Page 124 of As a Last Resort
I couldn’t stop laughing.Hysterically laughing.Check me into a mental institution laughing with tears rolling down my face.And I couldn’t stop.
“Why are you laughing?”His beautiful brows pulled together like he was offended he wasn’t in on the joke.
“I’m just sorry to hear things didn’t work out with Sunflower, that’s all.”
“Sunflower?”
“Yeah, let’s just call it a day on this one.For good.”
“You sure?It’s spring roll night at our pho place.I was on my way there anyway.”
“You know, I don’t like spring rolls.They actually upset my stomach.”
“We ate there every Sunday night for six months.”He chuckled and took a step toward me.
“I know.”I stepped back.
He took a step forward again and tilted his head in such an endearing way.“You love pho.”
I laughed, but this time it was small and came out as a huff.Why had I played it safe for so long?If I didn’t like pho, it would mess up our weekly routine.And God forbid anything I do unsettle anyone else because then maybe I wouldn’t fit here.Or with him.And it would be scary to not belong here.I was supposed to be here.“I’m going to go.Good luck with everything, Jack.”
“You sure?”he asked again.
“Yeah, I think that’s the right call here.”
“Okay then.See you around, Samantha.”He turned and walked away.I didn’t get a bit of satisfaction when he looked back and slowed for just a second.
And then, my hospital-grade laughter turned to tears.Tears that refused to stop flowing.I went to lean against the wall but there was something that looked brown and gooey oozing down it.The city smelled like a dirty pipe and everything just looked wet.A man walked by me and saw me crying, then took a step in the other direction instead of asking me if I was okay.That’s New York for you.
And I missed Austin.
ImissedAustin.And it was a sharp feeling.Grief has a way of dulling out eventually.It’s still there, and it hurts, but you start to build things around it.You start to color experiences near it and one day, Dad’s still not there, but it doesn’t stab like it used to.
But remembering the way Austin’s skin felt against mine sliced through me so fast I didn’t feel it at first, then I couldn’t breathe.It seared me.
I missed his smell and his eyes and his laughter.I missed the way when I opened my eyes in the morning, he was already looking at me, smiling.His bacon was better than the five-star chefs down thestreet.I missed the way he buttered every single inch of my toast.I missed how my face flushed whenever he caught me looking at him.I missed that little muscle on his forearm that popped up whenever he didanything.I had no idea an arm could be so sexy.
I lay in bed that night, eyes wide open.The sound of rubber rolling down the wet street and rowdy patrons, their morning regrets still just great ideas, floated in through my window.How did I ever sleep with so much noise?
I sat up and looked out my window.A young man was kicking a can down the street and singing “chim chim cheroo.”I looked around the city,mycity, and for the first time in seven years, felt like I didn’t belong.
Too many conflicting scenes played when I shut my eyes, so I opened my laptop instead.My Google search page was filled with pictures from Rock Island.
I clicked on one of the Birchwood Beach.The article explained how with the water levels being at an all-time low, it uncovered this beach only a few years ago.Water levels were continuing to recede, uncovering lots of treasures no one knew about underneath the water.
I clicked through a few photos.There was one of a few teenage boys hanging off a high branch.A few family photos, everyone in white and chambray, smiling for the camera.There was one shot far away of a man on one knee, and a woman with her hands clasped over her mouth.It was taken by a photographer hidden somewhere.The trees surrounded them at low tide, their branches reaching out around them like a timber cage protecting their sweet moment.In the far distance, a lighthouse poked through the bushes on the beach.
Wait.A lighthouse?
I clicked on the photo and tried to enlarge it, but it was too pixelated.I cleared the search bar and typed inRock Island Lighthouse.The page popped up with only a few hits.The first was an old sepia toned picture of the lighthouse that looked to be from when it was first built.Its shutters were dark against the white wooden siding and a small porch wrapped around the building.Sand dunes surrounded the house, standing tall reaching up to the sky like brushstrokes.
The second was an article about the possible renovation of the lighthouse back in the early fifties.Ideas started snowballing in my head.
I reached for my phone.
ME:Have you ever been to the lighthouse at the Birchwood Beach?
LEXI:Is this your idea of an apology?
