Page 15 of More With You

After enjoying my morning coffee, a long shower, and my diligent rounds of watering the jungle of houseplants that cover almost every available surface of my cottage, to the point where some wilder ones have started creeping up the walls, I end up back in my bedroom. Well, the small storage area to the back of my bedroom that I single-handedly transformed into a closet.

Somehow, it’s already nine o’clock, and I have no idea where the time went. I haven’t done anything, really. Clearly, time itself is as excited about the coming day as I am. Now, all I need to do is find the perfect outfit, which is easier said than done when I don’t have a clue what we’re doing today. Being mysterious and vague is all well and good and, yes, crazy romantic, until it comes to fashion. He’ll probably be in some variation of shorts or jeans and a t-shirt, maybe with a fleece thrown over the top. I have similar, but I don’t want to look all matchy-matchy.

I flick through the rack for way too long, before settling on a powder blue maxi skirt with tiny daisies embroidered all over it and buttons up the front, and a white tank top. It’s chic, it’s casual, and I’m not going to have a Marilyn moment if the wind picks up. My standard issue Birkenstocks finish the look.

“Not bad,” I say, checking my reflection in the long mirror that stands opposite my bed. My makeup is fresh and dewy, my blonde hair is loose, though there’s a hair tie on my wrist in case it starts bugging me. You’d never know I’d been rudely awoken.

Stuffing keys, wallet, phone, lip balm, and a couple extra hair ties into a small, woven straw purse that I picked up at a secondhand shop in town, I head out. It’s not far to Bayou Bend, and I could easily cycle it, but I take my car instead so I can calm my jittery nerves with some music and the sea breeze whipping through the windows, without turning my hair from tousled to unmanageable.

What’s the surprise? I’m curious as the distance whips by, and a jay sweeps between the boughs of the live oaks that stand sentinel on either side of the road. A novice at dating, no one has ever planned something for me before. It worries me a bit. In my life, surprises have tended to be of the nastier kind, but I trust Ben. He wouldn’t drag me out of bed if it wasn’t worth it, right?

Pausing just before the Bayou Bridge, I make the last right before the water severs the land, and drive down the crunching gravel and dirt track that ends at a shack. The rickety structure, so bleached by the sun and salt that it looks like it was built from driftwood, sits on the very edge of the waterway, probably too close for building standards, but the Bayou Bend isn’t going anywhere. Honestly, I don’t know which came first, the bridge or the shack, but I do know that the body of water they share isn’t technically a bayou. I guess it’s one of those southern things, slapping “bayou” on any stretch of water that hasn’t already been called something else. I don’t mind it. “Bayou” has always been one of those words that sounds magical and mystical to me: the home of fireflies, swamp dwellers, witches, myths and secrets.

I’ve been here a few times for a beer at sunset. It’s a nice spot to perch and watch the boats go by, if you can make the right stab in the dark about when it’s going to be open. The owners don’t post hours and only seem to operate when they’re in the mood to have a beer themselves. I can admire that.

Pulling into the patch of gravel that serves as a parking lot, I notice my Honda Civic isn’t alone. There’s a motorcycle parked diagonally, close to the land-facing veranda of the Bayou Bend. I push my sunglasses up like a headband, to get a better look at the vehicle. Last time I saw it it was in the dark of night and I was too distracted with Ben’s arrival and Levi’s crudeness. Looking now, I see it’s a huge, maroon-red bike with curved metal shells that conceal half of each wheel, colored in a contrasting cream shade, and a robust tan leather seat with matching saddlebags (at least, that’s what I think they’re called). Two thick, black prongs connect the handlebars to the front wheel, and “Indian” is emblazoned on the side, which means nothing to me, but it looks impressive.

Here. I shoot him a text and turn off my engine.

The phone buzzes immediately. Be out in 5.

I raise an eyebrow at the message. Does he want me to be out in five, or is he coming to get me? Deciding to meet him halfway, I nudge my sunglasses back down over my eyes, and sling my bag across my body, before getting out.

I’m leaning back on the hood of my car, enjoying the sunshine, when I see Ben up on the Bayou Bridge, walking in my direction. He waves a hand, as if asking me to join him up there. My gaze drifts across the bridge to the shoreline, looking for a walkway from the bar. I spot one, though it’s overgrown and probably isn’t authorized, and head up to him.

“What are you doing up here?” I yell into the wind, hesitantly loitering at the head of the bridge. It’s not safe with all the cars driving by. Sure, it’s a beautiful spot to view the meandering waterways, but you don’t normally see anyone walking.

I glance left and right, spying a large fishing boat cutting through the water, coming directly at the bridge from my left side. It seems a bit late in the morning to be sailing out for a catch, but that’s Gulf life: people that live here do things on their own time, and that time is usually slower than the rest of the country. No judgment. I happen to like the slower pace. I just wish the casinos had gotten the memo.

“Come on! Hurry up!” Ben must have seen the boat too, because he stops where he is on the shoulder that he’s using as his personal walkway. His waves become more insistent.

Taking a breath, I break into a jog, praying none of the cars swerve at me. Bayou Bridge isn’t what I’d call big, but it still curves at an incline, and my calves are burning within half a minute of trying to get to Ben. Still, I persevere, increasing my pace until I’m pretty much running. Dressed in a tight gray tee, loose jeans, and a ballcap, Ben is the reward waiting for me at the end of this race against myself.

“Are you crazy?” I gasp, reaching him.

He grins and grabs my hand, before turning back the way he’d come, pulling me with him along the bridge. I’m too out of breath to question his sanity any further or ask any questions about what we’re doing up here, and it feels nice to have my hand in his. Safe. Even with the cars passing us by, their tires thudding out a bah-dum, bah-dum, reflecting the same beat of my heart.

Halfway across, Ben suddenly stops, and swings open the door of the booth that keeps watch over the waterways and cars. He pulls me inside before I know what’s happening, and I’m left panting as I take in the small, enclosed surroundings. The earthy, slightly chemical scent of oil paint mingles with the salt of the ocean breeze and the metallic aroma of the beach, that clings to my skin. A little easel takes up one corner of the bright space, and my mouth falls open as I admire the canvas leaning on it. It’s a carbon copy of the view beyond the windows, painted by skillful hands, no detail missing, not even the front bumper of a car that’s peeked into the canvas. It must have been there when the artist first started to sketch it out.

Wait… Ben isn’t the day guy. I’ve seen the day guy. Though, I guess I don’t usually cross the bridge early enough for Ben’s shift. I could smack myself. I’d always assumed the easel in the booth belonged to the day guy, since it vanished by evening. Apparently, it had been Ben’s all along. Maybe, the night guy didn’t like having it left out.

“Welcome to my little slice of heaven,” Ben says proudly.

It’s all so beautiful, and I’m struggling to find words to describe it.

He hesitates, searching my face. “Do you like it?”

“Ben, this is absolutely gorgeous. I mean… this view!” I find my voice, at last. Beaming from ear to ear, I take a step closer to the painting in the corner, needing a better look. “Did you do this? Is this yours?”

If so, I’m going to be more in awe of this man than before, and I was already pretty awestruck.

He comes to stand next to me, eyeing the piece. “I’m nearly done with my series.”

“Series?”

He nods. “I’ve done a painting at every degree of this booth. This is 351. Nine more to go.” There’s a melancholy in his voice that jars against the bright, admiring smile on my face.

“Wait. 360 paintings?” I spin in a full circle, taking it all in. “Is every angle different?”

---