Between the Ocean and the Stars

CHAPTER 1

There are twenty-six public entrances to the beaches of Ophelia Island. Numbers one through five are quiet. For families. Children.

Farther up the island, the beaches grow busier with partiers. College students. Loud music. Shorter shorts and tighter bikini tops.

But number seventeen is the boardwalk least traveled. It’s a narrow entrance just off the bumpy road, canopied by draping palm branches. Past it, entrance twenty is the busiest because of the cabana in the dunes, making seventeen a number often skimmed over.

Number twenty-six has its famous sunsets, number twenty has its cabana club, and fifteen has its long, stretched-out tide.

Nine has its umbrellas and picnics.

Five has its families and sunbathing.

But seventeen—seventeen changed for me. Even though that isn’t where it happened, that’s where it felt like it happened. That’s where I started to drown.

Because she drowns me every day, just a little.

She drowns me in her presence and in her absence, because with or without her—discovered or hidden—the weight of her secrets, of her, pulls me to the bottom of what feels like a hopeless swamp, where I hold my breath and wait to be untied.

She didn’t look like she needed me. She didn’t act like she needed me. But we all want something we can’t have at least once in our lives, and she was my something.

She was my something from the moment I saw her yelling on the beach in the burning May sun.

It was a combination of things that compelled me––maybe the newness of the move, my desperate attempt to fall in love with something on Ophelia Island, or the desire to find somewhere to stay, someone to save.

She never needed me, but I was pretty sure I needed her.

In every moment I spent with her, forever without her seemed unimaginable, at least until the brute force of her secrets struck me, and I realized that things this good don’t always last. Summer love never makes it to fall. Shooting stars rarely reach the ocean.

***

Wearing a pair of stark-white shorts and a hot-pink tank top, she stood her ground in the face of a boy who topped her by no less than a foot.

I froze, watching her. She was shouting, but I couldn’t quite hear what she was saying. Her exasperated expression and swinging arms made me think it was some sort of a breakup argument, but how would I know? My perspective on the subject was limited. I’d never even had a girlfriend, much less broken up with one. My only former love interest was Jennifer Corrine, but she was from elementary school, which didn’t count, and then again with her in sixth grade, which also didn’t count.

Their voices quieted, merging into the flood of other noises around me on the busy beach, and I still couldn’t distinguish her words from the rest of the cacophony. She stomped away, sand spraying in all directions under her heavy steps. I barely noticed as the boy stalked away right in front of me, heading straight for the ocean.

The girl ducked into a cabana-style restaurant, and its beachfront appeal was thanks to massive wooden decking that led the way to a shady, half-indoor escape from the sun.

The girl walked a few steps from the beach and onto the deck, weaving her way through the crowd until she disappeared from my sight. Without a second thought, I followed her, ambling through the mass of people, music, and salty air, on my way to the cabana.

The bar appeared hidden in the back, barely noticeable behind all the occupied tables scattered throughout the shaded deck. Dry, wooden boards beneath my bare feet were dusty with sand, so I slipped on the flip-flops I was carrying, hesitating just for a moment before I entered and scanned the sunburned faces around me. The dense smoke from a charcoal grill somewhere behind the bar choked me up, but I ignored it and plowed through.

I found her, sitting at the bar with her back to me. Her hot-pink tank top jumped out at me first, tucked into the waistband of her high-rise shorts. Right away, I noticed her hair, dirty blonde and a mess of big, fat curls that looped midway down her back. I could tell she wasn’t old enough to drink, so what was she doing at the bar?

I weaved through the tables, feeding a starved part of me that needed to speak with her, and took a seat on the empty stool next to her, my foot shaking over the floor. She sipped on a Coke.

I put my elbows on the counter, then removed them, and tried laying my hands in my lap.

This doesn’t have to be so awkward, Sam.

In the past, I would run in the opposite direction of a pretty girl, hide behind a trash can like I did in high school, or watch from behind the safety of my locker door.

But, under my skin, something awakened.

New place, new people, new Sam.

I glanced over, desperate to think of something clever to say. The bartender—a guy with a man bun and both arms sleeved with tattoos—asked me for my order, though I was too nervous to admit that I didn’t want anything. He got me a root beer anyway. Before I could lose my nerve, the words pushed their way out of my mouth. Been in the water today?

Her skin was shiny, bronzed by the sun, and salty-dry from the ocean. A bubble of peace surrounded her, nothing like the image I formed of her on the beach.

Once I asked the question, I noticed the ends of her hair were wet. My idiocy made me flush a little, and I hoped she wasn’t just another vacationer, on the island only for the rest of the week.

I thought she would ignore me, like the girls back home always did, take a sip of her drink, and pretend she hadn’t heard me.

To my surprise, she answered, making no attempt to look at me, Yeah. It’s all right. She sipped on her Coke. Her voice was raspy, but she made it sound smooth, and I clung to the way she let each word drip into the next.

An automatic sigh of relief seeped through my lips. I was just wondering. I haven’t been in yet.

I took a small swig of my root beer, hoping the conversation would start again. What else could I say, though? If she asked for my name, I could introduce myself and ask for hers, but not even New Ophelia Sam would be brave enough to ask for hers first. Instead, I tried to determine whether she was a tourist or resident. Having a good week?

Been okay.

Good effort, Sam.

So, I couldn’t help but notice you were kind of, you know, upset out there. I turned my face the other way, embarrassed to admit that I had seen her to begin with.

You followed me? Her disapproval was apparent and shrill, though she almost sounded pleased. She looked at me, a deer in headlights.

Any response would end up making me look like an imbecile. Should I have jumped out of the way of her question? Avoided the soon-to-be-bloody mess? Just stood there in shock and let it happen?

Even without makeup, her green eyes were bright, her irises circled with a brown ring. They stared straight into mine.

No, no. I searched for something to say. I came for a drink, but I just saw you were kind of mad or something, and I saw all the tables were full, and—

I’m fine, if that’s what you’re wondering. She stared straight ahead, fixated on the bottles that lined the glass shelves.

Oh, that’s good.

She dug in her pocket and slapped a few ones down beside her drink.

If he comes back around, just tell him to keep the change. Then she turned and walked away. Her hair swung with every step.

In that moment, I was sure of two things: that I was the reason she left and that I would never see her again.

With no desire to finish my drink, I paid the tattooed bartender and made my way back to the beach, scanning for her hot-pink tank top through the crowd. But she was nowhere to be seen.

***

On my short walk across the island back home, I tried to figure out where I stood as the new guy. Seven days at the beach and you’re a vacationer. Day eight and you’re a resident.

Ophelia was small and easy to navigate. In my three days on the island, I had already noticed that few people drove their cars at all, and most preferred the ease of biking or walking to get from place to place.

I’d been in Florida for just one weekend, and I already craved the peace of West Virginia, the pine trees, and the real, paved streets made for actual cars.

Back home, I had friends, a job that I loved at the bike shop, and fresh mountain air that didn’t make my skin feel like it was melting off my body. My parents said it would be fun to start over in a new town, since I’d just graduated high school. Dad was a graphic designer, so he could do his job from anywhere, which meant he could live anywhere, and he chose Ophelia. An island. Warm, sunny days. Deep-sea fishing with the possibility of wrestling alligators. Months later, the house was sold, and the car was full of our suitcases.

Fay University, just over the bridge on the mainland, accepted me for the upcoming fall semester, but I was still trying to accept the idea of attending Fay; the thought of staying in Florida for the next four years didn’t thrill me. In fact, the dread was inescapable. I’d left a lot behind. There was the bike shop. There was my old high school, which I was leaving for good anyway. But there were also all those corners of town I knew so well that I might never see again.

When we packed up the car and were ready to start our eleven-hour drive to Ophelia, I stood outside the ’93 Ford Bronco with my pillow under my arm. Then, I patted the mailbox, tucked my thumbs under my backpack straps, and blew a sigh down our driveway. The realtor’s sign in the yard said sold, a big red symbol that there was no going back.

That was when my dad honked the horn and waved me into the car.

I didn’t even have a phone to text my friends on for the ride down to Florida. My iPhone was crushed by the leg of our sofa when Dad and I were lugging furniture through the garage. Perfect timing.

I still had my bike from West Virginia, which I hadn’t ridden since middle school. I had tried to save up for a nicer one but never got around to buying anything. My friends made fun of me for working at a bicycle shop for six years, for living and breathing bikes, for being able to take one apart and put it back together blindfolded, but mostly for not touching the pedals of my own since I was fourteen years old. I suppose I was so busy with other people’s hobbies that I neglected my own.

Our new house sat under three-hundred-year-old oak trees, draped with moss that hung down from their branches. A moving truck was still parked at the end of the long, dirt driveway that led right to the front of our white Cape Cod.

Mom and Dad walked in and out, stacking boxes on the porch. They saw me and waved, and I managed to throw a hand up at them before they ducked back into the house with another load of boxes.

Three dormers projected from the second level, yet I still didn’t know which one my room was behind. Is it even considered a bedroom if the bed frame hasn’t been put together yet?

I helped unload the U-Haul alongside Mom and Dad, then sneaked away to the garage, and tucked into a corner where I spotted my grimy, red bike. I ran my finger across its black seat, dismayed to see the streak of dust it cleared away. How did I let him get this dirty?

Looks like you and I are going to get reacquainted, I said to him.

I took my time giving him a rinse because the hours were slow to drag by, made slower by the drain of the white-hot heat. Everything was white, flat. My bedroom walls were white, the ceiling fan was white, and the heat was white. Even out the window, past the massive, green trees, the sky was bleached white.

I sat in the wide, white windowsill and stared across the driveway, my mind drifting back to the cabana, to her. The girl.

If only I could have tagged behind her on her way out, I might have at least seen which direction she went and whether she was okay. It wasn’t like she was crying. She was only mad, but I couldn’t steer away from my curiosity about her situation. She’d made a fast departure, probably thinking I was just another tourist trying to hit on her.

At the round dinner table, Dad twirled his noodles on his fork in five spins, like always. Did you explore the island today?

Yeah, it’s nice. But I’d only walked the beach and then left after I met the girl. The beach was pretty busy.

I bet it was, he said. I heard that it’s even busier in March and April when all the students head here for spring break. He slurped in a noodle, leaving a ring of tomato sauce on his lips.

I can’t imagine the beach being more crowded than it was today. I waited for him to wipe the sauce away before I continued. I came across a sort of restaurant in the dunes today.

Really? Mom said. On the beach? We should definitely go there sometime. And, Sam, if you want to, after dinner, you can go out and explore again. I think your dad and I are just going to unpack some things for upstairs.

The sun would be setting soon, so it wouldn’t be as hot out there, and I’d have my bike, so I could go farther than I had walked earlier.

I’ll do that.

Great. I’m glad to hear you’re starting to enjoy yourself here. Mom leaned back in her chair and stretched out her arms; she only did that when she was about to say something.

It’s like we’re on a summer vacation that’ll never end, she said.

The thing was, after our summer beach trips, which we typically took in North Carolina, I was always happy to go home. My job was waiting for my return, and my neighborhood friends always had a basketball ready as soon as I got back. We couldn’t shoot to save our lives, but that was home and so was looking out my window and seeing a pine tree instead of a mossy oak.

I glanced past Dad’s head and looked to the dirt driveway, thinking I’d seen a flash of pink shirt and blonde curls. It was only Mom’s hanging flowers that had blown back into view.

Ophelia had nothing to offer me.

CHAPTER 2

After dinner, I hopped on my bike for the first time in years. Turned out everyone was correct—you don’t forget how to ride. I wiped off the last bit of dust and grime from the tires and adjusted the seat because I’d grown a foot since the last time I’d been on it. Then I took a few minutes to tighten my brakes and grease the chains.

Working on my bicycle satisfied me in a way that riding it didn’t. The familiar grittiness of bumpy, black lubricant on my fingertips reminded me of home and the redundancy of my day job at the shop. A repetitiveness of routine that I wouldn’t have again until I started college in a couple months.

I wiped the grease from my hands onto my shorts and pedaled toward Main Street, forcing myself to escape the fact that everything from home was slipping away from me.

Was it possible to be an eighteen-year-old who’s headed toward college and still thinks of a new place as home? I was too old, too grown up to believe such a fantasy.

Downtown had a general store, clothing shops filled with T-shirts and beach supplies, an ice cream parlor, and a few small restaurants.

No bike shops.

Down the sidewalk, the red, shiny booths inside Joe’s Pancakes caught my attention. Downtown Ophelia Island had all but closed shop for the evening, but there, at Joe’s, I could almost hear the voices and laughter of people inside bouncing off the diner’s shiny silver walls.

I looked back to the sidewalk and skidded to a quick stop with a single, hard squeeze of my hand brakes. A dark-headed boy on a skateboard wobbled past me and flew off his board while I made a mental note to loosen my brakes when I got back home.

The boy cursed as my bike screeched to an abrupt stop, so I dropped my bike and jogged to the lanky Asian lying in the patch of grass between me and the road.

Hey, excuse me. You okay?

Blades of grass clung to his gray shirt, and streaks of brown mud were caked across it. Pay freaking attention next time, would you? God, you know how close I could’ve come to falling in the road?

Sorry. I wasn’t looking. Sorry, I said again. At least you’d probably only get run over by a golf cart instead of a car.

He scoffed at me and brushed off his knees. Lucky me, then. Hey, grab my board.

Without a word, I walked to his skateboard and picked it up. When I turned around, he was pushing himself up, brushing dirt from his T-shirt and adjusting his black ball cap.

I handed the board back to him. Are you okay? Really, I’m sorry about that. I wasn’t paying attention.

It’s cool. Just watch it next time. He snatched the board from me. And sorry for cursing. I shouldn’t do that in front of people I don’t know.

You’re fine.

I was on a thirty-two-day streak. I’m trying to stop.

Best of luck.

He balanced his weight on one leg, picking at the butt of his jeans. My mom said if I don’t stop, I might go straight to hell.

I don’t think you’ll go straight to hell if you curse.

Hopefully not. I heard it’s pretty d— he hesitated. Pretty dang hot down there.

Yeah, I guess so. Wouldn’t know. I’ve never been. My poor attempt at easing the awkward moment didn’t impress him.

What’s your name? His brow furrowed, and I knew he was thinking he hadn’t seen me around before and assumed I was just a visitor.

Sam. And I just moved here a few days ago, so I’m not a tourist. My irritation was undeniable, even to me, but at least I was established as a resident now.

Logan. Sorry. I just get pissed when I fall. His voice softened, and he smiled a little as I stood there trying to decide whether I’d just ruined any chance at a friendship.

Don’t be sorry, it’s fine. The whole thing was my fault anyway. I picked up my bike, and Logan readjusted his ball cap.

Following me down the sidewalk, he said, Where do you live?

Just down the road past Main Street.

The house with the long driveway? About time that thing sold.

Yep, that’s the house. Do you live here?

Born and raised. Some people think it’s crappy, so I hope you don’t hate it.

I started to take note that he was being extra careful to replace the curse words he would rather be using. Oh, yeah, it’s good so far. Hot.

It’s summer. Not going to be getting any cooler, man.

My mood tightened with a cynical grip. That’s just great.

Logan dropped his board to the ground, and, in a single fluid motion, landed one foot on top of it. Well, I guess I’ll see you around. Welcome to Ophelia.

Yeah, I muttered as he rode off. Welcome to Ophelia.

By twilight, I had found my way to a back road and discovered that it led to a narrow concrete path through the woods. The trees thinned and shortened, revealing something white hidden behind them. I followed the path to get a better look.

In the clearing, it eased onto a dirt road that branched out to a driveway. Judging from the untouched dirt and upright weeds, this wasn’t a road often traveled by cars or feet.

I veered onto the driveway, then came to an immediate stop. Just ahead, someone was walking toward the house. He was yards beyond me and had his back to me, too far away to notice me slamming on my brakes.

I wheeled my bike closer, inching forward one click of my gears at a time, and looked more closely.

He was a she.

I recognized her right away. Her blonde curls, her sun-kissed skin, her toned legs—it all came flooding right back. My charcoaled memory of her came simmering to the surface.

I jumped off my bike and pushed it alongside me, shadowing her with slow and silent footsteps. The bike clicked as the wheels turned. I stopped every few seconds to make sure I wasn’t heard.

She was still wearing those white jean shorts that accentuated her tan, but her pink tank top was covered by a lightweight jacket. I wondered whether she was one of those girls who got cold often, even when it was eighty degrees outside. Her fists hid in her jacket pockets, and she kept flipping her hair over her shoulder, making her seem younger and more vulnerable than she had on the beach. The charm of that small action surprised me.

I was finally close enough to the house to see a green lawn with no trees and a rusting old flagpole with an American flag that sagged in the stagnant heat. The two-level white house was similar to mine, but its front porch looked like it had been dragged right out of the 1800s. In the distance, I could see a shingled roof poking through trees, but it was too tall, too high up to be part of the roof of the main house, looming among the oaks.

It was a lighthouse.

The girl crept across the lawn and made her way to the porch. This eccentric home, this lighthouse—was it livable?

When she stepped up to the front porch, I paused and backed against a tree, pulling my bike with me. Hiding together, I felt a dorky bond between my bike and me, something I hadn’t experienced since childhood. Then I determined my bike would need a proper name.

Ole Red.

He deserved that for being ignored for all those years.

The girl stood on the porch for a moment, hesitating at the front door, and I wasn’t sure whether she was going to ring the doorbell or walk right in. Instead of knocking or ringing the bell, she stalked past the heavy, paneled door to the window next to it, pushing it halfway up its wooden frame. She lifted one leg in first, then ducked her head through, continuing with her other leg, and then she was gone. I couldn’t tell whether she had closed the window behind her, so I stayed where I was, watching for movement in any of the other windows. No curtains blew, no light came on, and nothing seemed to shift inside.

Ole Red and I started walking toward the house again, a tedious task of trying to be quiet and, of course, failing because I never did anything as planned. I kicked Red’s pedal by accident, and the chain spun in three loud circles around the gears.

You’re so embarrassing, I said to him.

At the end of the drive, I leaned him against a tree and told him I’d be back soon.

I dove across the yard and up the front porch steps, my mind racing with all the possibilities of who else might be behind the door, so I put my ear against the weathered wood, hoping to hear something. Anything. I almost knocked but chose not to because she hadn’t. Maybe no one was home. Except she was there. If she were just a vacationer, there was no way she’d know where this place was, let alone how to get inside, and she definitely wouldn’t be coming here alone.

I planned out my excuse for getting caught here, coming up with the automatic and believable explanation that I was just another lost tourist, but I’d never remember even a simple cover story like that if it came down to it.

Wooden rocking chairs flanked the front windows, though they should have been tranquil in the windless humidity. Beside them, an old chest with a broken lock sat against the wall, and, above me, the paint on the splintering ceiling was peeling away. Some of the boards hung down, held in place by a single nail. To my right, the window the girl had climbed through was still open. I stalled. I should’ve just left and stopped worrying about the fact that I was trespassing and the consequences that would surely come if I got caught. But where would I go if I turned back? Back home to my parents?

I looked at Red down in the driveway and could practically see him mouthing the words: You’re still just as uncool now as you were when I met you.

Enough was enough—I propelled myself through the window.

When my eyes acclimated to the dark room, I found myself standing in the living space of some sort of vintage lighthouse. In front of me, a dusty stone fireplace was crammed into the faded wall, and a narrow wooden staircase led to the second level. An antique sofa sat in the shadow of a wingback chair that would have been pretty if it were cleaned, and, above, a small but ornate chandelier hung from the ceiling.

I turned to the empty dining room. Damp air washed over my skin and up my nose, stale from what smelled like decades of unnoticed water damage. There had been no life under this roof for a long time.

Motionless, I waited for some kind of a sound. Everything was still. Noiseless.

Afraid the floors might squeak, I tiptoed into the dining room. An old china cabinet stood against the wall, filled with antique blue dishes coated in an extra layer of gray dust. The forgotten valuables and elegant décor were once the