Between Then and Now

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Ryan

T he kid is safe and is rushed to the tent for first aid, but Bon is still there. I see her get swallowed by the waves, so without a second thought, I dive into the water, my only focus on reaching her. It never even occurs to me that the ocean scares me—that it attempted to swallow me whole when I was a child. I don’t even hesitate, even when the waves are crashing wildly by the shore, each one a formidable wall of water. I can barely dodge them, the force of the water almost knocking me off balance.

I scan the churning sea desperately, my eyes straining to catch a glimpse of Bon. Then, I see her—a small figure struggling against the relentless waves, her movements frantic and panicked. She's being pulled under. My chest tightens with a mix of fear and determination.

“Bon!” I shout, but my voice is drowned out by the roar of the waves. I push forward, every muscle in my body straining as I fight against the powerful current. The saltwater stings my eyes, but I don’t dare blink. I can’t lose sight of her.

Finally, I reach her, my hand grasping her arm just as she’s pulled under again. I tighten my grip, pulling her towards me with all the strength I can muster. Her face is pale, and her eyes are closed, and that’s when the real panic sets in.

“I’ve got you!” I shout, hoping she can hear me. “Hold on, Bon!”

With a tremendous effort, I get us both to the shore. The waves recede just as we stumble onto the sand, but Bon remains unresponsive. My chest tightens with fear. I quickly check her breathing—there’s a weak pulse, so I’m relieved in a way. I still have to help her regain consciousness before her pulse weakens even more.

I’m a doctor. I’ve done this countless times in practice, but nothing prepares you for the real thing, especially when it’s someone you care about. It’s like my training has evaporated in the face of raw, frantic fear. The rules I’ve followed for so long seem to blur. But somehow, it’s both the hardest and the easiest thing to do because while I act on expertise, I also act on instinct. I act on emotions, desperate to save her.

I force myself to breathe, snapping back into focus. I need to act. I tilt her head back, making sure her airway is clear. I pinch her nose shut and take a deep breath, leaning in to give her rescue breaths. I seal my lips against hers, my heart pounding in my ears as I blow air into her lungs. The sensation is strange—cold and salty, with an odd tenderness that makes my chest tighten. I watch her chest rise with each breath I give. The sand under my knees is rough and uncomfortable, but I can’t bring myself to think about that.

From my peripheral vision, I can see other doctors at a safe distance from us, ready with emergency responses like fluids, oxygen masks, and bag-valve masks, which I now realize would have been a better option than giving her mouth-to-mouth, but I was overruled by panic. I motion for them to stand by, but I have a good feeling they won’t be needed.

True enough, after several cycles, I can feel Bon’s pulse quicken and strengthen. A weak, shaky breath escapes her lips, and my heart leaps with relief. I gently roll her onto her side, allowing any remaining water to drain from her lungs. Her eyes flutter open, and I can see the confusion and fear in them. Without thinking, I hug her as she sits up. She continues to cough so I let go of her immediately. I rest a hand on her shoulder, trying to offer comfort as she struggles to regain her senses.

“Bon,” I say, my voice hoarse and trembling with emotion. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

She looks up at me, her expression unreadable. I can see the vulnerability in her eyes, the silent gratitude. Bon still isn’t talking, but I wrap her in a towel John handed me when we resurfaced. I help her up and wrap my arm around her for support.

“Are you okay? Can you walk?” I ask calmly, still holding her in my arms.

She looks at me and shakes her head. Her face is void of its usual color, and her lips are pale.

My heart aches as I see her struggle. “Bon, we need to move away from the shore.” The waves are still crashing relentlessly and it’s making me so incredibly uncomfortable. “I’ll carry you if you’re too dizzy to walk. It’s fine, really. We just need to go to the medical tent, is that okay?” I ask her reassuringly.

She just looks at me and nods silently. Before I can lift her, John approaches us.

“Let me help.” He offers to take Bon’s hand.

Instinctively, I raise a hand to stop him. “No,” I say, more forcefully than I intended. “I’ve got her.”

John insists again to let him take care of Bon, but I just can’t do that. I can’t entrust her to someone else. I don’t care anymore that Alexa is staring from a distance, I don’t let go of Bon, and she doesn’t pull away from me. We suddenly have an unspoken agreement not to let go of each other.

“Let’s get you out of here,” I murmur, scooping her up in my arms. She doesn’t protest, just leans her head against my chest, her breathing shallow and unsteady.

“Thank you,” she mutters quietly as we walk away from the beach and toward the triage tent.

“You don’t need to thank me.” I stare forward, focusing on the direction we’re moving toward.

“You hate the ocean,” she says.

“Yeah, but I don’t hate you,” I say with a light chuckle.

“And I promised I won’t need you too much.” Her voice is hoarse and quiet, nothing like her usual voice.

I remember that day in my living room when Bon was begging me to bring her along. She said she’d be invisible. She’d be a ghost—that I won’t even know she’s here. And she promised she won’t need me at all.

I stop walking and look down at her, still nestled against me. Her vulnerability is palpable, and it hits me right in the chest. “Don’t think about that,” I say, my voice steady but gentle. “Turns out, I like being needed by you.”

After bringing her to the triage tent and ensuring that Bon’s safe to walk and her vitals are stable, I take her to our room and offer her a change of clothes. I give her a pair of my shirt and pajamas because I don’t know how to choose from her pile of confusing clothing. She takes them and goes straight to the bathroom. Just as she’s about to close the door, a wave of concern washes over me.

“Wait!” I say, both of us dripping on the floor of our room. She turns to me with her eyebrows raised. “Can you–are you–do you need help? In there?”

She looks at me, her expression softening as she reads the concern etched on my face. For a moment, she seems to weigh her response, her lips parting as if to say something, then closing again. Finally, she offers a small, reassuring smile, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I’ll be okay,” she says softly, but there’s a tremor in her voice that betrays her lingering fear. “But... maybe just stay close?”

“I’ll be right outside,” I promise, not entirely convinced that I should let her out of my sight. “If you need anything, just call out.”

I wait anxiously, pacing back and forth until she gets out.

When she does, I can’t help but chuckle despite everything. Bon looks like she’s swallowed by my clothes. The pajama bottoms are rolled at the waist, and the top is rolled at the arms. She also has her hair back into that ponytail, and I smile at the sight of her. Bon smiles back and sits at the foot of her bed.

“I’ll be right back. You should rest.” Bon nods as I go to the bathroom to change my wet clothes. I close the door behind me and close my eyes.

I don’t know how something can be clear and blurry at the same time. It’s clear that I care about Bonbon. It’s clear that she is important to me. It’s clear that I find her attractive. It’s clear that my soul almost left my body when I grabbed her from the ocean.

What’s not clear is how to navigate these emotions. How do I balance the undeniable attraction I feel for her with the deep, platonic bond we’ve always shared? Maybe it’s just that. A simple attraction. Which was fueled by the kiss we shared, then amplified by her accident. I mean, it’s realistic for me to feel this jumble of feelings because of recent events. Yes, if I give this enough time, it will go away, and Bonbon will go back to being my noisy friend who doesn’t know how to keep her mouth shut. I hope.

But as I change my clothes, I think about earlier. I’ve only ever seen it in films and read it in books, but when someone you care about is at the risk of being taken from you, you fall into a spiral that both replays everything you’ve gone through while also playing a montage of all the things you’re yet to do.

And in the former, my mind conjures a slideshow of Bonbon through the years. I see her as a ten-year-old, with her braces glinting in the sunlight as she teases me about my new haircut. Her laughter, carefree and unrestrained, fills the space between us. I remember her at thirteen, her eyes sparkling with mischief as we hung out at the skating rink every Saturday, part of a tight-knit group of friends. We skated and laughed, and her playful taunts were just as memorable as the exhilaration of speeding across the rink. Then I see her at eighteen, pleading with everyone to call her by a one-syllable nickname, a small but significant detail that spoke to her desire to be treated like an adult. These memories are vivid, almost tangible, and they remind me of how much she has been a part of my life.

In the second mind montage, the scenes drift to a future that feels both distant and surprisingly personal. I see Bon in a wedding dress, walking down the aisle amidst our closest friends and family. The image is so vivid, so striking, it seems almost surreal, like a scene from a dream. I envision myself standing there beside her, my voice trembling as I confess that I can’t imagine my life without her. Her smile is radiant, reaching her eyes and etching tiny lines of joy on her face. The warmth of these images is so intense it’s hard to ignore. I shake my head at the absurdity of it all. I can’t think like that. I don’t even know why my mind went to that.

I keep telling myself that it must be a reaction to the accident. It makes sense that I’d have these emotional visions after such a close call with losing her. It’s probably just the shock and stress messing with my mind. These feelings—they’re likely just a temporary, exaggerated response to recent events. It’s not a sign of anything deeper. It’s just the aftermath of a traumatic experience, nothing more. Besides, she’s my friend. Of course, I’m worried about her.