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The sky is the same blue as yesterday, nothing magical or noteworthy going on there. But the Santa Monica Pier grabs my attention, its Ferris wheel standing tall.
“We went on the Ferris wheel for the first time together,” Jackson says, as if reading my mind. “Both of us. I don’t hate heights as much as Theo did, but we promised to get through it together.” He pulls out his phone and I remove the sunglasses Jackson loaned me so I can clearly see the photo of you two sitting in a Ferris wheel car, making fake-scared faces. The clouds look so close to you both, it’s as if you could’ve brought one back down with you.
You had a first on the day you died, too, something you did to feel braver and something you were supposed to be able to reflect on when something else scared you.
“We felt untouchable after that,” Jackson says. He throws his phone into the front seat and locks up.
He walks past me and I follow, stepping over a guardrail and onto the sand. He’s not running toward the ocean, childlike—not that I was expecting him to do so—but there is a charge in his step, which I wasn’t expecting. This is the place where you drowned, the place where Jackson watched you drown—there’s no way in hell I could ever hurl myself into this like he is.
We walk past a family of three spread out on a towel. The father is reading from a tablet, the mother is filling out a crossword puzzle, and the little girl—who I’m considering the tip of this odd triangle, her parents balancing her out from bottom angles—is building a sand castle and in desperate need of more sunscreen. I hope her parents will grab her if she wanders away, that they won’t let her get too far, that they’ll be there to pull her out of the waves.
Jackson and I reach the edge of the wet sand. He looks around, crying, his hands trying to speak for him but constantly falling back to his sides.
“I don’t even know the spot where it happened, Griffin,” he manages, his voice strained. “When accidents happen, people know where to leave flowers, but not me. Everything happened so quickly. All I know is the lifeguards weren’t close enough. And I, I . . . I wasn’t fast enough.”
He walks into the ocean, and I go with him. A small wave brushes my ankles and toes, sending chills up my legs, and I almost retreat, wishing my feet were burning against asphalt again. But I stay with Jackson.
You once shared a really weird speculation about water with me. It was when you first got out here and I actually thought you must’ve been stoned. You said every single molecule in all bodies of water—ocean and lake, shower and sink—has a story and reason for existence. You always thought there was more to the world, but this idea about water didn’t feel very conversation-worthy before. What was I supposed to say when you thought a drop from your showerhead was about to fall directly into your drain, missing you completely, and head out on its way toward a greater purpose than cleaning you? College kids smoke weed; everyone knows that. This is what I felt like saying.
But as I stand here in the ocean that stole you away from us, I wonder if any molecule here witnessed your death, if any water splashing against my legs filled your throat as you struggled to breathe.
I wade in deeper, knee-high, and my jeans tense against my legs. I crouch, crying now, too, and punch the water again and again. Punching water hurts. But I don’t stop, even after I’m drenched, even after Jackson calls my name, even after I howl, even after a wave surprises me and takes me under, though now I’m fighting the ocean to release me as I tumble underneath, panicking.
I know I’m not that deep, but I don’t know which way is up, I’ve never been able to keep my eyes open underwater. The ocean gets heavier, pinning me down—no, it’s sucking me up, and it’s Jackson, not the ocean. I inhale a deep breath, spitting out water, and Jackson hugs me and I hug him back.
“What the hell were you doing?”
I lost my sunglasses when I was taken under, and the sun is piercing. I try telling him about your damn water molecules and wanting to fight them all, but I keep crying and crying, knowing what I felt under there for a few seconds is nothing compared to what you experienced when your arms and legs couldn’t fight anymore, when your panic probably got the best of you, when you breathed in water, when your brain shut you down. Thinking of this terrifies me, but I know I’m safe with Jackson—you could’ve been too if he were in here with you.
“Why weren’t you swimming with Theo?” My question comes out in a cough and sounds more accusatory than I mean it to, and Jackson freezes. We’re inches away from each other. It’s still hard to make out his face because my eyes are irritated and the sun is attacking my vision. “I’m not blaming you.”
“I know,” Jackson says quietly. “Theo wanted to go in alone. He had just gotten off the phone and wanted a minute to himself. I stayed at the beach with our stuff, and Theo went deeper than he should’ve.”
It isn’t Jackson’s fault.
My rage dies down. My body is registering how ice-cold this water is, even after I’ve made rounds underneath it. I also officially hate the ocean because it can’t be trusted with any of our lives. I was right to protect my sand castles from the ocean as a kid. Screw this. I hold Jackson’s bare arm and force him out of the water with me.
I take off my shirt and drop face-first into the sand, feeling the sun on my back and shoulders instantly. It’s not burning me alive like it should be. Instead it actually feels kind of relaxing. Or maybe that’s just because I’m back on dry land.
“I’m sorry,” Jackson says, sitting beside me, staring out into the surf. I almost ask if he’s talking to you or me, when I remember he doesn’t talk to you like I do. “I should’ve been in there with him. I could’ve saved him. Everyone’s lives would’ve been so much better.”
My hand flies out toward Jackson’s as if his hand were some deus ex machina button that could blow up every zombie pirate in a single blast. “You’re not single-handedly responsible for Theo, okay? You didn’t force him out there, and you made every effort you could to bring him back.”
Jackson nods, but I’m not sure any
of this is actually comforting him. The fact is that I feel just as powerless now as he did then.
I’ve been blindsided into watching Edward Scissorhands tonight with Jackson; I’m blaming my yes on our vulnerable state. I always thought you’d be here with me when I finally took on this childhood fear, ready to pause the film if I needed a second. I never thought I’d be watching it in Los Angeles with another guy who loves you, especially not while wearing his shorts. I would’ve preferred sitting outside, watching the sky burn in yellow-orange and pinkish-red clouds.
It turns out this film isn’t as terrifying as I remembered it to be. Sure, it’s creepy because Edward has scissors for hands and scars all over his pale face, but how scary can the guy be when he’s trimming a bush into a dinosaur and giving dogs haircuts?
“The film score may have had something to do with it, too,” I tell Jackson, sitting cross-legged with a pillow on my lap.
“I’m not sure who composed it,” Jackson says, pulling out his phone.
“Danny Elfman.”
Jackson nods when his search comes through. “Yup.”
