CHAPTER THREE
The Stone Skipper
I pull my sunglasses from my backpack and start what I’m guessing will be a long walk to the lake. My encounter with Sabin, while somewhat disconcerting, has put me in an uncharacteristically good mood and motivated me to finally make this first trip down to the water. It is pretty silly that I’ve never gotten myself to the lake here, especially after my insistence on applying only to colleges near water. True, I haven’t ventured down to the lake in almost four years, but the whole time I’ve known it was here. That mattered. Access to water is, despite my generally precarious mood, a stabilizing force for me.
I zip up my sweatshirt against the morning chill but notice the sun is already gaining strength; it will warm up to the 60s in a few hours, I’m guessing. Being outside feels good. Sunshine is supposed to help depression, after all. Not that I would classify myself as depressed. Sure, I have numerous depressive symptoms, but I think that I have good reason. Anyone in my situation would be depressed, right? And the whole concept of depression is … well, depressing. It doesn’t seem to take into account that I may damn well be justified in feeling how I do. So what if I’m often in an apathetic haze and spend half my time drinking until I feel numb? It’s not like I cry all the time. I think back to my psych textbook and grimace as I realize how clearly my symptoms match up to the clinical definition.
Fine, fine. I’m depressed. There. I said it.
What I find interesting, at least from a human-interest standpoint, is that while I am painfully aware of my feelings and symptoms, I’m unable to shake them and move forward. I am stagnant, I guess. Which makes sense given that stagnant is sort of just a synonym for depressed.
I shake off my lame attempt at self-analysis, put on my earphones, and listen to an NPR news podcast on my phone for the rest of the walk. When I reach the lake, I find a path that takes me through some overgrown brush and lands me by patches of grass and pebbly sand that skirt a small beach area. The lake is stunning, especially at this still-early time of morning. I take off my earphones. It is almost totally quiet except for the occasional lap of water. This spot appears to be on the less popular side of the lake, but I can see a larger beach area and a few docked boats on the opposite shore.
I sit and wiggle my butt into the sandy ground until I have carved out a comfortable sitting spot. The air is fresh and reviving. I can breathe. Why have I never come here before?
Well, I know why.
The love/hate relationship that I have with water. Well, mostly I love it. Yet it’s also a reminder of a past that I’m both clinging to and struggling to outrun. I may not have come to this shoreline yet in my years at Matthews; but I knew it was here, and that mattered. I wanted to be able to come here when I felt ready. Apparently I am ready today, because it feels glorious to be here. The light is extraordinary. Photographs and paintings invariably cheapen morning light, but the real-life version can be stupendous. Like it is right now.
Reality is not necessarily my friend—then again, neither are dreams—but this moment, this reality, is beautiful. I am alone without being lonely, for once, staring across the water and watching the sun begin its climb into the clear blue sky.
When I scan the shoreline, though, I see that I am not alone. There is one person.
He stands about twenty yards from me, just at the edge of the water, wearing only worn jeans and blue sneakers, no shirt. His profile is silhouetted against the growing light, and I watch him as he stares across the lake. His black hair falls nearly to his shoulders in soft waves. He has to be at least six feet tall, beautifully long and lean. He isn’t bulky like a weight lifter, but he looks incredibly strong.
I’m watching him so intensely that I realize I’m holding my breath. I force myself to inhale and exhale deeply.
Crystal clear thoughts hit me. He is confident, he is assured, and he is centered.
I can’t look away.
He looks down and kicks at the ground a few times before bending down and picking up something. Weirdly, I guess what he is going to do before he does it, and I catch myself smiling slightly as he reaches back his arm and skips a rock into the water. I try to count the skips. One, two, three, four, five… . It’s hard to see from where I am. He takes a few steps from where he is and then roots in the ground for more rocks. I watch as he skips another. Then another.
He moves smoothly, seamlessly. He’s done this before; I can tell by his clean, competent movements and rhythm. He strikes me as free, freer than I am or could be. Again, I catch myself holding my breath as I watch him. I have no idea why I feel so drawn to this stranger. But the feeling is undeniable.
The stone skipper searches the ground again and then reaches into the front pocket of his jeans before sending a stone bouncing across the water. Smart boy. He brought his own stash. I know the sort of perfect stone one needs to get the dance of rings to appear on the water’s surface. I searched for those same kinds of stones as a kid, although despite my repeated efforts to learn, I never got very good at skipping. This boy, on the other hand, is a master.
I inhale and exhale again, wondering why I feel overwhelmed just by watching him. A thought I don’t understand flashes into my consciousness. He is the past, and the present, and the future. I shake my head hard. What in the hell is wrong with me? Is this because I didn’t drink last night? Maybe I’m going into some kind of bizarre booze withdrawal. I should probably go back to the dorm and crawl into bed. But the lure of watching the stone skipper is too much, and I cannot get myself to leave. I stop fighting my impulse to run and lean back on my elbows for the show.
Twenty minutes later, and he is still at it. I like how he takes his time before throwing, the way he assesses the water and rubs each stone in his hand for a few minutes to feel its shape and the texture, weighing it in his palm. He pauses after each throw, letting the ripples from each stone fade, allowing the process to have its full beginning, middle, and end.
Without full awareness of what I’m doing, I stand up and walk toward him. He must catch sight of me from the corner of his eye, because he turns slightly my way and smiles. From my place in the sand, I’d noticed that his muscular body was hard to ignore, but I hadn’t expected his face to be so gorgeous. As I get closer to him, I begin to wish I had stayed away. I want to grimace as I take in the perfect angular lines of his jaw—attractiveness on this level is a bad sign. Anyone this hot is usually a complete creep. I barely care about my own body, and rarely notice someone else’s, but a flat stomach and abs like his are undeniable.
“Hi,” he prompts me.
Oh. I am staring. And not into his eyes. His arms have the most beautiful definition that I’ve ever seen.
“Sorry. Um … Hi.” I am fumbling for words, pathetically so, and it only gets worse when I look up. He pushes his hair from his face. His green eyes, framed by strong dark eyebrows, nearly cause my knees to buckle. This is ridiculous. He is just another human being. I take a deep breath and try to look at him critically. After another minute of staring at him, I’m relieved to see that he probably isn’t every girl’s idea of perfection. He’s a little too skinny, maybe, and his nose is slightly crooked. Of course, I actually like that. I see perfection in things that are likely considered imperfections by others.
“Hi,” he says again, looking slightly amused.
“I saw you skipping stones,” I blurt out. “You’re really good.”
“Years of practice.”
I squirm, curling my toes in my sneakers, wishing yet again that I had just kept my distance. I don’t know what I’m doing. “I’ve … I’ve never been good at that. I used to try as a kid, but my stones always just cannonballed in.”
“I’ve done that plenty of times. You’ve got to send it off with enough force. But also enough care.”
I nod. “Well, sorry to bother you. Just wanted to tell you it was nice to watch.” I pause and brazenly reword what I have said. “You, I mean. You were nice to watch.” I turn to leave, appalled at what I have put out there.
“Hey,” he says stopping me. “Do you want me to help you? I could give you a few tips if you like.”
I spin around, aware that trying to resist would be really f*cking futile.
“If you don’t mind, that would be … cool.” I cannot think of a better word than cool right now because he has rendered me closer to insane than I usually am, and I have no idea why.
“I’m Christopher Shepherd, by the way. Chris. Whatever you like.”
“What do you like?”
“Whatever you like.” He smiles. “And you are… .?”
“I’m Blythe McGuire.”
“It’s nice to meet a fellow enthusiast.” He smiles softly, and I am entranced by how one side of his smile lifts higher than the other. It makes me both unnerved and physically unsteady. “I think I’ve tapped out the area right here for good stones, but if we walk a bit, we should be able to find more.”
“Okay.”
Chris gestures to the left. “Should we try this way?”
“Yes. If you think so.”
“I’m just going to grab my shirt. I’ll catch up with you.” He backs up.
Under the guise of looking for good stones, I keep my head down as I start to walk because otherwise my eyes will follow him. I find him … I don’t know. Something. I don’t know exactly what, but I do know that I wish I were wearing something besides a shitty sweatshirt, although I have no idea what I could have resurrected from my closet.
I feel him next to me. “What are you doing here so early in the morning?” he asks.
“Sleep issues. What about you?”
“Who’d want to miss this?” He waves his hand in the direction of the lake sparkling in the sun. “Damn spectacular.”
I glance to the side. He’s put on a faded black T-shirt. “Aren’t you cold?”
“I like it. Refreshing. Before you got here, I’d been considering stripping down and diving in.”
“You were not.” I look up. He towers over my five feet four inches.
“I most certainly was.” He is grinning at me.
“Now you’re risking that I’ll brand you an exhibitionist.”
Chris kneels down for a moment, picks up a stone, and slips it into his pocket. “What’s a little risk now and then, huh?” He rushes past me and turns so that he is walking backward, facing me as he talks. “It makes you feel alive. It brings you crashing into the here and now. Keeps you alert and grounded.”
“I have more here and now than I can handle, thank you very much, without skinny-dipping.”
“Technically it wouldn’t have been skinny-dipping because I was going to keep something on.”
An image of Chris in nothing but snug boxer briefs flashes into my head, and it takes me a moment to recover. I try to walk nonchalantly, following the backward path he is making.
“Are you a student?” he asks.
I nod.
“Where?”
“I’m a senior at Matthews.”
He stops and I nearly crash into him. “Me, too. Why don’t I know you?”
It’s bad enough that I’ve had this conversation once already today, but to have it with Chris feels worse.
“I transferred in as a junior,” he continues, “but I don’t think we’ve ever met. What, do you take all independent studies classes and never leave your dorm room?”
I don’t say anything.
“Oh my God, you don’t actually do that, do you? I’m sorry. I feel horrible. I was just making a joke.”
“What? No! I take real classes. Of course I do.” He steps aside as I keep walking, moving past him. This is so embarrassing. Have I really become invisible unless I’m funneling beer at parties? Yes, I accept, I have. It is pretty easy to pass unnoticed when you want to.
Maybe I don’t want that anymore.
Chris bounces ahead of me again. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I move a mile a minute and miss things. Miss people.”
“Maybe there will be some good stones up toward the grass.” I move up the slight incline from where we are standing. “I’ll go check.”
“Oh. Okay.” I know he is staring at me. “I’ll look in the shallow water.”
We spend a few minutes silently collecting stones, and I wonder what sort of excuse I can come up with to leave. Clearly I have botched our entire exchange. It’s one that I never should have started in the first place, considering that I’m idiotically out of practice when it comes to basic social interaction. I try to give myself a pep talk. Perhaps this will be like riding the proverbial bike? If I keep going, maybe I’ll remember how to behave like a normal person again? I used to be good at this.
“Hey, Blythe,” he calls out. “I found a bunch of good ones. Come down and we’ll get more, and you can show me what you’ve got.” His voice is deep, masculine, yet I hear compassion and humanity in each word he says. Hearing him relaxes me and undoes my self-consciousness in a way that nothing else has been able to since that one night four years ago.
Four years. Jesus, I have been like this for four f*cking years? I start to wonder what I have missed out on. Who I have missed out on. I am momentarily furious.
But then I look to the water, to Chris, and his infectious grin meets me. This boy makes it impossible for me to be pulled under. I smile back at him with a real smile. “Yeah? You found more? Okay.” I step over the overgrown grass and the half-buried rocks to reach him.
“Shoes off!” he commands.
“What?”
“Shoes off and pants rolled up! We’re going to get you in tune with the lake. Good stone skipping is not just about the stone. It’s about the water, and it’s about you. So, off with your shoes!”
“It’s cold!” I protest.
“Baby,” he teases as he starts removing his shoes.
“Am not. I’m showing a measure of sanity.” The irony that I am saying this is not lost on me.
“There’s nothing good to be said about sanity. It’s dull. Live a little. Come on.”
I try not to smile back as he arches his dark eyebrows playfully.
“Fine,” I say, kicking off my sneakers and rolling up my jeans. “To prove I’m not a baby.”
“In we go.” Chris wades a few feet into the water and turns back to me. “It’s really not cold. Promise.” He holds out his hand. “Really.”
I step forward into the cool water, and the soles of my feet sink into the grainy sand. It’s a striking feeling, one I’ve stayed away from on purpose for the past four years. Without really thinking, I place my hand into his. My eyes close, and I feel him tighten his fingers around mine. The dark world in my head begins to break into pieces, and flashes of old, forgotten memories break through. I find that I am taking quick, shallow breaths. Stop it. Stop it! I instruct myself. I focus on my hand in his, feeling his steady and solid grip. The flashes burst apart as I open my eyes and speak too quickly, hoping to recover from the moment, hoping to cover up my lapse. “You’re right. The water isn’t so bad.”
Chris cocks his head to the side. “You okay?” He squeezes my hand.
I nod. “Yes. I am now.”
He studies me, more serious now. “Do we know… .” He can’t seem to finish his question.
“What?”
He shakes his head. “No, we haven’t met before. It’s just… . Nothing.” He slips a smooth stone onto my palm and closes my fingers around it for me. “Show me.” Chris steps back.
The water splashes gently around my ankles as I position my body perpendicular to the line of the water. “Now don’t laugh at me. It’s been a while since I’ve even attempted this.”
“There is no laughing in stone skipping,” he says, clearly dramatizing his voice for effect. “This is a very, very somber activity. You may now proceed with your first attempt.”
I try not to smile at his mock formality, as I keep my arm level and fling the stone over the water. It veers off fifteen feet to the right and then shoots through the surface of the water like a bullet.
“Well,” Chris says, “what you lack in skill, you make up for with sheer force.”
I laugh. “That did not go as I might have hoped, but I appreciate your tact.”
“Do a few more. I’ll back up in case things go really awry.”
“Ha-ha. Very funny. Although that’s not a bad idea… .” I can feel him watching me as I try three more times, managing to get only one stone to produce a sloppy skip. “I’m hopeless, I think.”
“No, you’re not. Why do you throw like you’re a little kid tossing a Frisbee?”
I can’t help but laugh. “Is that what I look like?”
“Well you sort of throw your arm across your body like this.” He smiles and flings his arm out wildly. “See? That’s no good.”
“Aha. I didn’t realize.” I think for a second. He is right. As intently as I was watching him before, I hadn’t noticed that he doesn’t do this.
“Here, try it a different way.” Chris moves in and stands behind me. “You’re right-handed, so you’ll want to turn the other way so that your throwing hand is away from the water.” His hands touch the top of my arms as he slowly pivots me around, coming to stand so close to me that our shadows become one. As he steps away, his shadow emerges from mine and becomes distinct on the sandy ground. I turn to focus and throw my smooth stone.
“It feels awkward,” I confess.
“Sure, at first. We’re breaking a bad habit. Try again. Let’s wade in a bit more. It sounds corny, but you have to sort of unite with the water.”
I sigh, doubtful I can do this, yet I sidestep a few feet until I feel the water hit the rim of my jeans. I give another attempt.
“Better!” Chris says. “You got two skips. Do another.”
I pull a stone from my pocket and aim. This time the stone soars off to the left and does not skip at all. “Ugh. I give up.”
“No you don’t.” He is behind me again, and I can feel his chest just brush my back. He rests his hands on my shoulders as if to ground me, and I shiver. Not from cold and not exactly from lust. At least, that’s not the only thing making me tremble. “Look out over the water. Zero in on the skyline. Don’t think about where you want to hit the water.”
I feel him run his hand down my arm until he reaches my wrist, then he lifts up my arm for me. I inhale and exhale slowly.
“Then,” he continues, “make the stone hit where the water meets the sky.” He pulls my hand in closer to my body until my arm is crossed in front of me, a slow-motion rehearsal for how I will throw. “Be firm and confident. Remember that you’re not the boss of this. You and this stone are partners.”
“We’re partners. Okay.”
Chris stays where he is, inches behind me, as I follow his advice.
Three skips.
“Beautiful,” he whispers. “Do it again. Listen to your partner.”
Four skips.
He lifts my hand an inch higher and puts his mouth by my ear. “Breathe into it.”
Seven skips.
Holy shit.
“Did you see that?” I can hardly speak. It is just skipping stones; there is no reason to be so awestruck by what I’ve done, but I am.
“That was awesome! Really awesome!” Chris squeezes my shoulders. “Just gorgeous. Hey, I bet if you keep at it, you’ll be skipping across the entire lake in no time. It’s really cool when you skip so far that you lose count. The way the rings move farther and farther
out… .”
Chris continues to talk, but I can barely hear him. I am just staring at the spot where the stone finally broke the surface for the last time, dropping to the bottom of the lake.
“Chris?”
“ … one time I tried to show someone else how to skip, and he completely sucked. You’re so much better—”
“Chris.” Without thinking, I lean my head back, resting it just below his shoulder. He is so tall and … somehow familiar. I roll my head to the side and take in the sunlight, stronger now, which hits the small ripples in the water and turns them bright white. My vision seems sharper, my thoughts less muted, than just an hour ago. This near stranger is inexplicably giving me more safety and security than anyone else ever has.
“Yeah?”
For no discernible reason, it feels unfathomable not to tell him. “My parents are dead.”
He doesn’t move away. He doesn’t even tense up at my words.
It is the first time I have said this out loud in … well, ever. Could it be possible that I have somehow managed never to say this? Yes, I accept, it’s true. People from home didn’t need to hear it directly from me. They all knew. News like that spreads quickly. And no one at college has needed to know. I say it again. “My parents are dead. They died four years ago in a fire.” I step forward, suddenly shocked at how blunt I am being. “Oh God. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I just told you that. I’m so sorry. It’s not your … I shouldn’t have…”
I wait for him to do what everyone else did after my parents died. Spout off some conventional words of sympathy like, I’m so sorry. How awful. You poor thing. Terribly sad… and then run. People always do. Nobody knows what to say after the initial words of supposed comfort. Death and grief make everyone around you vanish because death and grief are intolerable.
But Chris does not run. Instead, he slides his arm around my waist and pulls me in close until my back is tight against his chest. “It’s okay. Breathe into it.”
“I have a brother. James. He hates me because of it. I hate me because of it. I am so tired.” I close my eyes and press my cheek into Chris’s shirt. His arms cross in front of me and hold me gently while flashes of that night roll over me. Flashes are all that I have. I remember sections of that night, but I haven’t pieced it all together. Maybe because I can’t or maybe because I don’t want the full memory. I can barely stand the pieces. The days immediately before and immediately after don’t exist for me either. They are entirely empty, and I prefer to keep it that way. I shudder in Chris’s arms. Right now I cannot control what is showing in my head, although I wish I could. The flashes of memory I’m getting now are more vivid and intense than I have ever experienced. I am remembering in a way that I have not before.
Heat. Water. Glass. Dirt. The dock. The swim to the dock. The colors on the patchwork quilt.
I am starting to choke. Why is this happening to me now? Why, when I start to have one vaguely tolerable morning, am I plagued by the past?
His fingers tighten on my arms. “Breathe into it,” he says again. His voice helps; his touch helps. “Let it happen. I’m here.”
The smell. The pictures on the quilt. Red. Red. Red. Trees. The ladder, the sound, the hero. The hero. My hero.
It is enough. I can’t take anymore.
Think about the dock, I tell myself, my eyes still closed. Think about the dock. This always calms me. I don’t know why, but when I picture the dock, it always helps me to stop spiraling. I imagine rowing to it, over and over. I am safe on the dock, and I feel stability and safety there, although I have no idea why.
My eyes open and I feel my breathing slow.
“I think,” I say slowly, “that we’re out of stones.”
“There are always more. You want to keep skipping?”
“Yes.”
“Then we will.”