Page 8 of More With You

What is she running from?

The question repeated, over and over, on my walk back from the bar, and it’s still repeating now that I’m home. I might take another walk, actually. I’m in the mood, now. My legs need to stretch away the agitation of this weird, unexpected evening. Honestly, before, with her, I would’ve walked for as long as the sand held out, if she hadn’t turned us back.

Summer. No last name. I mean, I know she has one, but I don’t know it. As much a mystery to me as the rest of her. I can’t help but smile, thinking of her: the parts I know, the parts I don’t. Beautifully sad, or sadly beautiful; I’m not sure which. Like a firefly trapped in a jar, she was… radiant, but there was something under the surface, dulling her shine. No, that’s not the right word. Restraining her shine might be better. A gray blanket of sadness, covering up her firefly glow.

I want to untangle her from it. She didn’t say much about her past, but she didn’t have to. It’s about filling in the lines and reading in her expression what her lips can’t say. She probably didn’t even know that she was saying so much with her silence. I saw a past that she doesn’t want to remember, filled with shame and regret and pain. The kind you want to run away from and never look back. Maybe she doesn’t even know she’s running; she just knows she doesn’t want to return.

“Find me…” That was what she said, and I’ve been whispering the words to myself ever since, as I sit here in my garden writing this, gazing out at the water and following it all the way to the black horizon, where even the stars are blotted out.

I don’t know how I’m going to pull it off, but I have to see her again. See the way her honey blonde hair shines in the sun. See the way her eyes widen and glitter with happiness when I show her the islands, and finally learn their color. Kiss her until the sadness fades, and the gray cloud rolls away from her glow, so she can shine the way she deserves to.

Her eyes… The night sky and the shadowed beach veiled their color from me. It’s the first mystery I’ve got to solve; the color of her eyes. I probably won’t sleep tonight trying to figure out the puzzle. Are they a vivid green, like the sea glass I find on the island? Or blue, maybe, like the water around the barrier islands on a summer afternoon? Could they be gray like the Sound reflecting thunderclouds? A light brown, even, like the feathers of a wild turkey? All I know is they’re light colored, with a dark ring of black around the iris. In a way, knowing a piece of the puzzle is more infuriating than not knowing anything at all.

“Find me.”

I have to smile at the memory of her odd goodbye. It certainly left an impression. She told me that if it’s meant to be, I will find her. Well, I found her once; I’m sure I can find her again. The only problem is she got here six months ago. What if it takes another six to find her again?

I could ask Levi which casino she works in, but I don’t want him meddling further. I already got a text from my mother saying she heard I was “seen with someone” and I can only assume that came directly from Levi. He reports to her like he’s her henchman or something. I’m so sick of him. He’s inserted himself into my family’s life enough and I don’t want to go in every casino on the coast when she lives in this very town. She’s close. I know it.

I am going to have a lot of sleepless nights, trying to solve the mystery of her eyes… and the sadness lingering behind them.

4

SUMMER

“I love it here,” I murmur to myself, pedaling at a leisurely pace.

When I left Wisconsin and headed south, I didn’t really have much of a plan. I went from place to place, climbing my way up some kind of ladder, though it wasn’t always obvious what ladder I was climbing. In the first couple of cities, I worked in bars and restaurants, hating every minute. Then, I landed my first casino job. Having an obvious knack for it, someone recommended me for a different casino in a different city, and the cycle continued until, four-and-a-half years later, my travels ended at the Gulf Coast. For now, at least.

Cycling on, I pick up speed, eager to get to my little slice of heaven so I can see what new releases Ms. Thibodeaux, the bookshop owner, who I adoringly call “Ms. T”, has for me. I pass by small coffee shops, ripe with the tempting scent of fresh coffee, and pretty boutiques that sell everything from seaside souvenirs, to designer clothes, to beautiful, expensive handmade pottery that, one day, I’ll have in my cabinets. The picturesque restaurants are overflowing with the lunch crowd, and my mouth waters at the sight of steaming pots of spicy crawfish, glossy filets of striped bass, and mussels in white wine sauce, finished off with soft white bread, slathered in butter.

“Afternoon, Summer!” A waitress calls as I pedal past.

“Afternoon,” I call back. She works nights at the casino, days at the restaurant, yet she never seems to be without a boyfriend. Ms. T would be proud.

Reaching the stoplight on Main Street, I’m reminded of Ben, though, in fairness, I haven’t really stopped thinking about him in the four days since the beach walk. I come to a standstill, legs on either side of the bike frame, and wonder if he might be nearby. I hadn’t seen him before that night, but, then again, I was never looking for him.

Is that cheating? I did say that if it was meant to be, he’d find me. I glance back over my shoulder and let my eyes rove anyway, hoping to meet his dark blue eyes in the lunchtime crowd, as he emerges from the corner café or strides out of the neighborhood market, arms filled with fresh produce. If he’s a good cook, I don’t care what my grandma would say—he is the perfect man.

My heart jolts as I spot a tall man wearing a blue shirt and dark brown Carhartts. I swivel my entire upper body around to catch a glimpse of his face, only to be disappointed. It’s not him. Not nearly as attractive. Ben isn’t just good looking; he’s got this thing about him. This essence. I don’t know him well enough to describe it properly, but there’s something about him that shines from the inside out.

“It’s green!” A curt voice yells out of the car window behind me, followed by the unnecessary blast of a horn.

My cheeks flare with embarrassment. “I heard you! I’m going!”

Pushing off, I continue into the hustle and bustle of town. Live oaks, dripping with Spanish moss, bow down to greet me as I race by, and the gentle breeze lifts my hair off my shoulders. If I were still a kid, I might’ve whooped. This is freedom, and I wouldn’t give it up for anything.

Turning onto the sidewalk, the small town basking in the noon sunshine, I park my bike on the side wall of the bookstore and walk the five paces to the entrance and open the door. Closing my eyes, I inhale the most beautiful scent in the world. So beautiful they can’t bottle it, though if they did, I’d be dousing myself in it all day, every day. The blended mix of new books and old: a little earthy, a little dusty, a little sweet, a little woody. Bliss.

“If it isn’t my favorite gal in the whole world! How you doin’, hon?” calls Ms. Thibodeaux from behind the counter, where she singlehandedly reigns over The Climbing Rose Bookshop. My sanctuary. In fact, if she’d just agree to feed me some of her famous, homemade fried chicken, I’d never have to leave. She won’t, though—not in the shop. Chicken grease and precious books don’t mix.

I wander over and clamber onto the stool by the counter, where she’ll occasionally fix us both a coffee if the store isn’t too busy. “I’m good, Ms. T. What’s new?”

“The real question is: What’s new with you, hon?” There is a knowing tone to her voice, like she’s fishing.

“Nothing new, I’m sorry to say.” I dismiss the idea that she knows about my late night beach encounter with Ben. Ms. T isn’t omnipotent. Or is she?

She pauses for a moment and I see a twinkle in her eye. I can’t tell if it’s excitement or something a little devious. Could be a little of both, knowing Ms. T. “Well!” She points two fingers up in the air and rushes out from behind her queenly domain, gunning for the window display while calling back to me, “I’ve got a new political thriller that I think you’ll just gobble up before dinner!” She grabs a hardcover and races back, shoving it into my arms. “I finished it late last night. Couldn’t put it down!”

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