Two boys are shouting, drawing our attention, and we watch as they scramble to a higher piling and leap off, yelling. I’m tapping my index finger on the railing that separates us from the water. Below us, the boys surface and laugh, and others are scrambling to the higher piling. Tourists and hikers laze against the railing, taking sips of water from bottles, smearing on sunscreen, eating.
A very tall boy with messy black hair dripping on his back gets to the top of the piling, joking and laughing with some of the others.
I see it before I see it—his foot sliding out from under him on the wet concrete, his body tilting, shifting, arms flying out—
And his head hits the edge of the concrete, visibly splitting right in front of me.
“Get out of the way!” I yell, and I’m kicking off my shoes and shedding my dress practically before the boy hits the water with an excruciating splat. I run to the end of the dock and dive toward the place he went in. The water is cold and murky, but late-afternoon sun illuminates the shape of his body. Another body is in the water with me, and we meet and yank, both of us swimming toward the surface. Blood from his head pours out in a dark cloud.
We break the surface. The other rescuer is another boy from the group, a strong swimmer. “Head for shore!” I yell, and we swim together, dragging the deadweight of the body between us toward the seawall, where others meet us and haul the injured boy upward.
“Help me up!” I cry. “I’m a doctor.”
And there are hands hauling me too, and I’m beside the boy, giving him mouth-to-mouth until he chokes and expels a gutful of water, but that doesn’t raise him to consciousness. His head is bleeding heavily. “Give me your shirt,” I order the other boy, and he tugs it off and hands it to me. Squeezing out the excess water, I press it to the cut, holding it there as I check his vitals and his pupils, but his eyes are so black it’s hard to tell. He needs a hospital, fast.
A man from the ferry appears with another guy in a uniform, maybe coast guard. “Thank you, miss,” he says. “That was amazing. We’ve got it.” Two forest-ranger types are running down the beach with a stretcher, and I see a boat with a cross on it. The crowd parts for the paramedics, because that must be what they are. I keep my hands on the cut, and one of them nods. “You’re a lifeguard?”
“Once. Now I’m an ER doctor, back in the States.”
“Good work. You probably saved his life.” He takes over holding pressure, and they load him onto a stretcher.
I stand up and knock the sand off my knees, and a group of people starts clapping. I shake my head, wave a hand dismissively, and look for Javier, who is standing to one side with my dress and shoes in his hand. I take in a breath and blow it out, hands on my waist. It’s a classic calming pose. As he reaches me, I glance down at my ordinary bra and panties. “Glad I wore the good underwear.”
He smiles, offering me my dress. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.” I tug the fabric over my head, my heavy wet braid knocking to one side.
“You disappeared before I—”
“Instinct. I was a lifeguard for a decade.” I smooth the dress down. The panties will dry soon enough, but the underwire on the bra is going to be a misery. For a moment, I wonder if I should walk up to the ladies’ room and delicately remove it, but the entire beach has seen me half-naked already. “Give me some cover, will you?”
He glances over his shoulder, still holding my sandals, and moves his body to block me from view. The seawall is behind me. I reach beneath the dress, unhook the bra, and tug it off my arms and wad it up. “Is my bag anywhere?”
“Here.” He’s looped it over his shoulder so it’s hanging down his back, and now he slides it down to give to me.
I toss the bra inside, take one shoe and brush it off, slide a foot in, do the same on the other side, then pull out a bottle of water and take a long, lukewarm swallow.
Only then do I inhale deeply and let it out in a slow breath, looking up at Javier. I’m used to emergencies, but this came out of nowhere, and I’m a little giddy. “Are you impressed?”
He lifts his aviator glasses and licks his lower lip, reaching out to brush my cheek. “Yes.”
“Good.”
He takes a breath now and lets it out, throwing an arm around me. “You frightened me. Let’s find a drink, hmm?”
“Great idea.”
We settle on the top of the ferry again, toward the back against the rails, and Javier leaves me to go down to the snack bar. In his absence, I watch the vast sky. Clouds are gathering on the horizon, moving like they’re on fast-forward, and before he returns, they’ve rushed over the sun, bringing a pearly gray light to the scene.
He’s carrying two beers when he returns, and we clink bottles. I’m unsettled and restless and conscious of his body alongside mine. The beer is cold and delicious. Refreshing. “Thank you.”
“You’re a doctor.”
“Yes. ER in Santa Cruz.”
“ER?”
“Emergency room.”
“Ah.” He sips his beer and watches a family of tourists settling on a row of seats, and I watch too. The mom is hassled, directing her three kids to put their hats back on, to stop tossing a ball among them, to sit down and stop leaning over the rail. The dad is bent over his phone. “That would account for your speed.” He makes a soft sound, looks at me. “One moment you were standing beside me, and the next you were in the water.”
“Here’s the thing—it wasn’t really that sudden. I was worried about those boys, and you’ll notice I was in place when one fell.” I smooth a hand over my thigh, which feels restless. “I’m a surfer, and I was a lifeguard, and you see the injuries in the ER all the time . . . so while all of you were enjoying the spectacle of youth and energy, I was imagining all the things that could go wrong.”
For a moment, he looks at me, his sunglasses hiding his eyes. “Will he be all right, that boy?”
“I don’t know. He hit his head pretty damn hard.”
“Does it make you afraid, knowing what you know? Stop you from doing things?”
I settle sideways so I can look at him more easily, leaning my back against the railing. “Not physical things.”
His eyes glitter. “What things, then, hmm?”
I look away, over his shoulder, thinking of my rules about men, my lack of travel, the empty spaces in my life, and suddenly feel a welter of tears at the back of my throat, which is not me at all. I feign nonchalance with a one-shoulder shrug. “I already knew bad things could happen.”
“Ah, the earthquake, yes?”
“Among other things.”
“Is that what led you to the emergency room?”
“Maybe? Probably.” I pick at the label of my beer. “I always wanted to study science in some way, but that was a big event.”
He touches my forearm with one finger. “Were you injured?”
“Scratches and bruises. Nothing much.” I feel suddenly breathless at the pressure of so many memories rising up after so long. My sister, Dylan, the earthquake. I lift a hand. “Enough. Your turn, Señor Velez. I’ve been talking about myself all day.”
He smiles. The wind blows his hair over his forehead. He’s such a masculine man. European, so polished, but so very male. His big hands. His broad shoulders. His strong nose and intelligent brow. “I am not as interesting as you are.”