"There's a piece of you that's here with me.
It's everywhere I go; its everything I see.
When I sleep, I dream and it gets me by.
I can make believe that you're here tonight."
- "Ocean Avenue," Yellowcard (2003)
Lillian
Sometimes, I wish I was a morning person. It really is an ethereal experience—watching orange rays turn into buttery yellow sunshine through my bedroom window. Maybe Alex does have a point about the the sunrise being sacred. But I'll never tell him that.
"Oh, you're already awake?" The surprise is tangible in my dad's voice as he pokes his head into my room. "What are you up to this early?"
"Nothing really," I answer, watching a meowing Sid enter and prance over to me with his tail in the air. I lean down to scratch him between his orange ears before turning another page of our photo album. "Just looking through some pictures. I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep."
I don't go through the trouble of telling him why.
Honestly, it was wishful thinking to hope for a good night's sleep after my conversation with Jordan yesterday. I thought coming home for the weekend would give me a chance to decompress—especially when I'm hours away from the twins. But, like always, they prove me wrong by forcing me to think of them 24/7.
Alex already appears in my subconscious with embarrassing frequency. He's my most common thought and my favorite dream—a constant presence in the back of my mind that touches every one of my internal musings. I'll admit that the way I feel about him is eerily similar to the way I felt about Jordan those years ago.
But, strangely, that doesn't scare me.
He's not domineering or demanding of my attention like I expected him to be. In fact, it's endearing to watch such a larger-than-life character learn how to be a normal friend. He's not as smooth or effortless with his approach as he used to be—especially as we continue to grow closer. Well-rehearsed lines of flirtation and displays of grandiosity have slowly evolved into him stumbling over his words and bringing me cool rocks from his runs.
I can't believe I ever feared a boy who follows the mating strategy of a Gentoo penguin. There's still so much to learn about him, so many layers to unravel that I'm sure he hasn't even peeked behind himself.
But I didn't dream about Alex last night. For the first time in months, Jordan worked his way into my subconscious brain and wreaked havoc on my peaceful slumber. It forced me to think about where we stand, how he fits into my life now that he's no longer an enemy.
And, even when sun started to beam through my windows, I still had no answers to show for the hours I spent awake.
"The photo album? I haven't touched it in years."
Dad sits on my comforter after I make room for him, letting Sid curl up on his lap. His blue eyes study the pictures from upside down before he smiles and points to one in particular.
"God, I remember this exact moment. You were always such an angel...from your first breath. It was Zach and Jordan who made your birth a headache."
At his words, I focus on the picture—a developed print from the early aughts. A decades-younger version of him sits in his recliner with a smile on his face and a tiny infant on his chest. And, since it's dated a few months after my birth, I can easily deduce that that baby is me.
More interesting, though, is our company in the photo: a three-year-old Zach and a one-year-old Jordan in various states of discontent. While Zach is on the floor bawling his eyes out, Jordan is sitting in the recliner with us—tucked under Dad's arm with his rueful baby eyes locked on me.
"You always tell me that Zach tried to take me back to the hospital, but...I didn't know Jordan was so upset when I was born."
Dad throws his head back and laughs before returning to me with a grin.
"Oh, boy—he was a demon. Couldn't stand you until you were toddlers. You were both too little to remember it, though...that's probably a good thing."
His eyebrows lower slightly as he turns his head to get a better look at the album. Jordan is in almost every picture, of course—honorary family with the assumption that we'd grow up and make it official.
"It took him years to understand that he wasn't mine, that Jared was his father. But the bastard didn't pick that poor kid up...not once. And Lauren wouldn't even touch her own baby after they came home from the hospital." Dad sighs heavily, closing his eyes. "I can't really blame him for being jealous when you came around. Even if he was just a baby back then, we were the closest thing to parents he got."
I swallow and shut the entire album, placing it in the bottom of my bedside drawer where Alex won't be able to find it on Thanksgiving. And, suddenly, Dad opens his eyes.
"Breakfast. I came up here to tell you we're about to put the omelettes on."
"Perfect." Out of the many benefits of being able to come home so often, the food has to be one of my favorites. "I'll be down after I get ready."
"Spinach, tomato, and feta, right?"
Dad stands, holding a purring Sid to his chest, and I nod as I throw my covers back. He's halfway out of my door before he pauses and glances back.
"Pancakes or fruit?"
"...Both," we say in unison, and he laughs again before closing the door behind him.
I don't think I realized how lucky I am to have my dad until I compared him to the fathers of my peers. He might be an exceedingly successful man with a bottomless wallet, but the similarities end there. I know him, and he knows me—like the back of his own hand. And he always, always wants to know more. That's rare...rarer than I'd like to admit.
But he wasn't always the person he is now. That's what intrigues me.
"Birdie!" My mom yells twenty minutes later, voice reaching up the stairs. "Your omelette's done!"
I thunder down the stairs—fresh, fully awake, and wearing one of Dad's Harvard shirts because I can't be bothered with pants this morning. Both of my parents are in the gleaming white kitchen when I reach it: Dad plating my omelette at the stove and Mom washing the dishes.
He swats her on the butt with the spatula as he walks by, but he doesn't get far before she snatches it out of his hand and returns the favor several times. Bubbles fly as they struggle to get the last thwack in, but they continue giggling like they're two schoolkids instead of respected attorneys going on fifty-five.
I clear my throat, and they both freeze when they realize I'm standing there.
"Morning, baby," Mom says nonchalantly, untangling herself from Dad's arms. "How did you sleep?"
"Terribly."
I pick up my omelette before adding two small pancakes and a mixture of berries to my plate. My parents follow suit, expressing sympathy for my sleepless night, and we're seated in the sunny breakfast alcove minutes later.
Our conversation goes as usual: our plans for the day, what time we'll call Zach to wish him luck at his game tonight, and how said game will be a total blowout for Clemson anyway.
I don't talk much, and, noticing this, my parents purposefully create opportunities for me to chip in. But I don't take them. I'm too preoccupied with what Dad said earlier this morning—about Jordan and his niche in our family. I run over the conversation we had yesterday a million times, picking apart every line that came out of his mouth.
He said it again and again in different ways: that he'd have any part of me before he chose nothing at all. And, for the first time in forever, I think about how we never gave him a choice in the first place.
We've been over the details of Mom's pilates class in a few hours and Dad's recent golf record before the topic of Thanksgiving arises again.
"Alejandro Molina in my house," Dad grumbles, putting two fingers on his forehead. "I thought we were safe when we moved, but here we are...inviting all that trouble right into our dining room."
"Hon, I'm sure the boy isn't all bad. I might've met you in law school, but I know that you don't really have room to talk about teenage trouble."
Mom calls him on his hypocrisy before I can, patting him on the shoulder with her left hand. She's right (like always), even if she doesn't know how much yet. While Alex's actions are explained by a mental illness that I won't reveal without his permission, my dad was just a brat—a party animal for the hell of it.
"Oh, will you let me be a hypocrite in peace? I'm a dad now; it's my job."
He tosses his eyes at the criticism, kissing Mom's hand before allowing her to return it to her lap. The gigantic diamond on her wedding ring sparkles in the sunlight, and my breath catches in my throat as if I'm still a toddler enamored with the glimmer.
In a parallel universe, a version of me is on the road to a ring like that in less than five years time. The Dawson family diamond is a marvel that I've laid eyes on myself: a round, 4 carat beauty that survived the Titanic a hundred years ago. It technically belongs to Jordan's mom, but, considering she despises the person and family to whom it attaches her, she's always been more than happy to hand it over.
I don't miss it—a ring being the ultimate goal of my future. But in times like this, times in which I'm on the brink of failing calculus with finals hanging around the corner, I wish my biggest concern was hypothetical wedding colors.
"You've been so quiet, Birdie." Mom's voice interrupts my thoughts. "Are you feeling alright?"
I look up, swallowing my pancake before nodding nervously.
"Um...I've been thinking about how to ask you something."
They both share an "oh shit" glance before returning to me expectantly. I half-wish that they would have been presumptuous and started rattling off the worst possible scenarios—that I'm dropping out, that I want to get married, that I'm pregnant, that I'm pregnant and want to drop out so I can get married—so the truth would sound better by comparison.
But they stay silent, continuing to eat with their eyes on me, and I'm more nervous now than I was before.
"I...talked to Jordan yesterday."
They freeze dramatically, utensils going still, and I roll a blackberry back and forth with my fork before continuing.
"Um...anyway...he was really sweet. He promised that we could just be friends...no strings attached. And it made me realize how much I really missed having him around. So I was wondering...if we're already having Alex over for Thanksgiving, then...can we have him over, too?"
Neither of my parents move, and I'm genuinely curious as to what their reaction will be. Will they say yes? Hell no? To stop holding onto the past and just let go? They've known Jordan since he was a baby—longer than they've known me—and there's no doubt that they feel a connection to him, too. But will their desire to completely cut contact with the East be enough for them to shut him out completely?
"Birdie..." Dad says quietly, running a hand through his dark hair to reveal the grey streaks underneath. "You're getting into dangerous territory here."
"How? By reconnecting with my oldest friend?" I grip my fork harder, shaking my head. "It's not dangerous to miss him. It's human. It's human for you to miss him, too."
I still feel him everywhere: in the lonely reverberation of a piano note, in every rumble of a summer thunderstorm, in each breeze that's just a tad too cold. Maybe our separation would've been complete if I never saw him again, never had to pass him in the hallways or watch his life from a distance.
But I love Jordan Dawson—I always have—and constantly seeing him has only made me face that reality. Maybe that love isn't romantic anymore. Maybe Alex took his place in my heart. But it's impossible for me to stop caring for the person I've known the longest, the person I've loved in so many ways for so much time.
"He hurt you over and over again." Mom cuts in once Dad starts to falter. "It's not just 'human' to let him in again. It's insanity—doing the same thing and expecting different results."
"People change, Mom!" I take a deep breath to settle myself, knowing that we don't yell at each other. "He's trying. You can't just reduce an entire human to...results. He's not a machine, and he has feelings. Even if you act like he doesn't for your own sanity."
Mom's slight forehead wrinkles deepen when she frowns, and she touches her temples as if I'm causing her tangible pain.
"You're gonna fall back in."
"No I won't. Not like I did before."
If they could look into my heart and realize how I feel about Alex, they'd know that.
"I promise."
I look up at them with my biggest, most pitiful moon eyes, even as they try to divert their line of sight.
"Puppy dog eyes aren't gonna change our mind, Lillian."
Mom stares dutifully at her half-empty plate, but I catch Dad's eyes before he can look away.
"Are you sure?"
"Joseph." Mom looks over at him in disbelief, face flatlining. "Seriously?"
"He's just a kid, Lisa—"
"He is not a kid anymore!" She interrupts, stabbing her fork into her plate with finality. "He made his choices plenty of times. And he had too many chances."
I look to Dad for support, but he just exhales in silent agreement. My heart twists miserably as I cast my gaze down to the table, and Mom's voice comes in to cement my defeat.
"I love Jordan too, Birdie. I watched him grow—took care of him like he was one of my babies. But you two need to stop treating him like a child who doesn't know any better. We—I—can't handle him disappointing us again. So be a big girl and just...let go. For your own sake."
~ 💖~
A lot of people fear the ocean: its vastness, its wrath, and the infinite mysteries hidden below its surface. But I don't feel that way. The ocean has felt like home for as long as I remember—a force that draws me to its restless blue waters every second of every day. I find comfort in its age, appreciate its importance, and respect its secrets.
Everyone's entitled to them, after all.
I lay back on my surfboard, feeling the salty water muss my short hair as the afternoon sun beams down on me. And, too tired to hold my forearm in front of my eyes, I just close them.
Like fishing, surfing is a waiting game. For every perfect wave, there's loads of time spent just...waiting. Idling with your thoughts. A few years ago, I would have filled the stillness by talking to Jordan like always—our legs hooked underneath the surface so we wouldn't drift away from each other.
But I mostly surf alone now. And, since there's nothing to break the silence, all I can do is think. Think about losing the debate with my parents this morning, about how cruel it is to leave Jordan alone, about how unsettling it is to feel the way I feel about Alex.
I know that my life can't revolve around Jordan anymore, that I have the right to like Alex. But every wayward thought I have about such a beautiful, intelligent creature still feels like a betrayal of the mundane—especially when I've always felt painfully inferior to him myself.
I open my eyes, sitting up and running fingers through my curls a few times to expel the extra water. Maybe I should go in, stop mourning my loss, and join Mom and Dad for lunch. The Jordan situation will work itself out. Or at least I hope it will.
When I turn my head to look at the bluffs, movement genuinely catches me off guard. Our neighborhood takes pride in being oceanfront—I can see our house from here—but the private beach has been painfully underutilized all day. It looks like I'm finally getting company as a tall figure in a wetsuit makes their way down the winding steps, surfboard in arm.
I blink a few times, trying to right my contacts. That gait is so familiar, and he's so tall...is that seriously—
"BIRDIE!" my dad yells from the beach, the red undertones of his hair gleaming in the sun.
Not in the mood to yell, I just throw him a shaka sign with an outwardly confused look on my face. My dad is in his mid-fifties, and, although he taught Jordan and I how to surf in his forties, I haven't seen him in the water for at least a year. Ignoring this fact, he wades out waist-deep before gliding onto his board and paddling over to my spot.
"Hey...Dad?" I lift an eyebrow at him when he reaches me, smoothing back my hair. "I thought you were getting too old for this?"
"I won't be too old for anything until I die," he answers, kicking his legs to place his board parallel and opposite to mine. "Besides, you seemed so upset at breakfast. I figured I'd have better luck talking to you out here than trying to reel you back to the house."
"Talking to me about what?"
He pauses after my question, casting his eyes to the matching water underneath us.
"How is he?"
I don't have to ask to know who he means.
"He's..." I hesitate. "He's...Jordan."
"Of course. Some things never change."
Dad scoffs, making my hands form defensive fists on my surfboard.
"You know what he's like. You were best friends with a version of him. God, Dad—you were a version of him."
Dad's eyes turn to me again, brows lowering at the accusation even though it's true. Before Joseph Bennett was a husband, father of two, prankster, or peddler of dad jokes, he too was a product of his upbringing. He and Mom spared me the details of exactly how wicked he was in the past, but he was best friends with Jared Dawson for decades—all the way up until a few years ago. That's a statement in itself.
"Sure I was," he concedes with a sigh. "But I went out of my way to change that, and I'm not that person anymore. I haven't been since I met your mom."
"Exactly!" My response comes out a little sharper than I expect it to, but the sentiment is appropriate. "Who would you have been if you didn't have a support system outside of your family?"
His face deflates a little in exasperation as I speak, but I don't stop.
"Don't you feel at least a little bad? For getting out of your situation and then pulling the ladder up behind you? You had mom to make you a better person, but Jordan doesn't have anyone like that. Not anymore."
"That right there is your issue, Birdie. Your shoulders are too little to take on so much of his burden." Dad's chest expands with a deep breath. "Your mom didn't make me a better person. She made me want to make myself a better person."
"How?"
There's a lull in our conversation as he stops to ponder my question. It's a simple one, but he takes his time before answering.
"Jordan's exact playbook worked for me for years; that's why I know it so well. And from the moment I met her, I wanted your mom more than anything. I mean—tch—look at her."
"Dad."
"Of course she's more than the way she looks, too. She's always been so brilliant, much more brilliant than me—not afraid to call me on my bullshit. And she was the first woman I met who wouldn't play my games."
He smiles slightly, twisting the silicone ring that he wears when he doesn't want to endanger his real wedding band.
"She gave me a choice. Us—the chance to raise two kids as amazing as you and your brother—or my old ways. I could've taken the easy way out and kept being the person I was. But I decided that I liked myself better when I was with her. And thirty years later, I still do."
My eyes sting a little when I realize that was the future he intended for Jordan and I. But it didn't pan out, and it's almost certain that it never will.
"You're my baby girl, Lillian. I just can't let you throw away your sanity to save him." Dad leans over to take my hand, pulling our boards closer together. "If he wants to save himself, he will. He will."
That sounds more like a prayer than an assurance. I look down at our hands—my small brown one in his tan palm, and set my jaw.
"But...how could he possibly do that alone if you never did? You know what he's going through; we have to help him."
I don't mean to whine, but I'm desperate and taken aback, frankly. Dad's been in Jordan's corner for so long, only severing their connection when I upended our lives. I know it was a hard decision for everyone to cut contact just like that—especially when Jo seemed to be changing for the better.
But we're almost three years in the future with hindsight on our side. The emotions of that hellish semester aren't clouding our thoughts anymore. So how could he expect Jordan to face his family with no one at his side? To face his own demons after what we did to him?
"You can't help a man who doesn't want to be helped." Dad crosses his arms, eyes closing solemnly. "Trust me; I know that."
Of course he does. I know that he spent endless amounts of time and energy trying to change Jared Dawson, to make his best friend of multiple decades into someone he could stomach being around. In fact, I watched him do it all the way up until we left for California. But he eventually gave up. And, in his frustration, he left more than one Dawson behind.
"Jordan isn't his father," I say quietly, voice carrying over the gentle lapping of the waves. "Not yet. There's still time; I can't—"
I stop to get my thoughts in order.
"I know he was far from perfect—both as a friend and a boyfriend. Downright awful at times. But Jordan isn't some one-note monster who's stuck in his ways. And it just feels wrong to leave him alone with his father for three years and then cast him out for...being like his father. What choice did he have when you took his options from him?"
Since the moment we decided to move, my parents and I rationalized our decision to disappear as best as we could. Now I realize that our justification for leaving Jordan to his father was flimsy at best—hastily constructed out of an overwhelming desire to flee and not be followed.
I know Jordan had—has—his flaws. But the punishment we gave him didn't fit his petty crimes. We were supposed to be his family, and we gave up on him. The only way we've been able to live with ourselves is not talking about it.
"I get that he's not the best person," I murmur. "But we had a hand in creating that monster. And we both know that he'll be worse if his father has his way."
"Shit." Dad places a hand over his face, pressing on his freckled nose bridge. "Birdie...I don't know if we'll be able to walk Jordan back to the person he was."
"Maybe not. But it would be wrong if we didn't help him try."
"God damn it." Dad looks at the swells building up behind us, arms still crossed. "Bring him."
"...Really?"
The side of his mouth tugs to the side in a nonverbal "hmph."
"Don't make me say it again."
I put bubbles in my cheeks, over-enthusiastically following his order, and he rolls his eyes.
"Too bad you didn't want to be a lawyer, button. Looks like it runs in the family."
"Well...I was raised by the best."
I look behind us as well, already starting to kick my legs and swivel my board toward the shore. Dad follows suit, and, as we start to paddle on the momentum, I can't help but laugh in celebration of my small victory.
"Don't break a leg out here, Dad. Are you sure you can still keep up?"
"Please."
He just chuckles as we pop up in unison to ride the wave, each familiar swivel of our boards bringing us closer and closer to home.
"I taught you everything you know."