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This old perv who wanted to rent you and your cute teenie friends a cabana would’ve watched you like a gross horny bastard across the pool, then would’ve tried luring you guys to his room with drugs and alcohol, and then you’d spend the night tied down to his bed while he licked your nipples or tickled your toes or whatever creepy old men do. Is that what you want? To be tied up to some horny dude’s bed like a teenage sex doll?”
I watch my brother lead the boys to the bonfire, strutting with his big dumb chest puffed out, like he’s bringing home boy-bacon to show off to his friends.
Maybe he lost interest already. Maybe his friend Rico got to him, and he’s joined in a merry threesome with my fuck-off of a brother. What a lovely image I just gave myself. Now I want to hurl my bike into the ocean with me still on it. While it’s on fire. And I’m screaming. Today’s a fucking dumpster fire.
And why deny yourself the chance to experience something just because you’re afraid of it ending? Everything’s temporary, but we still wake up each and every morning to see what the next day brings, don’t we?”
“So? How does that sound, Jonah? Want to come and see the real treasure of Dreamwood Isle?” I feel like I’ve already found it: he’s standing right next to me.
I stare into his eyes. It’s like staring into the night sky, knowing you’ll never be able to capture all of its splendor in your entire lifetime; no amount of gazing is enough.
It’s a fear that I just tasted the best fucking thing on this planet I’ll ever know. And when it comes time to leave this magical place, I may never know it again. And how am I supposed to put any of that into words?
We could have walked into this party together, he and I. Instead, I just cut the line and let the best fish swim out to sea. And the sharks found him. What the hell is wrong with me?
“Yeah. You’re like the deep end of the pool. Meant for the serious swimmers only. Shallow water might be safer, in and out, no danger—and this island is full of shallow water—but your waters are darker, deeper … and so much more beautiful.” He swallows. “And dangerous.”
“It’s what I’ve been looking for, too. It’s right here. It’s you. I don’t care what the price is. I don’t care if it hurts. It’s worth it.”
Just like I warned him, the second he gets home, I’ll be a memory.” My mom’s bony hand touches my shoulder, then gives me an uncharacteristically gentle rub. “Baby, there are far worse things to be than a memory. Memories are good. We keep them for good reasons.” “Memories can hurt, too.” “Most don’t.”
Is that what hope really is? Just a bit of denial, cocktailed with fleetingly blind happiness and a splash of intentional naïveté?
Maybe hope isn’t such a game of denial. Maybe hope is the force that pushes us to making our fantasies real.
