MAY 10
[ two months before ]

ALLIX

It wasn't easy getting better.

Running the risk of feeling like a narcissist, I decided I understood this better than anyone I'd encountered in my eighteen years of life.

I'd promised myself that it wasn't going to happen again, but I'd thrown myself back into the deep end, and in January, my parents shipped me off to Seattle for inpatient treatment instead of back to New York City for college. I was stubborn by nature, so I wasn't thrilled. Even in retrospect, I cursed the silver-lining.

That was half of the reason why I'd decided to fabricate a story about living in Ireland for the last five months with my extended family. It wasn't that farfetched, considering my family had lived there for two years when I was in elementary school. So aside from my family and longtime therapist, no one was the wiser. The other half of the reason was that nothing was more frustrating to me than feeling passive in my own existence. I might not be able to control my worst impulses, but I could control my narrative. Besides, recovery was hard enough without everyone secretly waiting for me to make the same mistakes all over again.

"How are you feeling?"

Snapping out of the metaphysical, I shifted in my seat and faced my father. Despite his Irish genes, Jon McGovern's face sported a healthy tan. I imagined he'd spent the weekend out on our sailboat, Galway's Treasure, soaking up the sun and fishing while wearing his iconic green fisherman's vest. Now on a foggy Monday morning, he sat beside his eldest of two daughters on a ferry boat heading home to Friday Island, Washington.

"I have vertigo," I answered deadpan. I'd popped a tablet of Dramamine before boarding, but the choppy waters still made my stomach twist.

"I know. You do look a little green, Allix," my father quipped.

Despite my best brooding efforts, I cracked a smile. 

"J pod is back from Vancouver," he continued, referring to one of the three Southern Resident orca populations in the Pacific Northwest. The pod travelled through the water channels between the San Juan Islands in Washington and the Gulf Islands in British Columbia. Friday Island was right smack in the middle of the archipelago. "Just in time to impress the film crews."

"Film crews?"  I asked, lifting an eyebrow. I must've really fallen off the face of the Earth. 

"For the new drama series that your famous friend is co-producing. You'd think I'd remember what it's called considering it's all anyone is talking about these days, but I must've blocked it out."

In the stupid amount of time it took me to realize who my father was talking about, I blinked and said, "Oh. That's neat."

Dakota Black was my only famous friend. Or, more accurately, Dakota Black was my friend. Our once iron-clad friend group had drifted apart when we started college this past fall and was probably nearing extinction. In all honesty, I wouldn't be surprised if it was already extinct, and I just wasn't aware. After all, I hadn't spoken to any of my friends since New Year's Eve.

My father had started talking again, saying something about when Dakota was supposedly returning to Friday Island to begin filming, but I wasn't paying attention.

Across the aisle, a middle-aged man with a bad spray tan removed a banana from his briefcase and wasted no time peeling it. Its potent stench hit me almost instantaneously, and my queasy stomach threatened to rebel against my resolve.

"I need to get some air," I declared, jumping to my feet as the bitter taste of bile suddenly became all-consuming. I'd always made a point of never emptying my stomach in a public place, and I wasn't keen on starting now.

My father's blue eyes darted over to the wall of windows where raindrops trickled down the glass. "It's raining."

"We live in the Pacific Northwest," I stated, swiftly shrugging on my black Patagonia rain jacket. "It's always raining."

I didn't wait for his response. I sped down the narrow aisle, concentrating on not tripping over suitcases and the legs of other passengers. Finally reaching a door, I shoved it open and inhaled sharply. The misty air instantly cleared my nose, liberating me of the banana's sickening stench. I couldn't give a damn about the fruit's nutritional value; it was disgusting, and eating it in a confined space was terribly rude.

I arrived at the bow, gripping the slippery green railing until my knuckles strained white beneath my array of silver rings. I was lightheaded, and my empty stomach churned, but the joy of heading home for the first time in five months lifted an invisible weight off of my shoulders.

A dense wall of fog occupied the water that rumbled with whitecaps, obscuring the surrounding mountains and islands from view, but the ferry forged onward. It was eerie yet mystical, and it was home.

I extended a hand, the air rushing through my fingers, and droplets of water clung to my pale skin when I drew it back. Sighing, I examined the heartline on my palm. It began under my middle finger, which apparently indicated that I was inclined to give my heart away. At least that was what Maud Hamilton informed me years ago when we were kids perched up in the treehouse in her backyard, trading secrets and evading the world.

"Allix?"

"Jesus Christ," I yelped, feeling like a vintage cartoon character struck by lightning. My skeleton would shine even in the rain. 

"No, but close," he said, leaning back against the railing beside me. The dark crescents beneath his cognac eyes gave the impression that Dakota Black was older than eighteen.

"Wow," I drawled, my smile wry. "Less than a year in Hollywood, and you're already comparing yourself to the Messiah."

I meant what I said, but something was oddly reassuring about Dakota's familiar appearance. He wore his classic Carhartt rain jacket, faded Levi jeans, and dirty black Vans. It was almost tempting to believe we were still starry-eyed seniors at Friday Island High School.

"To be fair, I've performed a miracle or two," Dakota retorted with a smile of his own, its warmth a stark contrast to the bleak gray morning. This action reminded me why his instant stardom hadn't fazed me or anyone who knew him. 

Hollywood always seemed to fall head over heels for guys like Dakota - humble yet guarded. Ambitious yet respectful of certain norms that maintained the exclusive grandeur of it all. But that aside, Dakota was one of the few people I knew who wore his heart on his sleeve. Maud Hamilton always described him as a hopeless romantic, but I thought of him more as someone who believed in the one. That was probably one of the reasons why he got his heart incinerated.

"So," I started, rocking back onto the heels of my high-top Converse. I was acutely aware that Dakota didn't know why I'd dropped off the face of the planet for five months or why I'd ignored his texts and left his voicemails unanswered. "Are you home for the summer?"

"Unfortunately." Dakota ran a hand through his mess of curly dark hair. The months he spent under the Los Angeles sun had given his tan skin an added warmth. "Filming on Friday Island wasn't my decision. I wanted Nova Scotia, but as the new kid in the writer's room, my opinion is worth shit."

I hummed, content to let Dakota talk about himself. Assuming that I knew about his TV show should have been more surprising, but somehow it wasn't. A lot had changed. "Is it too late to congratulate you on the show?"

"Never."

"Well, in that case, you're going to have to wait a little longer."

"How come?"

"For all I know it's going to be a sappy teenage romance-"

"God, no," Dakota interrupted, though a ghost of a smile played on his lips. "I have standards." I arched an eyebrow, and he rolled his eyes. "In all seriousness, though, it's about the orcas. I can't really go into detail for legal reasons, but the hope is to put a spotlight on conservation while still being a drama."

"There are orca populations in Nova Scotia," I said slowly, fishing the information out from the depths of my mind.

He nodded. "It would've been the easy way out. I wouldn't have to deal with...everything that got fucked up."

I managed to give him a weak smile. "At least you're not a coward." 

Dakota's eyes widened, and regret tore through me. Calling him a coward after ignoring him for months wasn't how I'd imagined our reunion. Maybe I shouldn't have imagined it at all.

But then he smirked and shook his head. "Allix McGovern, ever the realist."

Driven by some unspoken social cue, we embraced. As Dakota wrapped his arms around my waist, I inhaled the smell of smoke and pine that clung to his leather jacket.

"For what it's worth, congratulations," I murmured, and he gave a short laugh as I took a step back. "But don't let the success go to your head."

"I wouldn't dream of-"

Dakota stopped talking as a flash of light erupted to our left.

Swiveling towards the source, my eyes landed on a blushing brunette. She quickly stashed her iPhone in her back pocket.

"Hey," Dakota called, poised and effortlessly charismatic.

"Oh, hi, I'm sorry," the brunette blabbered, her voice squeaky. "I didn't realize my flash was on. I'll just...I should go."

You should, I silently agreed.

"Don't be sorry," Dakota insisted, and I barely concealed my shock.

What gave this girl the right to intrude on our conversation and take our photo? The answer slammed into me a moment later, and I barely refrained from rolling my eyes. This was Dakota's new normal.

The brunette's face burned crimson, but she still took a hesitant step in our direction. "Could we maybe take a quick picture?"

"Sure." Dakota looked over at me, and I simply glared. I knew exactly what he was wanting me to do.

"I'm not your personal photographer," I said, and spared the brunette my best fake smile. "You're going to have to settle for a selfie."

I averted my gaze while the photo-op ensued, and I couldn't resist rolling my eyes as the brunette - who bashfully introduced herself as Paige - gushed over Dakota's last short film, and how her friends from Washington State University wouldn't believe who she bumped into in the San Juan Islands. Dakota was Washington's pride and joy - celebrity wise, of course.

I doubted that there were many people our age who wouldn't recognize Dakota Black, not when he was the youngest person to win some coveted award at a film festival in New York City. He was also on the cover of last month's edition of Entertainment Weekly, which I only knew because the glossy magazine was on the table in the waiting room of my doctor's office.

After what felt like a small eternity, Paige finally skipped away, and Dakota joined me at the railing again. When I didn't acknowledge him, he exhaled a weary sigh. Ahead of us, the faint outline of the Friday Island's harbor emerged from the dense fog. We couldn't be more than ten minutes from the ferry terminal.

"It's funny, actually," Dakota started after a minute of silence. "I always hated how everyone on Friday Island pretended to know everyone else. I wanted to move to a city where no one knew me and didn't bother pretending to." He gave another sigh. "Now that I've left the island, even more people pretend to know me, and I hardly know anyone."

"You're a shit poet, Hollywood."

"I wasn't trying to be poetic."

The cold railing pressed against my ribcage as I leaned forward and gave him a sideways glance. "I think you were trying to say something meaningful. Maybe try to actually mean it next time."

Dakota frowned, a dark curl falling in front of his eyes as he looked down at the water. The ferry horn suddenly blared, and the captain announced our impending arrival over the loudspeaker when the noise died down.

"Saved by the bell," he muttered, pushing himself off of the railing. "Will I see you later? Or should I mark my calendar for sometime in October?"

October was five months from now, I noted grimly.

"Friday Island is a small town, Dakota," I reminded him. "We'll see each other whether we want to or not."

*

I could've stood in the shower forever, allowing my sedated mind to drift in the steam and heat, but I tried to be more environmentally friendly by limiting myself to seven minutes. Turning the dial to cold, I inhaled a sharp breath as my body involuntarily tensed beneath the icy stream of water. I forced myself to count to thirty before shutting off the shower altogether.

I was well aware that this was probably a physical manifestation of my deep-rooted need to exercise control over myself, but there was nothing wrong with a little bit of cold water. After toweling off and changing into baggy clothes that poorly hid the sharp angles of my frame, I dodged the steamy mirrors on my way out of the bathroom.

My bedroom was the way I left it in January - all white and smelling of lavender. I imagined my mother had dusted everything before my unceremonious homecoming. On the far side of the room, raindrops trailed down the two French windows that looked out towards the harbor. Even on a dreary day, sailboats dotted the water.

The dark wood floors were cold beneath my bare feet as I crossed the room to stand at my bedside table where my first edition copy of The Great Gatsby sat with a bookmark halfway through. I ran a finger over the dust jacket, smooth and worn with age. The book was a gift - an expensive one at that - from the first time I returned from an in-patient treatment center at fourteen. But you can't buy a happy ending.  

I was halfway down the front staircase when I froze at the sound of my mother's voice carrying into the foyer.

"As long as she's living under our roof, she follows our rules. I won't sit back and watch my daughter sink."

"She's learning to swim,"  my father replied, playing along with the metaphor. 

A phrase abruptly burned through my mind: sink or swim.

The phrase itself reminded me of  fight or flight response, which every modern biology textbook dedicated at least one section to. I'd read up on it more times than I'd care to admit. 

So, sink or swim, and fight or flight. They were synonymous to me because both seemingly implied that giving up was weak, but that wasn't true. Not when you looked beneath the surface.

Listening to my parents talk about me as though they understood just how hard I tried to stay afloat made my blood boil. I'd been treading water for years. Sometimes, slipping beneath the surface and sinking sounded far more peaceful than constantly gasping for oxygen.

There was a difference between giving up and letting go.

"Thank you for your enduring support," I muttered under my breath.

I crept back upstairs to change into my running clothes and slipped on my trusty Brooks shoes. I'd worn the same style since my sophomore year of high school when I was running a 5k in nineteen minutes. I was stronger back then. My body had yet to betray me.

As I tied back my light brown hair in front of my vanity mirror, my vision blurred with stubborn tears, and I struggled to swallow the burning knot of emotion in my throat.

As Beyoncé so eloquently put it: pretty hurts.

I'd broken down in front of enough mirrors to know that I was the only one who could save myself from myself. The problem I confronted these days was that I had to do it over and over again. Rise and repeat. It was exhausting and all-consuming.

This time, I actually descended the staircase and maintained an even voice as I announced that I'd be back from my run in time for dinner. Tonight would be the first of many meals in which my parents would pretend not to scrutinize every bite of food I put into my mouth.

Outside, the fresh scent of rain and pine weaved its way in my lungs as I inhaled. The steady rhythm of my shoes pounding against the wet asphalt combined with my measured breathing was satisfying - hypnotizing even.

My heartbeat pounded in my ears as I pushed myself farther and faster until my thoughts evaporated like the steam rising off of the pavement.

Finally, my mind went quiet.

The drizzle eventually became a steady downpour, but I didn't stop running until I reached Cape Blue. The old lighthouse was a hazy silhouette in the gray of the rain. I tiptoed along the road's rocky edge as I caught my breath. Without a guardrail, I could easily pretend I was walking on a tightrope. Tall pines and wispy seagrass descended the steep cliffside. Further along the road, an unmarked path led to a secluded cove. It wasn't a place you would find on the Friday Island travel guides. 

Despite being part of a state park, the cove at Cape Blue was a popular location for teenagers to host get-togethers. The Friday Island Police Department rarely patrolled Cape Blue, making it prime real estate for underage drinking. I'd spent countless summer nights seated around a bonfire, wrapped in a colorful beach blanket beside my friends.

During our senior year of high school, we had an unspoken claim on Cape Blue's cove. It was the same every year; the elite group of friends within the graduating class inherited the cove, and had full reign over it. There were obviously people at our high school who detested this tradition, but there was no undermining it. Besides, social hierarchies were a natural phenomenon. It was the way of the world.

Blinking away the rain, I turned away from the cliffside and kept on running.