In Waves | ✔️

15 | sand angels

"Here it comes, the little bastard," Nate mutters in triumph.

I finish pulling the thorn out because my nails are longer than his, happily flicking it into the bushes to join its thorny friends.

"Thanks for the help," I say, rubbing at the tender skin.

"Any time." He gets off the bench. "I would give you a lollipop for being such a champ, but a beer will have to cut it."

"A champ? You called me a baby!"

A laugh rolls out of him. "You want the beer or not, baby?"

I cross over to join him by the railing, and he hands me a bottle from a half-empty six pack I assume he swiped from the kitchen.

"Fine. I admit, my pain tolerance is pretty pathetic," I mumble.

He's relighting the cigarette he had put out. "In hindsight, this probably would've helped with that."

I don't get what he means until he offers it to me, and my body stills when I realize it's not a cigarette at all. "Is that... a joint?"

"Yeah. You want?"

I fervently shake my head. "I don't do drugs."

He withdraws the offer, reading over my face with a hint of amusement. "All right. Not like I'm gonna force you."

"No, I know," I stumble out. "Sorry. I didn't mean to sound judgy or anything."

Nate puts the joint between his lips and gives a pull. "Doesn't take much, does it?"

"What?"

He blows a cloud of smoke in the other direction. "Getting you all worked up and worried."

"I'm not worked up," I defend. "Or worried. I just didn't want to offend you or make it seem like I was..."

My voice fades when he cocks his head, his expression smug. I'm only proving him right.

"Okay, fine. I'm a worrier. I try not to be, but it's like..." I press at my temples, searching for the words. "It's like there's worry weeds growing on my brain. If I pick one, another one just sprouts up. I can never get the root out."

Nate gives me a sympathetic smile. "Sounds rough."

"Yeah, well, it's not exactly a blast. But I guess it's just how I'm wired."

"Mm." He flicks ash over the railing. "Can't say I have worry weeds on my brain, but maybe like, worry flowers that die and fall off."

I look at him, intrigued. "They die? How?"

He shrugs nonchalantly. "I don't know. It's like breathing or your heart beating. You don't really think about it, it just happens. Worrying about shit I can't control is self-torture."

"Tell me about it." I pick at the label on my beer, feeling a bit envious.

I've tried so much to reduce my anxiety - relaxing bubble baths, chamomile tea, even those meditation videos on YouTube. But they can only help so much. And reading the comments from people who swear their stress is gone forever? It feels like they're living on a different planet.

How do they just wipe away a part of themselves like it's nothing? It seems like some kind of magic trick that I can't master.

I watch Nate take another drag, and an inexplicable urge swims up. I might regret this, but I'll worry about it later.

"I changed my mind. I want to try it," I tell him, nodding to the burning ember.

He gives me the side eye. "Why do I suddenly feel like I'm in an old after school special? This is peer pressure 101, DeMarco."