Page 11 of More With You

I guess I’ll turn my ringer up and answer every unknown caller until it’s her on the line and I hear her voice again. In the meantime, my search will continue, even if it means stopping at every back porch I can find.

Wish me luck.

5

SUMMER

Three days. For three whole days Ben’s number has sat on my bedside table, taunting me. If someone put a gun to my head and asked me why I haven’t called, I wouldn’t be able to answer. Actually, that’s not true. I would, but I wouldn’t want to answer. See, I’m really not a dater. I’ve dabbled once or twice, sure, but nothing in the realm of “serious.” And there’s a part of me that knows that when I do reach out to him, that will be it. It’s going to be something… real. I felt it on the beach that night; an intangible thread thrumming between us, electric and vibrant. A thread of unknown opportunity, experience, and adventure. A thread of life as I don’t yet know it. And I keep having to ask myself, am I ready for that?

My solitude is sacred to me. When you’ve had a childhood where silence is non-existent, and there are always strangers in your house, opening your door and apologizing because they “thought it was the bathroom,” even though they clearly didn’t, you learn to crave aloneness. For the years I’ve been out here on my own, I haven’t felt the need to date or swipe right or hang around local bars on a weekend, seeing what comes my way, because I know how it ends.

I look at the piece of paper, creased with countless folding and unfolding. “What happens if I let you in?” I whisper, as if that note holds all the secrets of my future.

One thing is for sure, if I call Ben and give it a shot, I’m going to have to lower that shield and give my defenses a break from their constant guard duty. Not only that, but I’ll have to allow myself to be part of something. A team. Now, I don’t do teams. I do me. It’s why I’m pretty much friendless, aside from people like Ms. T, who emanate independence of their own and don’t need my validation. Friends like friends they can rely on, and friends who rely on them. I guess my brand of “I’m not fixing your shit for you” rubs most people the wrong way, but they don’t understand that I fulfilled my fixing quota in the first sixteen years of my life, and I have no energy for it anymore.

I guess I’m a certified, card-carrying loner. Always have been. But, will I always be? Not if I call Ben. That’s what scares me.

* * *

Sitting out on the porch steps, coffee in hand, my phone resting on the wooden boards with the piece of paper pinned under it, I inhale the scent of fresh fallen rain. The rain itself doesn’t have a smell, but it brings the perfumes of nature to life in a way that’s unmatched, as far as I’m concerned. It’s heady and earthy and slightly metallic, with sweet notes of damp wood and cement and asphalt that remind me of splashing in puddles when I was little.

From the steps, I look left, to where a border of hunched, salt and sun-bleached oaks separates my private world from the grounds of the larger house that this cottage belongs to. I rarely see my landlord, and we both prefer it that way. I can pretend this house is mine, while he gets his rent on-time and doesn’t need to bother me.

Why did I bring out his number if I’m not going to use it? I glance down at the phone, pondering. What if I text him right now? I have to head to work in a couple of hours, so there’ll be no pressure to hang around if it doesn’t go well. I can just make my excuses and leave for work early. See, this is the problem—I’m already thinking of my escape strategy before I’ve even texted the guy.

I pick up the phone and tap the edge lightly against my top lip. “If he shows up, then it’s meant to be. If he doesn’t, it wasn’t,” I tell myself. “I’m not calling, though.”

The way I see it, there are two possibilities here: either he’s stopped waiting for me to get in touch, or it’ll be a pleasant surprise for him when I make contact. If it’s the former, there’s no harm done. I can block his number and remember him as a good guy who saved me from Levi, one time. And if I ever see him around town, I can smile and wave and wallow in a self-pity party of “what ifs.” If he replies, on the other hand… I’m not going to think about that now, or I’ll lose my nerve and never send this damn text.

Hey. I’ll be on the beach by the yacht club at 12:30 today. S.

I think about adding a cheeky kiss, but the period gives a more “whatever” vibe. I don’t know if that’s the vibe I’m actually going for, considering I really want to see him again, but with a push of the little arrow button, it’s too late to change it.

Of course, I’ll drive myself mad if I keep my phone on, waiting for a reply that might not come. Before I turn it off, I look at the time. 11:50. Plenty of time to get to the yacht club and freak out a couple of times on the way.

Taking a deep breath, I switch off the phone and head back inside to grab my uniform, so I can go straight to work after I’ve been to the beach. On my way back out of the cottage, I pause by the mirror near the door—an antique, “distressed” brass oval with a few scratches and cracks that gave some previous owner their seven years’ bad luck—and tidy my hair into a loose bun, just in case Ben shows.

That done, I walk out to my car, my heart already firmly lodged in my throat.

* * *

The midday heat and humidity, thick from the dispersed rain, is making it difficult to breathe as I look back at the sidewalk for the fiftieth time. Still, at least it’s hiding the nervous sweat that’s beading on my brow, and the strained breaths of not knowing if he’s coming or not.

I dig my toes into the damp sand and check my watch. It’s exactly 12:37 and there’s still no sign of him. Countless scenarios ricochet through my head: he’s being fashionably late to get revenge for the three days I made him wait; he got my text and didn’t know who “S” was; he’s busy and he’s replied, but I haven’t seen his message because I refuse to turn on my phone; he figured he wasn’t into this chasing fate stuff and isn’t playing the game anymore. Whichever reason it is, I think this is my sign, telling me it wasn’t meant to be.

Never mind, I tell myself, though I do mind and I don’t want it to be a “never” situation. Anyway, I’m here now and my shift doesn’t start until two, so I have some time to kill. The bosses would love it if I turned up early and gave them a free hour-and-a-half of my time, but I’m not feeling so generous.

Spreading out the towel I absentmindedly grabbed from my car’s trunk, I lie back on the sand and fold my tank top up over my chest to reveal my midsection. Might as well work on my tan, though no one but me is going to see it. Well, me and the rest of the folks on the beach today.

How old am I? I laugh at myself, realizing I’m dressed like a Panama Beach spring-breaker in my cut-offs and rolled-up tank. All I need is some glow-paint on my cheeks and I’d fit right in. Still, I’m comfortable, and comfort beats style any day.

My head molds into the warm sand, and I close my eyes, trying to relax into the peace of the moment: the gulls wheeling, the children laughing somewhere down the beach, the ting-ting of boat lines pinging against the masts. Gradually, my anxiety over sending that text begins to ebb with the tide itself. Sure, I’m disappointed, but I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a niggle of relief, too. My charted course has not gone adrift, I have not been diverted by a handsome Siren that could wreck me on the rocks of a relationship, and my independence continues to steer me true.

I roll my head to the side and squint against the glare of the sun bouncing off the sand. You’d never know there’d been a downpour less than an hour ago. That’s the way of the South, and I’m not sure I’d have it any different.

Well, that’s just showing off. In the distance, I spy a lone person jogging along the beach. I can tell it’s a man from his size and gait, but he must have a screw loose to be running at this hour, in this humidity. I guess he’s probably one of those endurance athletes—marathons, triathlons, all the -ons.

Figuring it’s none of my business what other people do with their lunch breaks, so long as he doesn’t swing a bucket of sweat at me when he crosses my part of the beach, I close my eyes and resume my peaceful tanning, wishing I’d brought a hat.

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