. He’d never had any patience for my what ifs. But Cole…it seemed like whenever I unleashed my clinginess on him, instead of pulling away like Adam used to do, he pushed back, turned it around on me. This technique of his was far more effective at slowing my heart rate than any counting exercise.

It was weird how someone who evoked such panic in me could also make me feel so calm.

I took a deep breath and was relieved to feel my lungs fully expand. The tightness was gone. I could breathe again. Cole was watching me, a trace of worry still lingering in his eyes. “It’s just a little anxiety,” I assured him. “I’ll be okay.”

“I know,” he said, leaning in to kiss me. “And so will I.”

Chapter Seventeen

The headaches were back again.

A year ago, shortly after my break-up with Adam, I’d started waking up each morning with a dull ache in my temples that lasted all day. Advil didn’t seem to touch it, so of course I’d rushed to Dr. Kapur, who—just as a precaution—ordered a CT-scan. It was only when that came back clear that my headaches went away.

But now they were back, and I knew I’d never get Dr. K to agree to another CT-scan. Instead, I opted for a different approach.

“An MRI,” I said, blinking against the bright light in my eyes. “It’s better than a CT-scan because it shows a clear image of the whole brain.”

Dr. K lowered his ophthalmoscope, satisfied that my pupils were dilating as they should. I wondered briefly if he suspected I was on drugs. “Yes, MRI is an extremely valuable diagnostic tool,” he said, gesturing for me to hop down off the exam table. I followed him over to his desk, where he sat and started leafing through my chart. “But you do not need one.”

“I don’t?”

“MRI can’t diagnose headaches, Riley. It can only rule out other problems.” His eyes crinkled at the corners as he read. “Let’s see,” he murmured. “In the past twelve months you’ve had a CT-scan, eye exam, CBC…all completely normal.” He closed the chart and looked at me. “From what you’ve described, these headaches are generally mild and episodic. Perhaps triggered by stressful events.”

Great. Back to the old psychosomatic theory. “So you’re telling me they’re just tension headaches.”

He rolled his chair a little closer and looked me square in the eye. “It’s not an aneurysm, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I know,” I said, dropping my gaze. I’d done enough research to know that aneurysms rarely occurred in more than one family member. Still, that didn’t stop me from wondering if
my
brain was a time bomb too, just waiting for the right moment to detonate.

Dr. Kapur wheeled back into his usual spot and asked, “How’s it going with Dr. Maser?”

“Fine. She’s nice. We mostly talk about things I can do to reduce my anxiety.” I told him about the counting technique, the breathing exercises, the diary she suggested I keep. “She says I can train my mind to think differently. Like reconditioning.”

He nodded. “Most people respond very well to cognitive behavioral therapy.”

“There must be something wrong with me then,” I said with a snicker. “I still have panic attacks.”

“Ah, but you’re learning how to deal with them more effectively. Correct?”

I thought about the other night in Cole’s room, how he’d talked me down off the ledge the way only he could. Someday, hopefully, I’d have the tools to talk myself down.

* * *

It was after six by the time I got home. My mother and brother were there waiting for me, half-starved and grouchy.

“Dada? Dada?” Tristan came tearing down the hallway as I opened the door, his bare feet slapping against the hardwood. When he saw me, he stopped short and glared at me like I was here to kidnap his blankie. Wow, what a welcome.

“Sorry,” I said, dumping my bags on the floor. After my doctor appointment, I’d gone back-to-school shopping. “It’s only me.”

Intrigued by the bags, he came over to investigate. He pulled out a math set and turned it over in his hands. “This?”

I told him, and he took off in the direction of the kitchen, the math set clutched in his hands. “Mama, look! Maff set, Mama.”

I followed him into the kitchen and found Mom at the microwave, removing a dish of corn. “Oh boy!” she said to Tristan. Then, to me: “I wish you’d call when you’re going to be late for dinner.”

“Sorry.” I didn’t bother mentioning my doctor’s appointment. She’d only worry. She never said as much, but I got the feeling she thought therapy should have cured me of all my eccentricities by now. Like going to the doctor too much, for example.

When we sat down to dinner, my mother immediately started in on the subject of—what else?—the wedding. Apparently, one of her friends from work had just gotten married last month and still had all the information and catalogs she’d used while planning her wedding. Mom, of course, was dying to see them.

“She said I could come over tonight and take what I need,” she told me, carrying her plate to the sink. “Is that okay? You can watch Tristan, right? I’ll be home by eleven.”

“I’m going out with Cole tonight.”

She frowned. “Oh. Maybe another night then.”

I stood up to unbuckle Tristan from his highchair. He bolted for the living room, my math set—the case now streaked with food—still in his hand. “Well,” I said when he was gone, “Cole could come over here instead. We’ll babysit. Tristan loves him.”

Mom didn’t say anything for a minute. I cleared the rest of the dishes off the table and brought them to the sink. As she rinsed each dish, I loaded them into the dishwasher.

“You know how I feel about that,” she said, passing me a glass.

“What, about me spending time with my boyfriend?” I said, just to be snarky. I knew the issue wasn’t really with Cole himself. My mother did eventually warm up to him, but only after I told her he was leaving. Supposedly, unsuitable boyfriends were a lot more tolerable if they came with an expiration date.