by Jessica Park
He leans forward. “Too much?”
Yes, you weirdo, just a bit. But I say nothing.
He sticks out his hand. “I’m Sabin.”
“Blythe.” I put my hand in his. As much as I’m uncomfortable with physical contact, I feel surprisingly at ease when his big hand engulfs mine. The touch is somehow soothing.
“Blythe, it is my true honor to meet you.” He claps his other hand on top of mine, and I still don’t pull away. “Now tell me, what are you doing up so early?”
“Just … I don’t know.” I wrinkle my forehead. Who is this guy? “I couldn’t sleep. Why are you up so early?”
“You caught me! In my case the question should be, why am I up so late?”
I smile shyly. “Oh, I see.”
We sit without speaking for a few moments, my hand still in his, while he looks at me expectantly. I should take my hand away, but I simply can’t. He is too odd and too endearing.
“Aren’t you going to ask me why I haven’t gone to bed yet? Given our close relationship, I’d think that my whereabouts would be an extremely pressing issue here. Your curiosity should be driving you insane. Was Sabin at an all-night karaoke amusement park? Was he abducted by alien cowboy goats?” He points to the hat on the table and raises an eyebrow. “And subsequently subjected to a humiliating yet arousing strip search? Or did a well-intentioned but inept and drug-addled tattoo artist foul up ‘Jesus Loves Me’ and forever brand him with ‘I Love Cheese’?”
“Oh.” Even given this bizarre speech, I feel less uncomfortable than I normally do talking to strangers, although I am still quite lost. “I should have immediately asked those questions. Sorry.” I try to get a handle on the situation, wondering if he is trying to flirt with me. It doesn’t quite feel like it. “So,” I say, “why haven’t you?”
“Why haven’t I what?”
Good Lord. “Gone to bed yet?”
“Oh! Yes!” He grips my hand tighter and stands, pulling me up with him and then pressing my hand into his chest. “I have met a woman, so technically I have gone to bed already. I just haven’t slept. Her name is Chrystle, and she is utterly ethereal. Heart-stoppingly beautiful. And,” —he says with a wink—“angelic in the most unangelic way. I am in love.”
I can’t help but laugh. Especially because he most certainly didn’t seem to be hitting on me. He is already in love. Or at least lust. “Saved by a good woman?” I offer.
“For now.” Another wink. He drops my hand, flops back into his chair, and puts on his cowboy hat again. “So now you know all you need to about me. Let’s hear about you, Miss Blythe. You’re a freshman?”
“What?” I say too defensively. “No. I’m a senior.”
“My apologies. You have that lost lamb way about you. It’s sweet. Sitting here alone, a backpack probably full of overpriced textbooks… . I know the type. Besides, I’m a junior and I haven’t seen you around before, I don’t think. And you don’t seem to know who I am.”
“Understandable, I guess, but the truth is that I don’t have a backpack full of textbooks. And I’m not really around all that much. I’m more about counting the days until graduation at this point.” I shrug. That’s not entirely true, of course, because it’s not as though I have plans I’m looking forward to—but it’s one way to explain my lack of engagement with campus life. “Am I supposed to know who you are?”
“If you’re not a big fan of the theater scene here, then probably not. When I’m not wooing the lady folk, I’m in the theater. So you didn’t see me in The Glass Menagerie? My performance was none too shabby, if I do say so myself. And I directed A Doll’s House last winter.” He waits expectantly. “No? Nothing?”
I stare blankly at him. “Sorry.”
“I’m hurt. Very hurt. Considering that you and I are close friends now, I expect you to attend each and every performance of mine from now on. Deal?”
“We’re close friends now?” His shtick is both disarming and amusing.
“We are. Don’t you think? This feels right.”
“Sure,” I say. He is, in fact, onto something. The mood in the room has shifted. My mood has shifted.
“So you’ll come to see me in The Importance of Being Earnest? It opens four weeks from last night.”
“Fine. I’ll be there.” I can tell that it is easier to agree than to try to explain my general aversion to public events. At least sober ones.
“And I, in turn, will attend anything you invite me to.”
“That’s … sweet. I don’t expect to have occasion to invite a guest to anything in the foreseeable future, but I’ll keep you in mind.” The lid on my coffee cup keeps me busy as I avoid looking at Sabin. He has to be as hyperaware of the differences between us as I am. I’m mortified and feel as though being honest about my complete lack of a life looks like a cry for attention. The last thing I want.
“Wait a minute!” Sabin suddenly exclaims. “I have seen you! You funnel beer better than any girl I’ve ever met!”
“Oh God.” I drop my head into my palm.
“I’m friends with a true champ. This is fantastic.” He folds his arms across his chest and beams.
“Fantastic, indeed. So, so fantastic,” I mutter.
“Listen, new friend Blythe, thank you very much for the coffee, but I have to get back to my dorm and get some sleep.” He helps himself to my phone and begins typing, then pulls out his own phone and coaxes me into telling him my number. “There. Now we have each other’s digits. What dorm are you in? I’m in Leonard Hall, room 402, if you want to stop by.”
“Okay. I’m in Reber. Room 314.”
“Cheer up.” He leans in and kisses me on the cheek. “You’re beautiful when you smile.”
And then the whirlwind that is Sabin exits the building, stage right.
I shake my head. That was … that was …
That was kind of nice. In fact, I am noticeably moved.
And then I am crushed—overwhelmed, really—with sadness. That small interaction is the best thing that has happened to me in ages. And how goddamn awful is that?
Of course, this guy has no idea what a mess I am, and he’d probably never have come over to me if he knew that I am such a despondent dope. I sigh. He will find out sooner or later. Probably when he sobers up.
But the encounter has undeniably energized me, and I decide to take what remains of my first coffee—the second one was polished off by Sabin—and head down to the lake. Today I will be able to say that I did something unexpected. This walk will be my important gesture.
CHAPTER THREE
The Stone Skipper
I pull my sunglasses from my backpack and start what I’m guessing will be a long walk to the lake. My encounter with Sabin, while somewhat disconcerting, has put me in an uncharacteristically good mood and motivated me to finally make this first trip down to the water. It is pretty silly that I’ve never gotten myself to the lake here, especially after my insistence on applying only to colleges near water. True, I haven’t ventured down to the lake in almost four years, but the whole time I’ve known it was here. That mattered. Access to water is, despite my generally precarious mood, a stabilizing force for me.
I zip up my sweatshirt against the morning chill but notice the sun is already gaining strength; it will warm up to the 60s in a few hours, I’m guessing. Being outside feels good. Sunshine is supposed to help depression, after all. Not that I would classify myself as depressed. Sure, I have numerous depressive symptoms, but I think that I have good reason. Anyone in my situation would be depressed, right? And the whole concept of depression is … well, depressing. It doesn’t seem to take into account that I may damn well be justified in feeling how I do. So what if I’m often in an apathetic haze and spend half my time drinking until I feel numb? It’s not like I cry all the time. I think back to my psych textbook and grimace as I realize how clearly my symptoms match up to the clinical definition.
Fine, fine. I’m depressed. There. I said it.
What I find interesting, at least from a human-interest standpoint, is that while I am painfully aware of my feelings and symptoms, I’m unable to shake them and move forward. I am stagnant, I guess. Which makes sense given that stagnant is sort of just a synonym for depressed.
I shake off my lame attempt at self-analysis, put on my earphones, and listen to an NPR news podcast on my phone for the rest of the walk. When I reach the lake, I find a path that takes me through some overgrown brush and lands me by patches of grass and pebbly sand that skirt a small beach area. The lake is stunning, especially at this still-early time of morning. I take off my earphones. It is almost totally quiet except for the occasional lap of water. This spot appears to be on the less popular side of the lake, but I can see a larger beach area and a few docked boats on the opposite shore.
I sit and wiggle my butt into the sandy ground until I have carved out a comfortable sitting spot. The air is fresh and reviving. I can breathe. Why have I never come here before?
Well, I know why.
The love/hate relationship that I have with water. Well, mostly I love it. Yet it’s also a reminder of a past that I’m both clinging to and struggling to outrun. I may not have come to this shoreline yet in my years at Matthews; but I knew it was here, and that mattered. I wanted to be able to come here when I felt ready. Apparently I am ready today, because it feels glorious to be here. The light is extraordinary. Photographs and paintings invariably cheapen morning light, but the real-life version can be stupendous. Like it is right now.
Reality is not necessarily my friend—then again, neither are dreams—but this moment, this reality, is beautiful. I am alone without being lonely, for once, staring across the water and watching the sun begin its climb into the clear blue sky.
When I scan the shoreline, though, I see that I am not alone. There is one person.
He stands about twenty yards from me, just at the edge of the water, wearing only worn jeans and blue sneakers, no shirt. His profile is silhouetted against the growing light, and I watch him as he stares across the lake. His black hair falls nearly to his shoulders in soft waves. He has to be at least six feet tall, beautifully long and lean. He isn’t bulky like a weight lifter, but he looks incredibly strong.
I’m watching him so intensely that I realize I’m holding my breath. I force myself to inhale and exhale deeply.
Crystal clear thoughts hit me. He is confident, he is assured, and he is centered.
I can’t look away.
He looks down and kicks at the ground a few times before bending down and picking up something. Weirdly, I guess what he is going to do before he does it, and I catch myself smiling slightly as he reaches back his arm and skips a rock into the water. I try to count the skips. One, two, three, four, five… . It’s hard to see from where I am. He takes a few steps from where he is and then roots in the ground for more rocks. I watch as he skips another. Then another.
He moves smoothly, seamlessly. He’s done this before; I can tell by his clean, competent movements and rhythm. He strikes me as free, freer than I am or could be. Again, I catch myself holding my breath as I watch him. I have no idea why I feel so drawn to this stranger. But the feeling is undeniable.
The stone skipper searches the ground again and then reaches into the front pocket of his jeans before sending a stone bouncing across the water. Smart boy. He brought his own stash. I know the sort of perfect stone one needs to get the dance of rings to appear on the water’s surface. I searched for those same kinds of stones as a kid, although despite my repeated efforts to learn, I never got very good at skipping. This boy, on the other hand, is a master.
I inhale and exhale again, wondering why I feel overwhelmed just by watching him. A thought I don’t understand flashes into my consciousness. He is the past, and the present, and the future. I shake my head hard. What in the hell is wrong with me? Is this because I didn’t drink last night? Maybe I’m going into some kind of bizarre booze withdrawal. I should probably go back to the dorm and crawl into bed. But the lure of watching the stone skipper is too much, and I cannot get myself to leave. I stop fighting my impulse to run and lean back on my elbows for the show.
Twenty minutes later, and he is still at it. I like how he takes his time before throwing, the way he assesses the water and rubs each stone in his hand for a few minutes to feel its shape and the texture, weighing it in his palm. He pauses after each throw, letting the ripples from each stone fade, allowing the process to have its full beginning, middle, and end.
Without full awareness of what I’m doing, I stand up and walk toward him. He must catch sight of me from the corner of his eye, because he turns slightly my way and smiles. From my place in the sand, I’d noticed that his muscular body was hard to ignore, but I hadn’t expected his face to be so gorgeous. As I get closer to him, I begin to wish I had stayed away. I want to grimace as I take in the perfect angular lines of his jaw—attractiveness on this level is a bad sign. Anyone this hot is usually a complete creep. I barely care about my own body, and rarely notice someone else’s, but a flat stomach and abs like his are undeniable.
“Hi,” he prompts me.
Oh. I am staring. And not into his eyes. His arms have the most beautiful definition that I’ve ever seen.
“Sorry. Um … Hi.” I am fumbling for words, pathetically so, and it only gets worse when I look up. He pushes his hair from his face. His green eyes, framed by strong dark eyebrows, nearly cause my knees to buckle. This is ridiculous. He is just another human being. I take a deep breath and try to look at him critically. After another minute of staring at him, I’m relieved to see that he probably isn’t every girl’s idea of perfection. He’s a little too skinny, maybe, and his nose is slightly crooked. Of course, I actually like that. I see perfection in things that are likely considered imperfections by others.
“Hi,” he says again, looking slightly amused.
“I saw you skipping stones,” I blurt out. “You’re really good.”
“Years of practice.”
I squirm, curling my toes in my sneakers, wishing yet again that I had just kept my distance. I don’t know what I’m doing. “I’ve … I’ve never been good at that. I used to try as a kid, but my stones always just cannonballed in.”
“I’ve done that plenty of times. You’ve got to send it off with enough force. But also enough care.”
I nod. “Well, sorry to bother you. Just wanted to tell you it was nice to watch.” I pause and brazenly reword what I have said. “You, I mean. You were nice to watch.” I turn to leave, appalled at what I have put out there.
“Hey,” he says stopping me. “Do you want me to help you? I could give you a few tips if you like.”
I spin around, aware that trying to resist would be really fucking futile.
“If you don’t mind, that would be … cool.” I cannot think of a better word than cool right now because he has rendered me closer to insane than I usually am, and I have no idea why.
“I’m Christopher Shepherd, by the way. Chris. Whatever you like.”
“What do you like?”
“Whatever you like.” He smiles. “And you are… .?”
“I’m Blythe McGuire.”
“It’s nice to meet a fellow enthusiast.” He smiles softly, and I am entranced by how one side of his smile lifts higher than the other. It makes me both unnerved and physically unsteady. “I think I’ve tapped out the area right here for good stones, but if we walk a bit, we should be able to find more.”
“Okay.”
Chris gestures to the left. “Should we try this way?”
“Yes. If you think so.”
“I’m just going to grab my shirt. I’ll catch up with you.” He backs up.
Under the guise of looking for good stones, I keep my head down as I start to walk because otherwise my eyes will follow him. I find him … I don’t know. Something. I don’t know exactly what, but I do know that I wish I were wearing something besides a shitty sweatshirt, although I h
ave no idea what I could have resurrected from my closet.
I feel him next to me. “What are you doing here so early in the morning?” he asks.
“Sleep issues. What about you?”
“Who’d want to miss this?” He waves his hand in the direction of the lake sparkling in the sun. “Damn spectacular.”
I glance to the side. He’s put on a faded black T-shirt. “Aren’t you cold?”
“I like it. Refreshing. Before you got here, I’d been considering stripping down and diving in.”
“You were not.” I look up. He towers over my five feet four inches.
“I most certainly was.” He is grinning at me.
“Now you’re risking that I’ll brand you an exhibitionist.”
Chris kneels down for a moment, picks up a stone, and slips it into his pocket. “What’s a little risk now and then, huh?” He rushes past me and turns so that he is walking backward, facing me as he talks. “It makes you feel alive. It brings you crashing into the here and now. Keeps you alert and grounded.”
“I have more here and now than I can handle, thank you very much, without skinny-dipping.”
“Technically it wouldn’t have been skinny-dipping because I was going to keep something on.”
An image of Chris in nothing but snug boxer briefs flashes into my head, and it takes me a moment to recover. I try to walk nonchalantly, following the backward path he is making.
“Are you a student?” he asks.
I nod.
“Where?”
“I’m a senior at Matthews.”
He stops and I nearly crash into him. “Me, too. Why don’t I know you?”
It’s bad enough that I’ve had this conversation once already today, but to have it with Chris feels worse.
“I transferred in as a junior,” he continues, “but I don’t think we’ve ever met. What, do you take all independent studies classes and never leave your dorm room?”
I don’t say anything.
“Oh my God, you don’t actually do that, do you? I’m sorry. I feel horrible. I was just making a joke.”