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Oh, my heart . . .
My poor heart. It won’t know what to do with itself when Jesse’s gone, but I promise it right now that I’ll find other reasons for us to dance. After two stalled years—twenty-four long months where I was stuck in rehab, in therapy, in learning to live in my body again, in going through the motions—I am moving, shimmying, dancing.
Being alive like this feels too good to let anything take it away, even losing easy access to the best cock—and one of the best friends—I’ve ever had.
I’m still smiling when I knock on the door to Gigi’s apartment. A nanosecond later, Gigi wrenches it open. Her pink retro robe with feathers around the cuffs swishes as she squeals, a giddy sound that perfectly echoes my vibe. “Oh my God, tell me everything! You’re glowing. I want a beat-by-beat recount of every kiss, every orgasm, every new sex trick you’ve learned. But wait!” She holds up both hands, her fingers spread wide. “Let me get my notebook. I want to write this down so I won’t forget.”
I laugh as I step inside, closing the door behind me and heading for her bathroom. “I can’t. I only have thirty minutes. I have to grab the world’s fastest shower, wiggle into your cutest bathing suit and cover up, and meet Jesse to head to the beach.”
Gigi frowns. “But I need details. If I don’t live vicariously through you, I’ll have to go hunt down my own sexy boyfriend, and that’d be so exhausting.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I remind her, before adding with a bob of my brows, “But he is sexy. And exhausting in the best way.”
I close the door to the bathroom, ignoring Gigi’s plea to be allowed in to sit on the toilet seat while I shower so she can keep pestering me for details while I’m naked and vulnerable.
Gigi has zero issues with her body or stripping down to nothing in front of her girlfriends. I’ve always been more of a private person, and that’s one thing the list doesn’t seem to be changing, proving it isn’t altering who I am. It’s bringing out who I’ve always been, pulling the suppressed and depressed part of my soul to the surface.
Then showing that part the light of day.
The vibrancy of fresh choices.
It’s turning me inside out, lifting me up.
And that doesn’t only feel good. It’s the complete opposite of those two stalled years.
Jesse was right. I needed this list. I needed a push.
The world feels new again, bright again.
So much so that I feel ready to tackle one of my biggest demons.
Or at least, I think I’m ready.
But by the time I dress in a polka-dot Ethel Merman bathing suit so darling I vow to buy one of my own if this whole swimming thing works out, and then make the hour-long journey down to Manhattan Beach with Jesse, my stomach twists.
Then contorts as I step out onto the warm sand. Gone is the good. Here to stay is the queasy.
I stop in the middle of the sand, a statue, the sun pelting rays at me.
I wince, shield my eyes.
The memory of that day in the water smacks me hard. That terrible day when I thought I was going to die. Hell, I nearly died in an accident. Why do I need to relive yet another day when I almost passed away?
What the hell was I thinking, agreeing to number six?
Screw swimming.
We can go for a stroll.
A gentle, pleasant stroll.
Claire probably didn’t mean it anyway when she wrote get your feet wet and learn to swim.
More likely she meant swim through life.
Swim through choices.
Don’t drown in the stupid.
That sounds like Claire.
I dig my heels into the sand.
“I’ve got you,” Jesse says, resting a hand lightly on the small of my back.
I turn back to him, forcing what I hope is a breezy smile even though my heart is pounding so hard my ribs feel like they’re vibrating. “You know what? I don’t think this is the best way to spend our day, after all.” I loop my arms around his neck and lean into him. “I mean, we don’t have much time left before you leave. Wouldn’t you rather spend it naked and happy than splashing around in disgusting water?”
He stands tall and firm, refusing to bend close enough for me to press my lips to his or take my persuading to the next level. “The water is fine. This is the cleanest beach in the city.”
“But there’s still fish pee in there,” I say, casting about for any reason to backpedal, and run far away. “And fish poo. And sharks. The sharks are getting way more aggressive these days. Didn’t they bite a bunch of people in Massachusetts last summer?” I shudder and widen my eyes as the fear clutches my ankles, climbs up my legs like vines. “And who needs a shark bite? I mean, I have cards to paint, and you have to pack for L.A. I really don’t have time to lose a limb right now.”
