CHAPTER 9: FAMILIAR TIDES
1290 Words
The next few days pass with a strange sense of imbalance.
Nothing dramatic happens. No arguments. No confrontations. No life-changing revelations.
And yet, I can’t shake the feeling that something is shifting beneath the surface.
Maybe that’s why it bothers me so much.
If something breaks, at least you know what happened.
But when things change slowly, quietly, it’s harder to know when it started.
Or how to stop it.
Wednesday afternoon finds me sitting in the library after school, pretending to work on my history project. The keyword is pretending. I’ve been staring at the same paragraph in my textbook for nearly ten minutes without absorbing a single word.
Across the table, Sofia is scrolling through her phone.
“You’ve read that sentence at least seven times.”
I look up.
“What sentence?”
“Exactly.”
I sigh and close the textbook.
“Maybe I’m just tired.”
“That’s what you’ve been saying for weeks.”
Before I can come up with another excuse, her eyes suddenly widen.
“Oh no.”
I immediately become suspicious.
“What?”
“I have to leave.”
“What do you mean, you have to leave?”
“My mom just texted me. Apparently, my cousin is visiting.”
I stare at her.
“That’s an emergency?”
“It is when he’s seven and obsessed with asking questions.”
“Fair.”
Sofia shoves her books into her bag and stands.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Then she points at me.
“And try actually studying.”
“No promises.”
“I know.”
A minute later, she’s gone.
The library feels noticeably quieter without her.
I open my textbook again and attempt to focus.
Attempt being the important word.
“You’re terrible at homework.”
I glance up.
Iñigo is standing beside the table.
For some reason, I smile immediately.
“You haven’t even seen my grades.”
“I don’t need to.”
“That’s incredibly rude.”
He pulls out the chair across from me and sits down.
“I meant you’re terrible at pretending to do homework.”
“That’s slightly better.”
“Not really.”
I roll my eyes.
He looks amused by that.
Lately, I’ve started noticing how often he looks amused around me.
The thought settles somewhere uncomfortable.
Not because I dislike it.
Because I don’t know what to do with it.
“What are you working on?” he asks.
“History.”
“That explains the suffering.”
“History isn’t suffering.”
“It’s organized suffering.”
I laugh before I can stop myself.
The sound echoes softly through the nearly empty library.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
The silence feels easy.
Comfortable.
I’ve spent years believing that kind of comfort only existed with Nikolai.
Lately, I’m starting to realize that’s not true.
The realization leaves me feeling strangely guilty.
As if I’m betraying something.
Even though I don’t know what.
“Can I ask you something?” Iñigo says.
I glance up.
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether it’s embarrassing.”
“Fair.”
He leans back in his chair.
“Have you always lived in Seabrook?”
The question surprises me.
“Yeah.”
“Your whole life?”
I nod.
“My parents moved here before I was born.”
“Do you like it?”
I look toward the library windows.
Beyond the glass, the sky is beginning to fade toward evening.
“I think so.”
“That’s not a very confident answer.”
I smile.
“It depends on the day.”
He nods thoughtfully.
“I get that.”
For the next twenty minutes, we talk about places we’ve lived, favorite beaches, and the differences between California and Massachusetts. The conversation flows naturally, moving from one subject to another without effort.
At some point, I realize I’ve forgotten about everything else.
The project.
The stress.
The ache that seems to follow me around lately.
I don’t notice how much time has passed until my phone buzzes.
Nikolai.
You still alive?
I stare at the message.
A familiar warmth spreads through me.
Immediately followed by something more complicated.
Always, I type back.
The response comes seconds later.
Good. Need your help tomorrow.
With what?
Surprise.
I frown.
I hate surprises.
His reply is instant.
Liar.
I smile despite myself.
Across the table, Iñigo notices.
“There it is.”
I look up.
“What?”
“That smile.”
Heat rushes into my face.
“You’re weird.”
“Probably.”
He doesn’t seem offended.
If anything, he looks pleased with himself.
Which is annoying.
⸻
The next afternoon, I find Nikolai waiting outside school.
The sight is so familiar that it almost hurts.
For years, moments like this have been normal. Me finding him. Him finding me. Meeting in the middle without needing to plan it.
Some habits become part of your life before you realize they’re habits.
“There you are.”
I walk over.
“What was the emergency?”
He looks offended.
“It wasn’t an emergency.”
“You texted me like it was.”
“That’s because you wouldn’t have come otherwise.”
“True.”
Nikolai laughs.
Then he gestures toward the street.
“Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
I narrow my eyes.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
The annoying thing is that he’s right.
We walk toward Harbor Dock, where dozens of fishing boats sway gently in the water. The air smells like salt and seaweed. Gulls circle overhead, occasionally crying out toward the harbor.
I’ve been coming here with Nikolai for years.
After school.
During summers.
Whenever one of us needed to think.
The familiarity settles around me like an old blanket.
Comforting.
Dangerous.
We stop near the end of the dock.
For a few moments, neither of us speaks.
The ocean stretches endlessly before us.
Gray-blue beneath the afternoon sky.
“I missed this,” Nikolai says.
I glance at him.
“What?”
“This.”
He gestures vaguely between us.
“Hanging out.”
The words catch me off guard.
“We still hang out.”
“Not like before.”
I look away.
Because he’s right.
And because I don’t know how to explain why.
The wind moves across the water.
For a moment, all I hear are waves striking the dock below.
Then Nikolai speaks again.
“You know you can tell me if something’s wrong, right?”
My chest tightens.
There it is.
The question he’s been trying to ask for weeks.
The one I’ve been avoiding.
I stare out at the ocean because it’s easier than looking at him.
“I’m okay.”
The lie sounds softer this time.
More tired.
Nikolai doesn’t push.
That’s one of the things I’ve always loved about him.
And one of the things that make this harder.
“Okay,” he says quietly.
I know he doesn’t believe me.
But he lets it go anyway.
The conversation shifts after that.
School.
Football.
College applications.
Safe topics.
By the time we head home, the sun is already beginning to set.
Everything feels normal again.
At least on the surface.
But later that night, lying in bed, I find myself thinking about two different conversations.
One with Nikolai.
One with Iñigo.
Both leave me with the same uncomfortable realization.
People are starting to notice things I thought I was hiding.
And I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to pretend everything is the same.
Because the truth is, it isn’t.
And maybe it hasn’t been for a while.
- Writer
