Page 54 of Within These County Lines

He arches a brow.

I look left, then right. Across the water, the tire swing behind Murray’s house sways gently in the breeze.

My stomach doesn’t hurt. It’s my heart. And it’s not ready to let the river carry me somewhere new when it still remembers who used to bring me in.

During Murray’s junior year football season, his coach told him he needed to improve his receptions. He was great at catching long balls—legendary even. Sophomore year, he won two games by snagging fourth-quarter Hail Mary touchdowns, making him the school’s hero for a week.

But short catches were his weakness. Screen passes, quick slants: He’d drop anything tossed to him from five feet away. I’d wince with every fumble. By the third drop, I’d start preparing for his postgame spiral. If he had a rough night, he wouldn’t want to do anything afterward but sulk and relive every missed throw.

It never made sense to me how he could catch a fifty-yard bomb but not a soft toss. It didn’t make sense to him either. He never struggled like that before.

“Help me train,” he said.

I nodded so hard I probably looked like a bobblehead.

After every game, we huddled over my phone and replayed each catch and drop in slow motion.

As soon as the weather got nice again, we started with slow and lazy tosses back and forth in his backyard. But after a few weeks of staring at the tire swing hanging above the river, he got an idea.

Soon, I was hurling footballs through a moving tire toward Murray jumping through the air, his body slick with river water, chest bare and glistening, arms outstretched.

Thud. The football hit his chest.

Giggle. His arms tightened around the ball.

Splash. He disappeared beneath the water.

Thud, giggle, splash.

Thud, giggle, splash.

Over and over.

It was the soundtrack of my junior year summer.

At day’s end when we were exhausted from practicing, we’d float side by side down the Penango River, letting the current carry us past the county line. But we quickly swam home at the first sign of sunset, afraid we’d ventured too far.

I became so good at throwing a football that I considered quitting cross-county and trying out for quarterback. I didn’t. And Murray fell into his coach’s good graces again fall of senior year when he caught nearly every pass that came his way.

As the season wore on, and the air turned cold, Murray changed too. He stopped looking for me in the bleachers after each catch. I lost his thumbs-ups, waves, and smiles. Eventually, he ran off the field without a glance.

I sat there every Friday night for him, clapping less, crying more. We spent a whole summer building something in the river. I thought it would carry us forward. But it turns out, it washed away just as fast.

Xander splashes me. “Hey, zombie-boy,” he says, grinning. “Don’t let this beautiful night go to waste.”

I wipe the grainy river water from my brow, blinking against the softening light. Suddenly, I don’t want to waste anything anymore.

I wasted three years on a boy who made me small. I might have wasted my time applying to college. I’m wasting my summer checking chlorine levels at pools no one swims in. Worst of all, I’ve wasted too much time listing reasons not to try. Not to feel what’s in front of me.

I want to move on from the memories of Murray. Maybe I do that by diving into this dream with Xander.

He is here. And he’s nice. And funny. And smart. And . . . hot. And most importantly, he sees me and wants to help.

That would be reason enough for most people. It’s more than enough for me to just get in the damn water.

I take off my shirt and walk into the river, stepping carefully over slick stones.

Xander gives me a once-over. “Okay, you might have the best T-shirt tan line I have ever seen,” he says.