Jade

by Sarah Jayne Carr

“Look at you living dangerously. I won’t tell Zeus.”

  Raindrops came down in continuous sheets as if Mother Nature arrived late to our party and wanted an opportunity to shed tears of her own. We ran across the beach and through the grouping of trees toward a lesser-known trail that led up the hill to my house. Another flicker illuminated the sky and our surroundings like a photography flash, its clap of counterpart thunder following many seconds later.

  “I owe you, too. An apology.” I slowed to a brisk walk, mud squishing between my toes with each puddle.

  He matched my pace. “Why?”

  “What I told you in the chapel before the wedding, about your past, calling you Miles again.”

  “It’s—”

  “It’s not okay.” I stopped. “I shouldn’t have said it, and I’m sorry. When Annelies accidentally told me… I’ll admit I lost it a little. At first, I thought you’d knocked up Annelies while you were cheating on Lucy with Sienna. I’ve been on the receiving end of that whole unfaithful scenario, and—”

  “You know the truth about Annelies now and that Sienna’s my sister, but cheating? On Lucy?” he asked. “Exactly how many people in my family do you think I’m sleeping with?”

  “She’s not your…”

  “Lucy’s my cousin. I rented a room from her for a while.”

  I pulled a panel of limp hair from my face. “I thought… when I met her, she made it sound… or maybe I misinterpreted your ‘special arrangement.’”

  “Anyone else you’re curious about? I’m almost afraid to ask.”

  “No,” I replied as we started walking again. A few seconds later, I warily added, “Well, maybe… the blonde outside the pool the other day? The one you hugged?”

  “You saw that? For the record, I didn’t expect Kennedy to hug me or for her to show up at The Salty Seaman with her fake ID. Then again, I didn’t expect her to hit on me that night so I’d need to shut her down.” Seth pushed a drooping branch out of our way.

  “You shut her down?”

  “I’m not into… she’s not…” He hesitated. “She’s one of the old swim instructors. I wrote her a letter of recommendation to include with her job application, and she stopped by the aquatics center to pick it up. I mean this in the nicest possible way, but please never moonlight as a PI.”

  “So, you’re not… with her or… anyone?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “But the same topic has drifted around town about the stack of guys you’ve acquired this week.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “A stack? Are these mystery men pancakes?”

  “First, there’s Barry.”

  “Barry’s my accountant. Asking him out was a bad idea, probably lateral to walking into the ocean last night. Next?”

  “Second, that big wall of meat at your office?”

  “Wall of?” It took me a minute to realize who he meant before the name exploded from my mouth. “Taxidermy Teddy?”

  He laughed. “Did you just say…”

  “Yep. Just know it’s strike two,” I said.

  “Third, Bo’s brother?”

  “We’re friends. That’s it. And before you ask, Nate was one of my mistakes from a long time ago.”

  “So, you’re not involved with…”

  “Every one of those unsavory flapjacks are still available on the table and up for grabs.”

  He glanced my way, rain rivulets trailing down his face and dripping from his chin. “All of this makes me wonder what other misconceptions you have about me.”

  “Isn’t it enough I thought you were in relationships with your sister and your cousin?”

  “Evidently not. Let’s hear ‘em.”

  “Where should I start? I thought you were a cocaine dealer. I thought—”

  “Hold the bus for a minute. Tell me more.” He tried to hold back his laughter.

  While we walked, I explained the conversation that transpired with Bo at The Kraken. I didn’t hesitate in including the other wrong turns and detours my head had invented about Seth.

  The truth was that important.

  “I thought I’d heard it all,” he said, “but congrats on finding creative material.”

  “I doubt that’s worthy of congratulations. And I’m not sure about creative, but there’s been a lot of new material today.”

  “True.” He nudged me with his elbow. “Who’d have thought Annelies would be your sister?”

  My mouth fell open. “I…”

  “It’s okay. News travels fast around here. Each of us has a past, whether we know all of it or not.”

  Three-quarters of the way back, we approached a dirt opening that met the bottom of a staircase when Seth froze.

  I slowed to a stop. “What’s wrong?”

  He didn’t move or answer.

  My eyes trailed to what he stared at, and I instantly regretted taking the shortcut when I pieced together my mistake. Way to screw up, Jade. A worn driftwood bench with a rusty plaque lit up with another flare of lightning, demanding attention in the brevity of spotlight.

  “I think I forced myself to forget about this,” he said.

  The doctor who owned the house before me puttered in woodwork. Among fifty-three other pieces she’d left behind in the garage, she built a driftwood bench in memory of “Charlotte.” It sat on one of the worn pathways between my porch and the beach.

  But it got worse.

  When I brought the stray kitten home, the name fit and stuck.

  “Charlotte was your…” I started.

  He finished, “Yeah.”

  Fuck me. I’d unknowingly named my cat after Seth’s late sister.

  I forced the panic away and locked it up to handle later.

  Seth crouched down in front of the bench, touching the corroded metal with the etching of Charlotte’s name.

  I stayed still. The thunder? It wasn’t important. The cold? It wasn’t important. The rain, my chattering teeth, and one hundred other discomforts weren’t important. What was important? The pain on his face reflecting from inside his chest, pain I desperately wanted to repair.

  “Tell her.”

  He stood up. “Huh?”

  “Tell her,” I repeated.

  “Talk to driftwood?”

  I cocked my head to the side. “Talk to her.”

  “And say what?”

  “Anything you want. I can go up to the house if you want to be alone.” I took a few steps backward toward the staircase made of old railroad ties, fully prepared to give him privacy.

  “No.” Seth grabbed for my hand before I exited his reach. “Stay. Please?”

  I gave his fingers a squeeze of reassurance and stood next to him while he reflected. The thunder and lightning had stopped, but the rain remained relentless.

  “Hi, Charlotte,” he sounded soft-spoken. A significant pause loomed before he shook his head. “I can’t do it. I don’t think I’m there yet.”

  I rubbed his knuckle with my thumb twice. “That’s okay. You may not be there yet, but what matters is you’re here now.”

  His focus returned to the oversized, misshapen piece of wood. “Do you think she knows I’m here? Now?”

  “Yeah.” I glanced at the bench and nodded. “I do. You have to remember, just because she’s gone doesn’t mean she’s not…”

  “Not what?” he asked.

  “Listening,” I stumbled through the word as its gravity sunk in.

  “What he needs most is to be heard.”

  I thought back to Tasha’s advice again. In a handful of different moments, I’d tried to decode what she meant, never fully figuring it out. I’d even jammed myself into that complex equation, but I couldn’t solve for “why.” Charlotte? She represented “why.” Not me. Seth was
the constant, the fixed quantity that didn’t change. Until that night. The answer sat a short distance from my doorstep the whole time. Seth needed to be heard, whether his sister could hear him or not.

  “What happened to Charlotte wasn’t your fault,” I said.

  He turned toward me and reciprocated my hand squeeze. “Just like what happened to Bo wasn’t your fault.”

  I reflexively opened my mouth to state otherwise and stopped. For the first time, I understood he was right. Bo and I going to the park that night? Bo standing on that cliffside declaring his love for me? The ground breaking free? Bo being paralyzed? None of it was my fault. I’d saved his life, not sentenced him to life in a wheelchair.

  The rainstorm went forgotten.

  Seth and I were more similar than I’d realized. We both struggled with shouldering responsibility for a traumatic event involving someone we loved. We both felt guilt for our parents splitting up. We both delayed our healing through grief by never beginning our journeys. We both spent years feeling isolated and alone.

  “C’mon.” He led me away from the bench. “Let’s get you out of this rain.”

  We walked up the stairs, hand-in-hand. Neither of us would recover overnight, in a week, or a year, but we both took the first scary step that night— together.

  When we got to the porch, a very wet kitten jumped down from the planter box and wove herself between Seth’s legs. “Who’s this?”

  “Please don’t ask.”

  He picked up the tabby and read the nametag on her collar. “Oh.”

  The panic I’d boxed up for later busted open. I bit my lip, thankful the porch light was off and he couldn’t see my cheeks flush. “I… I didn’t know she was your, and you…”

  “I’m not mad,” Seth reassured me.

  Remembering my bag was in the Jeep, I fished the spare key out from underneath the window ledge and unlocked the deadbolt. Charlotte scooted through the doorway quickly. Her four little legs ran in place, bunching the polyester runner into a ruffled pile before her feet connected with the solid floor into a zoom.

  I glanced down at the thick clumps of mud and pine needles covering my feet, unable to stop my teeth from chattering. “Would you mind grabbing me a towel? They’re in the bathroom cabinet on—”

  “I’ll do you one better,” he said, kicking off his dress shoes.

  Before I could contest, he replied without words and with firm strength. Seth scooped me up with one arm around my back and his other behind the bend in my knees.

  Through the elongated shadows of darkness, spoken in hues of deep indigo and smoky gray, he carried me through the doorway, down the hall, and into the bathroom, gently setting me down until I stood on the floor of the tub. When he turned on the light, I looked up at him, both afraid to move and nervous about what to expect.

  Close up, his dark eyes reminded me of silky, black satin combined with the ruggedness of coal. They glowed with a fierce inner fire I hadn’t noticed before. “Warm up.” He took a step back with slow purpose, his gaze drifting from my toes up to my face.

  My body struggled to handle the intense energy we shared, tiny hairs standing on the back of my neck. “Are you leaving?” I tried to detach the fear from my voice.

  He tilted his brow with uncertainty. “Do you want me to go?”

  The thought of him not being in the house shipped invisible shards of glass into my chest. “No.”

  We both stared at one another in our third game of Chicken, waiting for the other to make the next move. I wanted him to come closer. I wanted him to join me in the shower, to reach out with my hand and let the simple gesture permit the night to unravel, but my dread of the moment ending drowned out the whisper of hope in my head.

  He broke first. “I need to go out to my truck for dry clothes, but I’ll still be here after your shower.”

  My lips parted slightly.

  “Scout’s… I promise,” he said with quiet emphasis.

  After he left, I fought to catch my breath before turning on the water. Both the room and my thoughts filled with steam as I set the jacket over the towel rack. Next, I unfastened the soggy corset and peeled off my underwear. The two saturated garments fell to the floor with a heavy slap. From under the forceful spray, I rested my head against the tilework on the wall, letting the heat thaw me while I shampooed the saltwater from my hair and tried to scrub the events from the wedding off my body. For the first time in a long while, my mind started to quiet.

  I turned off the water and patted my skin dry before pulling a terrycloth robe from the back of the door. The tangles in my hair made me wince while I wiped the mirror with my other hand, staring at my reflection behind the few remaining droplets of condensation. That girl in the mirror? She looked like me, but she felt so different from earlier that morning. With minimal external wounds and a few internal ones, I’d done the impossible and survived July 7th. But the day hadn’t ended yet. If I could summon enough courage, I had one more truth to speak, and that one would be hardest of all.

  Tightening the sash on my robe, I entered the living room and found Seth relaxed on the couch. He wore black athletic pants and a faded purple t-shirt advertising a local sports team. Charlotte purred on his lap. “I see you made a friend.”

  “I’m likeable. What can I say?” He picked up the kitten and set her on the ground, but she hopped back up onto the cushion and butted the top of her head against his arm.

  I didn’t acknowledge his humor and wrung my hands.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. “The likeable thing was a joke.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “I mean, I’m not okay.”

  He ignored Charlotte’s request for attention and stood up.

  I walked over to him and pulled the napkin from my robe pocket. “I’m sorry.”

  “I thought we already hashed out the sorry stuff outside?”

  My eyes trailed upward to his face before I pressed the tattered napkin against the warmth of his chest. His heartbeat thumped against my palm through the thin layers of paper and his shirt, making what I needed to say more difficult. I pulled away and left him to hold our K-7 roadmap.

  He turned the napkin over in his hand. “I don’t understand. It looks the same.”

  “It does, but I’m not the same.”

  I studied the white background with the tan coffee stain on the corner and the cartoon equation I’d doodled in blue ink pen. The few droplets of water that’d tried to erase its simple message didn’t prevail. Every letter of SORRY remained in strong, black lines. Valleys of wrinkles confirmed its age from when we’d both crumpled it out of anger and frustration and misunderstanding, leaving the K72.90 logo faded to a blushing shade of red instead of its crisp maroon. The tiny two and three, even though small in stature, were no less important than the other symbols in its story. For a plain bar napkin, it said so much.

  “I’m sorry,” I repeated. The emotional pull of the conversation crashed over me like a wave out in the cove. I didn’t know how to navigate my tides of feelings, let alone tread water without drowning in a sea of regret if I didn’t speak my mind.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “I’m still learning how to let go of that new old me, which includes the lists I used to make. But I have one more to get through.” I tried to keep my voice in neutral shades, “I’m sorry I was late for your massage.” The next one was a little rougher to let go. “I’m sorry I called you a shit wit at K-7.”

  He added with a half-smile, “I think you’re forgetting dime-tipping dickhead, even though I deserved it.”

  “Whatever.” A tear slid down my cheek while I tried not to laugh. “Will you let me finish?”

  He nodded, his eyes remaining gentle and understanding.

  I continued to count on my fingers, the next few reasons flowing faster. “I
’m sorry for the way Sabina treated you… for the way everyone treated you. I’m sorry for what happened to your truck at Eli’s. I’m especially sorry for what I did to the inside of your truck when I…” I shuddered, thinking back to the prior night at Peking Cocks.

  “You don’t have to—”

  “Still not done yet.” My crying choked me, knowing the details became more uncomfortable. “Please? I need to say all of this. I’m sorry for what Annelies did. I’m sorry Bo hit you with his SUV and for your friendship ending. I’m sorry I crossed boundaries and went to Lucy’s and your mom’s. I’m sorry I showed up at the aquatics center. I’m sorry I lied about being your wife at the hospital. And I’m so, so sorry you had to chase me into the ocean last night and relive—”

  “Stop punishing yourself. I’m not sorry.”

  “What?” I clamped my lips to imprison a sob.

  “I could run through a similar list of reasons why I’m sorry… but I’m not. Do you know why?”

  I awaited his answer with blurred vision, the ghost of his aftershave invading my senses.

  He cupped my face in the heat of his hands and tilted my chin upward. “Because all of it led me to you.”

  And then, like a rubber band snapping, he unexpectedly broke that heightened energy joining us and walked over toward the entryway. I heard paper rustle as he grabbed a brown bag. Part of me waited in fear he’d put on his shoes, walk out the door, and never come back. But he didn’t.

  Seconds later, he returned. “Close your eyes.”

  It was my turn to make light of the weighted conversation from our past. “Are you setting me up? You know, to strangle me?”

  I expected his earlier reply of, “Maybe I am,” but he didn’t deliver. Instead, he said, “I think the day had enough negative drama. Don’t you?”

  I managed a faint nod.

  Seth showed no sign of relenting and repeated, “Close your eyes.”

  Hesitantly, I did as he asked.

  “Hold out your hands.”

  I followed directions and cupped them with my pinky fingers resting against one another. Seth placed something fuzzy and soft in my palms. I explored its sponginess with my thumbs, able to detect two round pieces of cold plastic and a small patch of velvet. From behind closed lids, I raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”