Treading water to keep your head afloat above it. Where one decision envelops the rest, sets off a catastrophic chain of events from which there is no divining rhyme or reason or rhythm, only riding it out for as long as you can. Leave that to the bastards with the yachts and more than enough money to drown out the sobering reminder of their impact on local wild life, to forget that humans are a part of that delicate web too. There’s a reason why all of his jackets have tiny burns and melted edges, but he’s not about to be that jerk who chucks cigarette butts and broken beer bottles into the local marina. It ashes and smears, leaving a little streak like a reminder that he’s been here- temporary graffiti for the winds and rain to scour away, though he folds the still too warm end into his pocket. He stubs out the cigarette lolling between his fingers on the rocky face of the cliff he’s been leaning against. “Okay,” he says, and it’s as easy as that. So Jonas scratches his chest idly, with the hand that isn’t nearly singed by the cherry embers of his smoke. He just has to do what he thinks is right. That means he doesn’t have to be perfect, not in living memory or immortalized in memorial. If he was Michael, they wouldn’t be in the situation in the first place.īut he isn’t Michael, he’s Jonas- and she’s Alex, and in this go around, she’s not quite his step-sister. If he was Michael, he’d brush back her aqua blue bangs with the auburn roots just beginning to peek through and quip something poetic off of the cuff about her hair being an echo of the lake without knowing the impact that’d have on her. If he was Michael, he’d scoop her up in his arms, lift her off of her feet in a tight bear hug like he has since she was only knee high. Jonas is the interloper, the odd man out once more. If anything- Michael’s stilted coolness towards him makes sense. Being the older brother was always his place to begin with. Jonas can’t find it in himself to be resentful of Michael, though. It feels wrong somehow, to be sneaking around his back for something as monumental as that.
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To play big brother, teach her how to ride a bike, how to fly a kite, how to swim. He hesitates, because in this lifetime, that’s Michael’s role again. He hasn’t even gotten rid of the shiny plastic wrap yet, it’s crinkled up and wadded in beneath it.Īnxiety surges like the ocean surf and riptides that pulled her brother down beneath the surface, closing over like a lattice net of hands in children’s games, forcing him under. The pack in his jacket pocket is already half empty. The mint and menthol of his latest cigarette sours in his mouth, nicotine buzzing in his veins, frantic, almost too alive for his skin. Jonas knows that it’s certainly something he’d never forget.įor him, that date is marked off in cherry eyesore red on a kitten calendar that Alex bought him as a gag gift one time, so that he knows to clear his schedule to do nothing more than drink and chainsmoke to keep the ghosts at bay. Whether it’s to forget or remember differs, of course- but everyone remembers the early dew soaked morning that the ferry first set off. It’s about a year going on, fast approaching the date that all of their calendars mark. He wants to fish out a bandage from his pocket that he knows he doesn’t have to wrap up around her nails. She’s trembling, lower lip wobbling, and her knees are nearly knocking together. Jonas pauses, letting a sliver of a stream of smoke curl out of his mouth as he considers her. The nails on both hands have been chewed down to almost the stinging quick. Her brown eyes are sparkly with tears, shoulders shaking, hands wrapped tight around the straps of her backpack. “Teach me how to swim,” Alex grits out from between her teeth.
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