“No, it isn’t.”
I turn toward him because if I stare at the water any longer, I might either jump or confess something terrible.
His face is closer than I expect, close enough that I can see a tiny scar near his jaw and a faint line almost hidden under stubble. Close enough to see that his eyes are not just blue. There is gray in them too, stormy around the edges.
“You can step back,” he says.
“I know.”
“You can try tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“You don’t have to prove anything to me.”
The words should help. Instead, they make me angry. Not at him. At myself. At Harold. At everylaterI accepted like it was reasonable. At every part of me that confused being agreeable with being loved.
“I’m not proving it to you,” I say.
Hudson goes still. My voice shakes, but I keep going.
“I’m proving it to me.”
His gaze sharpens, and for one second, I think he understands more than he should. Then he nods.
“All right.”
That’s all he says -- like my reason is enough. Like I am enough. He steps around me and moves to the edge.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Going first.”
“What if you hit something?”
“I won’t.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I checked.”
“Yes, well, I check my classroom floor for crayons before I walk across it, and I still step on one at least once a week.”
His mouth curves. “This isn’t a crayon.”
“Thank you, Hudson. That is very comforting.”
He faces the water, every line of his body relaxed. I hate him a little for that. I admire him more. Then he looks back at me. The sun catches his face, turning his skin warm and his eyes impossibly bright.
“Watch where I go in,” he says. “That’s your spot.”
“My spot,” I repeat.
“Right. When you jump, jump out. You don’t need to throw yourself. Just push.”
My throat feels tight.
“What do I do when I surface?”
