Page 9 of The Beachgoers
“Youcan’tbe serious.”
A pause, then, “He’s just playing you, Ell.”
Kyle leans closer, listening to Lauren’s whispered words before he insists, “Neil likes a good time.”
Before he argues, “Come on. Don’tdothis Lauren.”
Before he reasons, “Lookat me. We’ll go back to my apartment, okay? We can talk there, all right?”
But it doesn’t work, Kyle’s insistence. And arguing. And reasoning.
At least, not gauging by Lauren’s reaction. She quickly shakes her head. And she pulls her hand free from Kyle’s hold. When she does, when she takes off that diamond ring and reaches across the seat to give it to him, Kyle just sits back and looks out through the windshield. But she presses on, leaning over and trying to put the engagement ring in his clenched hand.
To no avail.
Kyle shakeshishead—as though hewon’tbe a part of this. As though he won’t believe her words. Won’t reduce their relationship to this pathetic curbside breakup.
Lauren persists, though. She silently sets that diamond ring on his truck dashboard, opens the passenger door and walks away, first. Until she clasps her mouth and trots the remaining steps to the front door of her family’s home.
Kyle looks only out the windshield and doesn’t watch her go. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Not until a full minute passes and he turns on the truck, puts it in gear and drives away.
* * *
Moments later—just blocks from Lauren’s house—Kyle can’tstopmoving. Can’t stop his shuddering shoulders as he parks in front of some random two-story colonial and simply sobs. Folds his arms on top of the steering wheel, rests his head on those arms and fights his emotion. Fights his tight throat, his jagged breathing.
As quickly as they come on, they subside—those sobs. And as soon as he’s got a handle on things, he swats at his damp face. Looking around then, he lifts his cell phone from the console and calls a number in his contacts. But there’s not enough cell service, so he flings open his truck door and gets out. Wearing those madras shorts and navy polo shirt, he holds up the phone and checks for bars of service. Still looking, he walks around his truck once, then again. Finally, his call goes through.
“Come on, Jason. Pick up, pick up, pickup.” When he circles behind his truck a third time, he drops the phone in his pocket. “Shit,” he says, climbing back in behind the wheel and taking off in the direction of Stony Point this time.
* * *
As Kyle drives the winding beach roads, no doubt the salt air stings more than it soothes. You can see that in the way he drags a finger around the collar of his shirt; in the deep breaths he takes; in the way he hits the steering wheel. Finally, he parks outside an imposing gabled cottage. It rises like a gothic silhouette against the night sky. And in the shadows on its front porch, Kyle repeatedly knocks at the front door. “Comeon, Jason. Whereareyou?” he asks under his breath before walking around to the barn in back.
But he doesn’t find Jason there, either.
He finds Neil.
So every which way Kyle Bradford turns, his life spirals—all in one night.
And it’s like he’s trapped, spinning this way first, then that. After storming through the backyard, he ends up on the Barlow bluff overlooking Long Island Sound. The rising moon drops a swath of silver on the dark water. Moored boats and a passing tug are merely black shadows out on the sea.
But sitting on the stone bench there, Kyle sees none of it. It seems he’s only seeing red, evidenced by the words he tosses out.
Kyle’s angry words telling Neil,Twenty-seven years old and you’ve got it made. Living in your parents’ God damn beach house with a million-dollar view, great job working with your brother.
His:How much happiness do you need? Mine, too?
His:Do you know how hard I work? I’m a steelworker. I bust my ass for everything. And every backbreaking minute of it is for Lauren.
His:You could’ve stopped it.You knew what you were doing. One of my best friends.
And from there, his words threaten.
“I hate you so much.” From where he sits, Kyle bends down and picks up a broken tree branch, hitting it in his hand. “I’d beat theshitout of you, man—but I don’t trust that I wouldn’t kill you.”
“Hey, hey.” Neil’s standing in darkness beside the bench. “Just calm down, Kyle.”
“Don’t you dare tell me to calmdown, asshole.” Kyle stands, whips that branch over the bluff, and sits on the bench again. “I didn’t come here to talk to you anyway, sofuckoff.”
