Page 2 of Peripheral Vision

“Be thankful for it, girl. Cause you are F-I-N-E, fine.” She drags out the “fine” before saying, “Love you. Call me if you need anything. Oh, and send pics!”

“It’s a funeral, T, not a runway show.”

“It doesn’t mean you can’t look your best. Especially while you aren’t feeling your best. You gotta make up for it somewhere. Look good, feel good.” She has a point. She’s always looking her best; with the extra attention she gives to her appearance. Her toasted brown skin seems to glow with an inner warmth, especially now during her pregnancy. It’s like her skin absorbs every bit of light, reflecting it back in a way that’s almost mesmerizing. Her hair is always styled, framing her face just right, her outfits effortlessly chic, chosen to flatter her changing body. Even on days when she’s tired, there’s a radiance to her that’s hard to ignore and easy to envy.

“Love you too. I’ll text you later.” I turn to leave and bump right into said tallest man I’ve ever seen. Mortified, I keep my eyes averted, where they don’t even reach his shoulders. I can feel his gaze penetrating the top of my head, his chest steady with his breath against the cascade of my own. Goosebumps break out over my flesh before a deep rumble in his throat breaks the silence we found ourselves in.

“I’m so sorry. I hope I didn’t spill your coffee.” I look to both sides and see where he is still holding it steady. Of course I didn’t spill it. It’s like me trying to pull Excalibur from its stone. Immovable. “I—I’ll get out of your way,” I stutter, and run out of there before I embarrass myself further.

Rushing down the sidewalk, I pull the light jacket I’m wearing over my tank top off, to rid my body of whatever extra heat had taken over when I bumped into the stranger. Sweat trails down my back in little rivulets and I use my jacket to dab at my neck. It’s been so long since I’ve been with a guy that I’ve seemingly forgotten how to act around them, age be damned. But there was also something enigmatic—something electric in the air charged around us that felt different from interactions I’ve had with guys in the past. I’m blaming Thea for bringing his attention to us in the first place. But God, the man hadn’t even spoken and he made my body sing in harmony with his in the matter of a few seconds. Completely domineering and intimidating in a way that even the SEALS I surround myself with on a daily basis don’t possess. I hadn’t even gotten a good look at his face, and yet…

The bell to the dress shop rings, snapping me out of my thoughts. The clerk behind the counter looks up and says, “Welcome in. Let me know if there is anything I can help you find.” I nod at her and make my way toward the back where I know the black dresses are. Everything in this shop is color-coded, making it more inviting. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve come here to buy new items for my wardrobe when I’ve been dying of absolute boredom. Usually that, or a local bookstore. Maybe not the best way to spend my time, as demanding as my school schedule is, but God forbid I stare at a computer screen every hour of the day. That is the one thing I’m so grateful to be transferring to Virginia Tech in person for. It won’t feel so… robotic.

I scan several racks of black dresses before my eyes settle on a black half-sleeve that I pull off the rack and take to a dressing room to try on. It’s classy without overdoing it and falls to about mid-thigh on me. It’s a crew neck and is fitted around the waist where the top meets the sheath of the dress, which has several front pleats with an overlapping hem. I don’t need to try on any more to know this is the dress I want to wear. Plus, I have the advantage of being able toreuse it in the future. After getting redressed, I take the dress and check out before making my way home. As soon as I step out on the sidewalk, the sensation as though I’m being watched washes over me, and trickles down my spine like a spider. I look in both directions before shaking my head. “Jesus, maybe I should see about getting a sleeping prescription.” I blow out a breath and make my way to my truck, where it is parked several blocks away. It’s still about midday and I’m not quite sure what to do with myself. I suppose I could go to the local bookshop and see if I find anything that tickles my fancy. I’m just not used to having this much free time, and I’m not sure that I like it. I appreciate having the bereavement from school… but still. If I spend too much time without doing anything, the thoughts will start to creep in, and they won’t be kind to me. Even less so now that I’m sleep deprived.

I often wonder if I got that trait from my mother—the self-deprecation, the depression, the anxiety. The onslaught of negativity that impacts my daily life, but I never let it show because it wouldn’t be the depiction of who my father thought he raised. Instead, I lose myself to whatever I can fill my day with. Most people would look at me and talk about how motivated and driven I am. They don’t understand half of it or the ‘why’. Or maybe it just simply has to do with the fact that a part of my subconscious remembers the hell of what it was apparently like when I was born. My dad often explained to me that watching me was the most helpless he’s ever felt. I was in the NICU for six months after being born prematurely and much too little. I suffered seizures and had issues breathing and feeding. He had told me once I was old enough to remember that he wasn’t sure I was going to pull through. Mom had been on heroin, fentanyl, even dabbled in meth, and he had no idea because he had been gone for a large duration of the pregnancy. I’m surprised I don’t have residual issues to be honest. Although, I have found myself wondering what drives somebody to use, let alone use when they’re pregnant. That’s one of the only answers I never got. Any time I tried to ask questions, Dad would shut down.

That’s the only time he would shut down. And after a while I just learned to stop asking because I could tell that he was in pain too.

I make it back to my truck; a pretty, white, eight-year-old Ford F-150, and place the dress in the back seat before closing the door and deciding to walk to the bookstore. I hit the lock button on my key fob as I walk away and wait for the notorious beep letting me know that it is, indeed, secure. I hit it again for good measure. Not that I have anything worth stealing besides a few empty water bottles and snack wrappers, but old habits die hard. It’s one of the many that was instilled in me. Halfway to the bookstore I realize I should’ve also left my jacket with the dress because the heat is becoming unbearable in the Virginia afternoon sun. This time of year sucks. Cool enough in the mornings to pull a long sleeve on, but hot enough in the afternoon to remind you that summer isn’t quite done with us yet, even as we roll into fall. Hello September. It’s sweltering, even where it’s tied off on my hips over my cut-offs. Fortunately, the AC that greets me a few minutes later is my saving grace.

I breathe in deeply, inhaling the scent of pages both weathered and new, as I determine what to buy. The owner, Delia, a sweet older lady in her sixties who also happens to know me by name, greets me.

“Oh, Dylan, I heard about your father. I’m so sorry. How are you holding up?” She approaches me to give me a hug, which I gladly return. I’m not much for physical touch from others, but have a select few people I don’t mind it from, Delia being one of them.

“As can be expected. I’m not entirely convinced he’s gone yet. I just don’t feel like it’s maybe hit me the way news like that would be expected to affect someone. I’m not sure how to answer that. Is that horrible? You’d think I’d be swimming in my own tears right now. But more than anything, I think I’m just afraid.” She releases me from the hug, only moving her hands to grip the sides of my arms.

“Grief is not a linear process, Dylan. Everybody does it in their own way, in their own time. I don’t think there is a rhyme or reason for its stages. But if there is one thing I can leave you with, it’s this… Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak whispers the o'er-fraught heart and bids it break.”

“Macbeth…” I smile grimly.

“Please know you do not have to go through this alone. I know that not everybody you desired to come to the funeral is, but you still have other people who care about you and your well-being, and who loved your father. Regardless of whatever it is that you may be feeling… you can always come visit with me and I’ll listen. Or I’m always happy to come to you. You’ve been coming here long enough; I’ve taken a decent liking to ya.” She winks, bringing a strained laugh to my throat. “Just don’t sit in the shadows and wither away. Whether you vocalize exactly what it is affecting you or whether you talk about the things that make you happy, anything is better than nothing. It’s a path forward.”

“Thank you, Del.” She drops her hands from my side completely.

“Anytime, dear. Now go pick out several books, they’re on the house.”

Lifting my brows I ask, “Won’t the owner have a problem with that?”

“What the owner doesn’t know won’t hurt her.” She chuckles as she walks to the back, leaving me to the shelves and the few patrons that wander about.

Twenty minutes later, I approach the checkout with four new books in hand and not a clue where I’m going to put them. Not when I’ve already started slowly packing away my things in lieu of the fact that I’ll ideally be moving soon. Granted, I don’t even know the kind of space I’ll have when I do that. But right now, I’m only focused on drowning out the roaring in my head and the loneliness in my soul, and a good book is one of the few ways I know how to do that.

Picking up and scanning one of my books, Delia expresses her delight at the choice. “This one is delightful. Nothing but pure filth. Brings me back to my youth, if you know what I mean,” she says, wagging her brows at me. I’m pretty positive I turn bright red at the innuendo. Dirty old woman.

“Your husband is a lucky man, Del.”

She scans the next three books, placing them in a bag before handing me my gifts. “And I make sure he knows it. Have a good day, dear. Remember, don’t be afraid to reach out your hand.”

“Thank you. I’m actually leaving for Virginia Tech once everything is wrapped up with the funeral and I have my I’s dotted and T’s crossed to make it work. But I promise I will come and see you before then, and I’ll be back to visit hopefully.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” she says as she turns to the next customer in line and begins to ring them up.

I return to my truck, unlock it, and climb into the front seat, placing my bag of books on the passenger side before looking at the clock. I take the opportunity of the few hours of daylight left to go to the beach, putting off my other responsibilities, like looking for a place to live and making sure I actually eat something. I stroll up and down the coast watching other families, my heart suddenly aching for my lack of one, at the knowledge that it’s only Alaska and I now, when I suddenly recognize what my fear is from. It isn’t only the fear of moving on without my dad in my life, but the fact that I know when reality does hit me, it’s going to hurt like a bitch. And that in and of itself makes me afraid to let anyone in. Because letting someone in offers the price and the pain of losing them, too.

I kick at the sand as a breeze causes a shiver to roll over me, and I realize that I’ve lost more time than I anticipated as the sun starts to begin its descent to the horizon. Inhaling a deep breath of the sweet and salty air, I put my jacket back on before I head home.

It’s roughlya twenty-minute drive from the beach back to military housing. As I get out of my truck, the sky is covered in shades of pinks and purples as night gets ready to make an appearance. I grabthe bag of books from the passenger seat, and as I open the door to the back, I notice that my dress is missing. It didn’t just fall off the seat onto the floor, no. It's not in the truck at all, and it certainly didn’t fall out when I opened the door. “Where the hell is it?” I could have sworn I locked the door.I know I did.But my truck doesn’t show signs of anyone breaking in either and nothing else is missing or out of place.So maybe I didn’t? I am losing my mind.I scratch my head, double and triple checking again before slamming the door and marching to my house. Unlocking the front door, which I most definitely did lock, I pull out my cell phone and dial Thea.

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