“
He reaches out, peeling a piece of hair from my cheek, his fingers lingering. “We should yell it out.” I blink up at him. “Excuse me?” “Yell,” he says, laughing now. “It’s a proven technique to release bullshit.” “We can’t yell. Someone’s going to think we’re being murdered.” I look over my shoulder at Paul, who’s picked his book back up. “We’ll interrupt Paul’s chill vibes.” “Then we’ll go underwater.” I stare at him. “Are you okay?” “No. Are you?” It’s my turn to laugh. “No.” “Then get underwater and scream, Shepard.” But he doesn’t give me a chance to do it myself. He takes my hand and submerges his body, yanking me under with him. His yell is a dull roar in my ears, muffled but powerful, like the first seconds of an earthquake, when it’s just the low groan of the ground shifting underneath your feet. Right before it knocks you off them. I yell too, first in surprise, then because it feels good. It’s like my first plunge into this water minutes ago—the shock of it, then the numbness that brings relief. The water rushes into my mouth, pushes back out with the force of my breath and voice. With it, I push all of the grief of the last six months, the frustration of the past however many years, the disappointment and pressure I’ve put on myself. For what?
”
”