Don’t panic, I plead. My head breaks the surface and I look around frantically—no one is nearby. I see Josh in the distance but he’s not even looking my way, and another wave is coming. Stan told me to dive under them, but I can’t get on the board in time. Once again, the wave hits, and this time my leash doesn’t survive. When I emerge, my board is sailing away without me, heading straight for the glamorous shores I can’t possibly reach on my own. My breath is coming short now, and without my inhaler, I’m going to pass out in the water and no one will have a clue.
My head goes under again and when I reemerge, I see Josh paddling toward me fast. I have no idea how he does it, but within seconds he’s there. He jumps into the water and grabs me from behind, holding onto his board with one hand while the other arm wraps around my waist, keeping me safely above the surface.
“What happened?” he asks.
“I panicked,” I weep, placing a hand on his board and trying desperately to get air into my lungs. He’s the last person I want to freak out in front of, but there’s no helping it. “I get asthma attacks when I panic.” Deep breath in. “It always happens at the worst times. And now my board is gone. And…” I’m still trying to get air in and out. I squeeze my eyes shut tight trying to control the quiver in my lower lip.
“You’re okay,” he says, his voice low and calm in my ear. “You’re absolutely fine. If you can talk, you can get enough air. I’m gonna get you back to shore now, okay?” His certainty reassures me, even if nothing is solved yet.
With the arm he has around my waist, Josh slings me onto his board.
“Just sit up unless I tell you otherwise,” he says. “If a wave’s coming, I’ll have you lie flat.”
“But—” I begin.
He places a hand on my knee, warm and huge and reassuring. “All you have to do is sit there. Pretend you’re back lounging at the pool.”
“Do I have a drink?” I ask. I’m still crying, and it’s so goddamned embarrassing. But he laughs.
“Yes, you have a margarita, but they forgot the salt,” he says. “So you’re trying to get the waitress fired.”
“Of course I am,” I whisper. “The salt’s the best part.”
He laughs again, and then he starts to swim toward shore, pulling me with him. I am still trying to suck in air, still wondering what happens if I pass out.
Stan is paddling toward us, dragging my board alongside him.
“I’ve got her,” he tells Josh, as if I’m some tedious pet he’s been assigned to watch.
“The hell you do,” Josh replies, placing his hand on my back. “Give me her board.”
“I told you, man, I got this.”
“Give me the fucking board,” Josh snaps, reaching out and snatching it from him. “And next time, don’t leave someone who’s never been out in her life a half mile from shore in heavy surf.”
“Fuck you, man,” Stan says.
“Come repeat that on shore, asshole,” Josh replies.
Stan gives him the finger and paddles off, and I find myself laughing quietly, and still crying a little, as Josh climbs on the board and begins to tow me in.
“Found that amusing, did you?”
I nod. I still can’t breathe but if I could, I’d have a big old laugh over Josh putting that kid in his place.
We reach the shore at last. He helps me to my feet, shoves both boards toward the sand and then bends, as if he’s going to pick me up. There are people everywhere, staring at us, and I know how this will unfold if I let him do it.
“Don’t,” I plead. “They’ll say I was drunk.”
His eyes meet mine, looking at me as if he’s starting to put something together.
“Okay,” he says, wrapping an arm around my waist, and helping me out of the water. My legs are shaky and I’m pretty sure I’d be on my hands and knees if he wasn’t holding me up. I stumble onto the sand toward the Halekulani, with him still holding onto me.
A group of teenagers walk toward us. “Don’t even think about it,” Josh barks at them, and I’m oddly grateful, even though this will end up as another story about what a bitch I am.
We get through the Halekulani entrance and he leads me toward the chairs where his family was sitting, though only Sloane is there now.
“Where’s your inhaler?” he asks, his arm still around me.
“I’m getting better,” I tell him, straightening, attempting to put distance between us. I can already feel Sloane’s illogical resentment from thirty feet away. I didn’t even finish high school and am known only for having a nice ass and singing barely literate songs about sex. It’s not like Josh would choose me even if she wasn’t around.
“Stay,” he replies, holding me tighter. “And I’m getting your inhaler. Your breathing is still really shallow.”
“It’s upstairs in my toiletry kit.”
We reach Sloane and I drop into the chair, doubtful I could have stood for a second more. “What happened?” she asks. “You haven’t even been gone thirty minutes.”
Josh holds out his hand for my room key and I place it in his palm. “The instructor ditched her in the middle of the water so he could surf,” Josh says tightly. “I’ll be right back.”
Sloane raises her sunglasses, looking from me to Josh’s departing back. She appears irritated by my inability to survive a half mile offshore alone. “Why did he have to come back with you?” she demands.
My tongue prods my cheek. I don’t want to tell her anything, but Josh will be back in a minute with my inhaler so there’s no point in lying.
“I had an asthma attack,” I admit, closing my eyes. “Or a panic attack. It’s hard for me to tell them apart sometimes.”
She stands up and walks over to me. “Sit up,” she says wearily. She reaches back and adjusts my chair so it’s fully upright and at the same time flags down a waitress. “Can we get a cup of coffee, please? As fast as possible?”
“This really isn’t…” I begin.
“Stow it,” she says. “I noticed when you walked up that your lips were blue. I thought you were just cold. Why would you go out there without your inhaler?”
I shrug. “I didn’t know if it was waterproof.”
“It’s not,” she says. “So you get a waterproof bag. Or take a dose of albuterol before you go out.”
The waitress comes with the coffee and Sloane hands it to me. “Drink,” she barks.
Her bedside manner leaves something to be desired, but at least she’s trying. “Thanks,” I say quietly.
“Of course,” she says with a sigh. It’s a soft sound, full of resignation and disappointment. I can’t tell if she’s upset that I expected less of her, or upset that she led me to expect it. “I don’t especially care for you, but I don’t want you to die.”
It would be easy to take offense, but I’ve been in her position before—wanting someone I can’t make want me back—and it sucks. I just don’t understand why she seems to believe she’s competing with me.