Fall With Me Read Online Free PDF Page B

bang on the door. “Guys! Open up. I’ve got to tell you something. It’s big. You’ll want to hear this.”
    There’s a moment of silence, it’s almost unreal, like someone pressed the universal mute button or something, and then I hear one of them shout—shriek, really—and the boat lurches violently one way, then the other. I lose my footing and fall to one knee before I’m able to catch myself. There’s more screaming, followed by thunderous footsteps. The door flies open a minute later.
    “A fucking whale hit the boat!” Bandana screams. “Get your ass out here and help us!”
    They’re trying to bail the water out, but I can tell the second I get out there that the boat’s fucked. It’s going down, and it’s going down fast, and from the look on Bandana’s face, I’d be surprised if any of them can do more than the dog paddle.
    The whale is nowhere to be seen, though I’ve heard of this happening once or twice. Some juvenile whale who breached and misjudged the distance between here and there. Like driving after you’ve skied, or on one too many hits of LSD. Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.
    I dive into the water. It’s cold but tolerable, and I don’t think they even notice that I’m gone. I don’t look back.
    I swim.
    I swam competitively all throughout school, not because I particularly loved it but because I was good at it and also because girls can’t resist a swimmer’s body. The broad shoulders, narrow waist, the tight, toned muscles. So while my parents thought I was doing it for the glory of all those championships, really, I was doing it for the glory of being with all those girls, and yes, there were plenty of them.
    This is what I think about as I swim. What I try not to think about is the fact that I could be going in the wrong direction and may never see solid ground again, or that I might be headed straight for a shark or an infestation of jellyfish. No, I push those thoughts to the very back of my mind and instead think of Sadie-Heather-Jen-Tara-Gwen-Alexa-Nicole . . . the list could go on forever . . .
    I stop periodically. Tread water. Dead man’s float. If something about my situation doesn’t change soon, that’s exactly what I’ll be, dead man floating. The sun is setting. My lips are dry, cracking, my muscles ache, but they’re nowhere near failing. These babies can go all night, and it’s looking like they’re going to have to. My brain buzzes from lack of sleep, but this isn’t the first time yours truly has had to do something completely strung out.
    Other things I think about aside from the girls: this alleged confession my father needs to make, worth approximately the same value as 7.2 million dollars and his son’s life. Or maybe worth more than that.
    My father is the CEO, president, and chairman of the Concord Frazier Group, a multinational conglomerate holding company. CFG owns a few airlines, several insurance companies, several more manufacturers, and a popular soft drink company. They even jumped on the natural food craze bandwagon a few years ago with Organica, that whole food company that touts itself as being “as natural as if you just dug it out of the ground, but as convenient as if you just pulled it out of the microwave.”
    My relationship with my father wasn’t always so contentious. Somewhere, in some forgotten-about desk drawer somewhere, there might even be a photograph or two of Dad and I. Look, there I am, seven years old, at Yankees Stadium, Cam, ten years old, sandwiched between me and Dad. Or at nine, on Dad’s yacht, me with a huge grin on my face because I love being out on the water, Dad trying to look like he’s not about to toss his cookies.
    Something happened, though, right around the time I turned thirteen. Maybe it’s because I grew taller than him, or because my voice got deeper than his, or any number of things, but one day it seemed like Dad woke up and decided he just didn’t like me anymore. He