Julian

I'm drowning. Don't breathe, don't let the water in. You have to breathe, dumbass. I inhale against my own advice. Water goes through my nose stinging my nasal passages. You know water like you know the ridges in your palm, one of them curves and branches out like a palm tree. Don't panic. Panicking is the one thing you should never do. Damn it Julian you know this. But the panic happens anyway. It's cold and dark as I thrash around, like a fish out of water, ironically.

"Julian!" a muffled voice comes through, just barely breaking past the barrier of water filling my ears. Then, a loud knock.

I sit up, gasping for air and brace my hands on the sides of the bathtub. The porcelain is cold and smooth beneath my fingers. Slowly my brain begins to register where I am when I peel my eyes open, looking around the bathroom. Water drips down my face. I'm in the bathroom. Not the ocean. I'm not drowning. I take deep breaths, in and out, attempting to calm my racing heart.

My chest squeezes, I tighten my hands around the tub tighter. You are safe, Julian. But I don't believe it. I reach for my necklace with my trembling hands, but it's not there. It hasn't been there since I lost it that day, but my brain tends to forget that, still seeking refuge in its comforting nonexistence.

Upon instinct, I begin listing off my five senses whenever I've left and entered somewhere where the darkness takes over me. What can you see, Julian? The beige tile lining the floor. My towel hung up on a towel rack mom installed a few years ago because she was sick of Mira and I tossing our wet towels on the floor. Wet towels. Water.

My hands grip the sides of the tub tighter. What can you smell, Julian? The words of my therapist echo through my mind. Ever since that day, I've had these nightmares; only they happen when I'm awake, too. Which is not only inconvenient but annoying. They started almost immediately after the incident; I assumed it was because the memory was fresh, but months went by, and they were steadily happening.

Then, the first time I saw water again after, I felt like I couldn't breathe. I was fully awake, but I could feel the water going into my nostrils and mouth, filling my lungs even though I was yards away from it. I felt that deep void of darkness consuming me. I have always experienced panic attacks, since I was a kid, but these were debilitating and far more frequent. It was hard to contain the nightmares and panic attacks to just myself.

That's when my parents hauled my then-minor ass to a psychiatrist and then a therapist. Not that I would have opposed it if I were legally an adult. I can recognize I need help. In all honesty, I needed it way before my accident.

"Post-traumatic stress disorder is not uncommon after drowning incidents, Julian." That's what my therapist says every time I suggest that maybe, just maybe, the nightmares, panic attacks, and fear will just go away one day. Decide, hey Julian, you've suffered enough. We're going to leave now, and we'll let you go back to life as you know it. Wouldn't that be fan-fucking-tastic. But of course, they haven't, and I'm stuck dealing with this new version of myself that feels like a betrayal of the Julian I used to be.

My heart beats in my chest still too fast. You're still not calm. What can I smell? Deep breath. Pine. I smell pine and...citrus. Oranges. Dad must be making juice. Water drips from my face into the shallow water below, causing small ripples to form on the surface. Water. Water. Water. It's everywhere. Literally everywhere. I live on a goddamn island for fucks sake. My chest tightens as disappointment settles its way into my stomach. I panicked.

Another failed attempt at trying to condition myself back to the feeling of water again. I mentally add it to the ever-growing list. I never thought there would be a time when I felt uncomfortable in water. It's all I've known since I was a kid. For as long as I can remember, it's been the place I felt most comfortable. It's a part of me. The place I wanted to be most when I was panicking.

Another knock comes through the door. "Mira?" I call out breathily to my younger sister.

"I need to brush my teeth!" I've lost count of how many times she's come and tried to brush her teeth. Three? No, definitely four. It's summer, and her larger-than-life presence in the house is making it all too obvious. Usually, at this time of morning, she's already at school, and I can use the bathroom for as long as I want. Curse the stupid fucking summer. I wish it didn't exist. I also wish there was another bathroom in the house. But if a genie were to ask me right now which wish I wanted more, I'd wish for summer to cease to exist. To bite the fucking dust.

She knocks again. I should get out. The water has long been cold, and I'm one minute away from turning into a six-foot one sized raisin. There's no point in torturing yourself, Julian, I try to reason. But there is. I refuse to end this session on such a bad note.

Will I stay perfectly calm? Hell no. But I can try not to panic as much. I blink past the droplets of water that have settled on my eyelashes. "Give me ten more minutes!"

"That's what you said twenty minutes ago!" she whines, exaggerating the word twenty.

"Ten minutes this time." When she doesn't say anything, I add more. "I promise."

That's what gets her. I knew it would. We take promises very seriously. Whether it's promising to never turn our backs on one another or promising to be out of the bathroom in ten minutes, they all matter equally to us. And we never break our promises. No matter what. I ignore the fact that this summer I will be breaking a very important promise I made to her.

Mira groans in protest, but I hear her footsteps retreating from the door and exhale in relief. I hop out of the tub and grab the orange medicine bottle from the cabinet. I pop the tiny pill in my mouth and hop back in the tub. I take one more deep breath, pray to whatever god or genie is listening, and submerge myself in the now cold water again. Darkness consumes me.

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The sun shines through the window, illuminating the tiny particles floating through the air in my room. The window in my bedroom is open, the breeze flowing through the room. A tree curls its overgrown limb through the edge of the windowpane. Mira's stereo is playing loudly from the bathroom, leaking into my room, and the scent of dad's mouthwatering cooking is filling my nostrils. My stomach growls in longing. I pull my shirt over my head and grab my keys off my desk. Under them, a flyer for this summer's adult surf competition is sitting neatly on my desk.

It's the third one that's conveniently made its way there since the beginning of the week. I release a deep sigh. This was supposed to be my year. I pick the flyer up running my fingers along the edges of it. The image of someone riding a wave with a chromatic filter on the front. Familiarity washes over me. That board, that particular sunset. Not someone. Me.

My eyes continue to scan the flyer, at the bottom, Axel's name is in tiny letters, crediting him for the photo. A small smile forms on my lips when I see his name. He's talented as hell with a camera. I look over the flyer some more, knowing that once my eyes leave it, I'll pretend I never even saw it. Like it never existed. Like I didn't see he used a picture of me to help promote the competition despite me not yet being an adult in the picture. Once I'm done admiring it, I crumple it in my hands and toss it in the trashcan by my door.

If I was the Julian I used to be, I would drop everything and enter that competition then and there. Actually, I would have signed up weeks ago. I would be getting ready to go catch some waves with Sergio and Axel, not going in to work. Axel would be setting up his camera while Sergio and I waxed our boards betting on who out of the three of us was going to wipe out the most. It's the summer vacation I've dreamt of since I was ten years old. But everything is different. I'm different.

I exit my room with my keys, the stairs creak as I walk down them. Mom is painting a clay vase at the table, dad over the stove when I enter the kitchen. He looks over his shoulder at me, hearing my entrance.

"Mira was going to break the door down if you didn't leave the bathroom soon." His dark eyes catch mine, sweat sticking to his forehead from the heat of the pan he's standing over.

I place my hand on his shoulder, giving it a soft squeeze. "I'm sure the door would've understood why it was sacrificed."

Mom shakes her head, a smile tugging at her lips. Her dark brown eyes are focused on the vase in front of her, inspecting it with her paint-stained fingers. Dad scrambles up some eggs in a pan while pouring orange juice into cups. Wordlessly, I take the pitcher of juice away from him and continue filling the remaining cups.

"Is this a commission?" I ask my rainbow-colored mother as I place the pitcher in the fridge and kick the door closed with my foot. She fixes me with a pointed look. "It is. And stop using your foot to close the refrigerator."

I slide into the seat next to her, tossing my keys on the table and lean over to give her a kiss on the cheek. "Sorry."

She pats my cheek in return. I can't help wonder how many different colors of paint are on my face now. The smell of citrus seeps into my nose as I take a sip of the freshly squeezed juice. Dad sets our plates down on the table, steam rising from the spam and fried eggs. He places a kiss on mom's cheek. Copy cat. "Eat your food. You can work on that later."

He doesn't wait for a response; he only takes the vase and carefully moves it out of the way before taking the seat across from her. I immediately begin shoveling food into my mouth, my stomach growling louder. The flavors hit my tastebuds all at once, my eyes close in appreciation. I blame his Hawaiian roots for dad's ability to produce heaven on a plate. Maybe dark magic too because I just don't understand how he can make something as simple as spam and eggs taste like this.

"It's not going anywhere, sweetie," mom says, placing a hand on my arm when I don't stop shoveling food into my mouth to contribute anything to the conversation they're having about the increase in traffic since summer started a few days ago.

I swallow the food in my mouth. "My shift at the hotel starts in less than an hour," I say, like this food will last on this plate for longer than five minutes. "So no, technically it's not going anywhere but I am."

Mom sighs, taking her hand off my arm to pick up her fork, then starts cutting into her eggs. "I think it's great you're spending your summer being productive, but don't forget to have some fun, okay? You deserve it."

I drop my eyes down to my plate. Her version of fun is me waking up early to catch the sunset on the beach and spending the day bouncing between islands, trying to find the biggest waves with Sergio and Axel. That's what she expects me to want to be doing. But all I want this summer is to get through it unscathed.

"Have you thought about what you're going to do after the summer is over?" dad asks, feigning nonchalance.

But he's watching me, his fork hovered over his food. I have an answer to that, not a good one, but an answer nonetheless. No, I haven't, because I don't know. Surfing was always the plan. Saving up the money I won from any competitions to get a place maybe room with Axel and Sergio, work some odd jobs, but mostly surf. Without that I'm fucking lost. I, like the idiot you hear about in the stories, had all my eggs in one basket.

I scoop more food into my mouth. "Been thinking about it real hard."

"And?" he asks.

"Not done yet," I shrug.

He watches me for a moment before focusing his attention on his food. I sip my juice glancing between him and mom. Our meals tend to become awkward whenever the topic of what the hell I'm doing with myself comes up. I am almost used to it. I'm optimistic the awkwardness will turn to moderate discomfort by the end of the summer. Mira slides into the seat in front of me wearing a blue sequin bathing suit. I exhale in relief, thanking the traitorous genie that still hasn't removed summer from the seasons for her presence.

"You look like a dolphin just threw you up," I say pointing at her with my fork. Her eyes narrow at me. I smile in response.

"Honey, are you headed to the beach?" mom asks, cocking her head.

"I was thinking," she starts her eyes on me. Never mind. Fuck the stupid genie. I pull my glass up to my lips. I already know what she's about to ask me. It's the conversation I've been avoiding having since summer started. Honestly, since she turned eleven four months ago. My heart pounds against my chest. Hard thuds like it's trying to break out from behind my ribcage.

I squeeze my eyes shut. "Mira."

"You promised me you'd teach me the summer I turned eleven." It never crossed my mind that one day, I could regret making that promise to her. Again, one basket, all my eggs.

"I'm eleven now," she says when I don't respond. Both mom and dad's eyes are on me. There's nothing I can say to make this better. Because if I refuse, I'm breaking my promise.

So, I choose to say nothing. As if not saying it out loud means that I'm not breaking my promise any less. Taking my plate, I stand up from the table and dump the rest of my food in the trash, wincing at the sight of the perfectly cooked food hitting the bottom of the trash bag. I grab one of the withered oranges dad used to make the juice and head towards the door, Mira at my heels. When I reach the door, I realize I don't have my backpack. Groaning, I turn around, pushing past the pleading eleven-year-old.

She follows me up the stairs. I enter my notably empty room and grab my backpack from my bed. There's no hint of personality here. It used to be so much more than it is now. Posters, pictures, and my various surfboards used to line the walls. Photographs of the island and my friends covered every inch. But after the incident, I tore everything down. It was just a reminder of everything I lost that day. I couldn't stand it. It's as empty as I feel without surfing anymore.

When I turn around, Mira is looking up at me expectantly. "I checked the weather," she hesitates. The storm from that night flashes through my mind. "It's going to be sunny this morning."

"Surfing is dangerous, and I don't think you're old enough." I sigh, lying through my teeth. Not about surfing being dangerous, if anyone knows that it's me. But at Mira's age, I was in the water almost every day.

"I can do it even mom and dad think so!" I exit my room not caring if she's behind me or not. "What happened to you never breaking your promises?" she whispers, but I hear it.

I stop in my tracks, my jaw tight. Something in me breaks at the disappointment in her voice. She just doesn't understand. No one does. I can't face her, so I exit the house. The door slams shut behind me. I make my way to my beat-up red Ford truck parked at the end of the short driveway and pull on the handle. It's locked. Shit. My keys. I fumble with my pockets hoping they're in there. Nope. Flat and keyless.

"You can't give me a break, can you?" I yell up at the sky. There's no way I'm going back in that house. Not with Mira's disappointed frown and mom and dad's awkward silence and the smell of the perfectly good food I just threw away. I'll just have to walk or ride my bike. But going back in isn't an option.

"Julian," mom's voice says softly.

I turn to face her, slumping against my truck. "There's nothing you're about say that I'm not already thinking so can we just drop it."

"I just..." she pauses, thinking over her words, "came to give you your keys." My eyes meet hers; my keys outstretched in her hand. I reach out, taking them from her, not offering any more words. She watches me for a second then nods through a soft smile, deciding not to push further and retreats into the house. I sigh, pressing my head to the window of my truck. So much for not breaking promises no matter what.