“Really, Brooky. It’s okay.” I give her one more out, my gut suddenly swollen with guilt. She was on such a high. I feel like I crashed her.
“You’re seriously never going to stop calling me that, are you?” she says, easing my remorse a hair. It’s so damn amazing to hear her laugh, to banter with her like this. To grow up with her.
“Not a chance,” I admit. That’s my name for her. It’sours.Even if she doesn’t realize it. I made it, so the first time she protested—and knowing nobody else would dare use it—made it special. Made a tiny piece of her mine.
“Okay,” she croaks.
Keeping my promise, I turn to face her, staring her right in her eyes. She reaches forward to hand me her leggings, which she’s rolled into a ball that I tuck into my bag to keep from getting dirty. I hold out my hand when I stand, eyes still on hers, and she gives me her freezing fingers. The back of her hand is rough, likely scratched from climbing, and I graze it with my thumb.
“Looks like we match,” I say, my knuckles individually wrapped in athletic tape.
“Ha. Hardly,” she huffs.
I smile because she does.
I turn to lead, still holding her hand behind me as I guide us down the gentle slope. It’s a small switchback covered in dry brush that turns to fine rock and sand. The bubbling sound of the water welcomes us.
“Are you okay taking off your shoes? I’ve walked around this water a million times. The rocks are smooth. Slick, actually. You’ll want to tread carefully.”
“Okay.” She nods.
“Just, don’t let go, okay?” she adds, gripping my hand tightly as she pulls off one shoe and sock then then other set.
“Never.” My voice cracks at the word. Brooklyn swallows.
I kick my shoes off next to hers, and since I rarely bother with socks, I don’t have to let go even now. I’ll keep this promise, for the night. I’d keep it longer, but I don’t think that’s what she meant.
I walk backward into the shallow water, and Brooklyn reaches for my other hand. Our fingers interlock and I steady her as we toe our way into the stream, stopping at a wide, smooth rock that’s not quite knee deep.
“Can you handle this?” I ask, unable to ignore her chattering teeth.
“It’s New England, he says.” She mocks my answer from before. We both laugh.
She nods and I bend down, steadying her as she lowers herself with me. I don’t mean to look. And Brooklyn doesn’t see me do it. I move my gaze to hers within a second, maybe less. But I see enough.
The scars are deep and jagged. The skin is pink and a muddied red where they cut her. Not every mark is from the surgery, and I can tell. Some of that was skin that tore in the accident. The damage was severe, leaving behind a massive permanent reminder on her body. This is what she hides from the world. She probably hides it from herself most of all.
Pushing what I saw to the back of my mind, I help her find her balance and finally sit with her legs stretched out next to mine. The freezing water cascades around us, hugging our skin and kneading our muscles. I keep my focus trained on her expression, holding my breath as she holds hers, coming to terms with the frigid temperature.
“Ho-holy sh-sh-shit,” she stutters.
My head falls back with a laugh.
“New England’s a real bitch, yeah.”
She pulls her hand free for a second to swat at my arm but then quickly rejoins our hands. She doesn’t need me, but I love that she thinks she does.
Her hand squeezes mine tightly, her body stiff and immobile while she exhales sharp pants that practically whistle their way out of her lips. After nearly a minute, her breathing slows. Her body is acclimating. I’ve always loved the rush of the instant cold on my skin, the way it attacks my stomach and kills my breath. It’s like being reborn.
“How do you feel?” My eyes trace her profile, her lashes kissing her cheeks while her nervous system catches up. A trembling smile plays at her lips.
“Well, my legs aren’t sore anymore. I can say that with certainty. Because . . . I can’t feel anything from my belly button down,” she laughs out. Her teeth knock together so I move closer, our thighs touching, and boldly put my arm around her.
“Give it five minutes. Can you handle five minutes?” I’m so close. It would be so easy for our lips to touch. I taste my bottom lip and her gaze dips to catch my involuntary movement.
She can read my thoughts.
“I can handle five minutes.” Her voice is steadier, though breathy, as her gaze lifts back to mine.