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“I mean…” I gather my hair in one fist and trap it with an elastic, my face burning. Painting in front of Emerson should have been the hardest thing, but this wins. “Probably not. But I think you’re good enough at this to take me with you. And anyway, you need to surf.”
“It’s very cold, little painter. You’re going to fall in the water. It’s inevitable.”
“You’re not going to let anything happen to me.”
But I did let something happen to you. That’s the grim message in his blue-green eyes.
“What happened before wasn’t you. That was your dad. And you came after me.”
“You should be comfortable. Warm. Your sketchbook—”
“Except when you don’t surf, you’re not comfortable. You feel like you’re losing something. I’m not losing anything if I go with you. I want to go with you.” I take his hand and curl my fingers through it. “Let’s add another piece to the map.”
Emerson’s mouth quirks. “Map?”
“I think of our world like a map. We’ve been adding to it every day since I got better.”
He laughs. “Have you noticed how small it is, little painter?”
“We haven’t had that much time yet, Collector.” A big, amused smile breaks over his face, and I can’t breathe. “Maps get bigger if you explore enough. And I don’t really care, as long as we’re together. Are you going to take me surfing with you or not?”
“Do you trust me with your life?”
“Yes.” I kick off my boots. “Let’s go.”
The waves are large today. Larger than I’d thought when we were on the shore. Emerson puts me on the board and swims it out and out and out until my heart is in my throat and I’m gripping the sides for all I’m worth. I concentrate on him for a distraction.
I probably shouldn’t have been so cavalier with my descriptions of the ocean. It’s deeper than I said. Wilder. The waves are more powerful. They roll and thrash, one after the other. Emerson isn’t bothered in the least.
We’re far from the sand when he pauses, looking up at me from the water beside the board. I have no idea how he’s not shivering.
“You’ll let me balance,” he says. “Don’t fight it.”
“I’ve been in a frame plenty of times.” My teeth chatter from nerves and cold. “I won’t fight.”
Emerson’s eyes flare. The board rocks as he hops on top of it. Easy. Like there’s no ocean. Like it’s on solid ground. “You’ll pay for that later, little painter. You know better than to say things like that when we’re trying to surf.”
He keeps the board in place, waiting.
“How do you do this?” I didn’t notice the distance to the shore on the way out. Now it seems impossibly far. The waves seem impossibly huge. It’s incredibly far to the bottom. Way over my head. “Oh my god, I’m so scared.”
“I’ve got you. And there’s only one way to get back.”
Emerson’s moving. I can barely fathom how because I’m still clinging to the board. This next wave—we’re going with it.
“We have to swim,” I yell at him, excitement and terror washing through my veins. “We’re going to swim, right?”
He moves us both at the same time. Emerson’s strength breaks my grip on the board and I’m up, up, up, my knees quaking, balance lost. He’s confident, unshaken, and I am terrible at surfing. I would fall in immediately if it weren’t for him. If his balance weren’t so good. If he couldn’t do this with an entire second person on his board. It’s like when he dances with me while I paint. Except I don’t know this song. I don’t know the angle of the wave or the rush of the water or the jittery glide of the surface. I only know Emerson. He’s all I have.
I didn’t know it would feel this fast and wild and precarious. His arm around me is all that’s between me and the frigid water.
“We’re not going to swim, little painter.” The wave tips us down toward the shore. Faster, faster, faster. We could lift off from the sunlight skimming the tops of the waves. Emerson’s solid behind me. The strongest man I’ve ever met. The only one I ever want. “We’re going to fly.”
