at the public beach, barely conscious and white as a sheet, her body frighteningly limp in my arms as I set her on the sand.
Turning off the television, I took Renzo out to the yard one final time and looked up at the stars as I remembered the panic I’d experienced that day.
I was sixteen, barely old enough to be a lifeguard, but I was watching her closely as she tried to swim out to a friend’s boat anchored offshore. The current was strong that day, and she hadn’t been wearing a life jacket.
I knew instinctively the moment she started struggling—my chest went tight, my adrenaline spiked—and I jumped from the chair and took off running.
To this day, my stomach churns when I think about what might have happened if I hadn’t had my eye on her. Granted, my reasons for watching her go into the water might have included the tiny blue bikini she was wearing, but I also believed in gut instincts, and mine were strong that day.
When it was clear she was okay and able to stand, she threw her arms around me and sobbed. At that point, I just hoped I wouldn’t spring a boner with her bare, sandy skin on mine. I didn’t hug her back, but she didn’t care. That girl must have clung to me like ivy on bricks for five solid minutes, blubbering her head off.
From that moment on, I felt protective of her. I liked the feeling it gave me when I thought about how I’d kept her safe. I’d even call it a turning point in my life—after that, I knew what I wanted to do. Plus, my dad was a cop and I idolized him. So it was no surprise to anyone when I joined the Army right out of high school and later became a police officer myself.
“Come on, boy. Let’s go in.” I let Renzo back into the house, said goodnight several times before he believed me that more playtime was not happening this evening, and watched him curl up on his bed in the spare downstairs bedroom. My house wasn’t big, but it was plenty of space for Renzo and me. Downstairs it had two small bedrooms, a full bath, kitchen and living room. Upstairs was the master bedroom and bath.
Ten minutes later, I lay back in the middle of a bed big enough for two, but in which I’d slept alone for the last couple years.
She was still in my head.
I hadn’t seen her in a while, but she never seemed to change much. Long brown hair with some gold streaks in it during the summer. Gray-blue eyes that could change color depending on the light. Lean, athletic body with long, muscular legs.
I couldn’t believe she’d been dumped by yet another DC douchebag—what the fuck was wrong with these guys? At least I’d been able to make her laugh a little. The sound always took me back to the early days of our friendship.
We’d watch TV at my house or hers (she loved true crime and police shows, which I kind of dug at that age too), or we’d call each other late at night and talk for hours. It was crazy, because I was always awkward and tongue-tied around girls, but conversations with Meg were easy—even easier than talking to my guy friends a lot of the time. I knew exactly how to tease her, and she made me laugh without even trying. I could even talk to Meg about girls, and she’d listen and give me advice. Then I’d listen to her complain about all the stupid, immature boys at her school who were only interested in girls who put out.
Of course, I was interested in girls who put out too, but I didn’t say so, because I didn’t want her to think that’s the kind of thing she had to do to get a guy’s attention. Because in addition to being beautiful, Meg was fucking amazing at everything she did. Straight-A student. Student council president. Varsity athlete. Sure, she was wound tight and Type A as fuck, but she had the biggest heart of anyone I knew. She was always volunteering for things and dedicating herself to one good cause or another. And it wasn’t just for show—she cared.
She’d come over to my house and sit with my brother Asher, who has cerebral palsy and some sensory issues, and talk to him like he was just another one of her friends.