Reclaiming the Sand

by A. Meredith Walters

  He sat back in his seat after turning on the air conditioner full blast. In a few minutes my nipples had hardened in the cold.

  “Can you turn the a/c down a bit?” I asked, rubbing my arms, trying to get warm.

  Flynn startled, almost as though he had forgotten I was in the car with him.

  “Sure,” he said and turned the knob back a degree. It didn’t do much to make the air more comfortable but it was something, I guess I was forced to cross my arms over my chest to hide my obvious nipplage.

  “You haven’t been back to the studio,” Flynn said after a period of silence. I watched his hands on the steering wheel. They were at a perfect nine and three position. His rear view mirror was tilted at just the right angle and he drove with his back straight and his seat pushed forward. He was a model of driver safety.

  I leaned over to get a look at the speedometer and wasn’t surprised to see he was going the exact speed limit. Not a mile over, not a mile under.

  Robert Smith wailed miserably and I wished he would shut up all ready. He wasn’t helping me come up with a believable lie as to why I hadn’t been back to the art studio.

  How could I explain my reasons for staying away?

  I couldn’t tell him that every time I saw him I hated myself just a little bit more for everything I had done to him. That it was me that had been responsible for losing his house and his life in Wellsburg. That because of my ignorant fears I had hurt the only person I had ever considered a real and true friend.

  Could I tell him that the lies of my omission might tear me apart?

  Or should I tell him that I was a conflicted mess of emotions? I resented him in a misplaced sense of blame that was still carried over from years of denial. But I also l enjoyed his company. That it was easy to remember a time when I had been almost happy when we were together.

  That was some heavy shit. And it wasn’t something I could vocalize. Hell, I could barely admit in the quiet safety of my head the truth of it. So there was no way in hell I could ever tell him.

  So I shrugged. “I’ve been busy,” I told him; running my hands along the smooth, cool leather beside my thigh.

  “This is the cleanest car I have ever seen,” I said, trying to change the subject.

  “It was my mom’s. She bought it just six months before she died. So now it’s mine,” he explained in that short, succinct way of his. No need for extraneous details from Flynn Hendrick. He gave you the information you needed, nothing more, nothing less.

  “Oh.” I wanted to ask how his mother died. She had been a nice woman even if she had never trusted me. She had loved her son but she wasn’t blind to who he was. So she had of course been wary of our friendship.

  I’m sure the multicolored hair and multiple facial piercings hadn’t helped matters either. But she had been civil, despite her very obvious displeasure at finding me in her home.

  I often wondered if she started counting the silver as soon as I walked out the door.

  It hadn’t been the first time I had experienced disapproval. Not many people liked me and those that did weren’t the type to be indiscriminate.

  But Ms. Hendrick’s mistrust had hurt. I had wanted her to like me. I envied the relationship Flynn had with his mother. The way she had taken care of him. I had never experienced that sort of love before and my fucked up mind and screwed up heart had craved it.

  Aside from enjoying Flynn’s company, I had spent so much time at the Hendrick’s house in part because I hoped, someday, to be loved the way Flynn was loved by his mother. I had been such a messed up kid. My desperate need to feel wanted had twisted into something horrific. And I had ended up hurting the one person I had wanted in my life.

  After Flynn and I had stopped being friends, I had seen Ms. Hendrick in town. But she never spoke to me again. And I had laughed it off at the time, but it had devastated me. And that devastation had turned into a white-hot anger. It became one more thing I blamed Flynn for.

  “She had lung cancer. It was already stage four by the time the doctor’s found it. One day she was there. The next she wasn’t.” He told his story as emotionless as he said everything but even I could hear the quivering emotion beneath the surface.

  “Why did you come back to Wellsburg?” I asked him.

  Flynn didn’t answer me right away and I wondered whether he had retreated back inside himself.

  The minutes passed and my skin froze from the strength of the air coming out of the vents. It wasn’t until Flynn turned down his gravel driveway that he spoke.

  “I hated this house when we moved here. It was ugly. It smelled funny. I didn’t know where anything was. I hated school. I hated the people.” He sounded so angry and I pictured in my head the life of fifteen-year-old Flynn. He had been awkward and unhappy. It had been obvious, even to someone as self-involved as me. But what had I done to make that easier for him?

  Nothing.

  “But it’s mom’s house. She bought it for me. To start over.” I still didn’t understand the reasoning of that. If it had been me I would never have come back. No amount of sentimental nostalgia could have made me enter the town limits ever again.

  “I painted it. I fixed the buildings. And now it’s not so ugly. I wanted to live here again.”

  And that was that. He stopped the car and turned off the engine. He opened the door and got out, heading toward the front door, leaving me alone. I couldn’t even be annoyed by his lack of manners, because that was just Flynn. In fact, I appreciated the chance to get myself together.

  This house meant something to not just him. This was the only place in Wellsburg I could ever remember being truly happy. And seeing Flynn walk up the repaired steps and go through the front door, now painted a dark blue, it felt right that he was back.

  I gathered the bags of food from the floor and slowly walked towards the house.

  Images flashed through my mind like a movie. I had been Flynn’s friend for only a few months. And it had been a relationship built on secrets. I had been terrified to openly admit I was his friend. I continued to stand by and allow the taunts and teasing. I had contributed to it all the while using him to find the happiness I so desperately wanted.

  I had been a horrible person.

  I was still a horrible person.

  The steps creaked beneath my feet as I walked up the porch. Another image flashed in my mind. One of smoke and flames and running through the night to escape the destruction I had caused.

  Handcuffs. Interrogation. Anger and Hatred. Those had been my consequences. And I had borne them bitterly. Until now.

  Because it had been no more than I deserved.

  I pushed open the front door and was surprised to smell the lingering scent of banana bread in the air.

  I knew my way to the kitchen. I had walked over these floorboards enough times to find it. The décor was the same it had been seven years ago. Nothing had changed. Yes there was fresh paint on the walls and new doors hung from the jams, but it was still the same.

  It was almost jarring.

  But I should have known Flynn would never alter what he knew. This was his sanctuary. This was his home.

  How I envied him.

  Flynn stood at the counter already slicing thick pieces of bread and putting them down on a plate. I brought the bags of food over.

  “Where do you keep the plates?” I asked him.

  Flynn pointed to a cabinet above the sink. I was surprised to find new dishes and glasses. I had expected to find the same floral pattered china that his mother had owned when I was last here.

  “I always liked the flowered ones your mom had. As far as plates go, they were pretty nice,” I said, trying to fill the suddenly uncomfortable silence.

  “They were ruined in the fire,” Flynn responded and my hands gripped the plate so tightly my knuckles went white.

  But before I could freak out and run away, Flynn took the plate from my hands and placed it on the table.

  “Come, eat,” he urged,
sitting down and carefully opening the box containing Dania’s cheeseburger.

  I sat down across from him and took the other box but didn’t open it. I watched as he lifted the bun and scrapped off the lettuce and tomato with a fork and then wrapped the discarded condiments in a napkin before throwing it away. He pushed the French fries off to the side, making sure they didn’t touch anything before picking up the burger with both hands and taking a small bite.

  “Stop watching me,” Flynn said firmly when I hadn’t started eating yet.

  I blinked and looked away, flushing at having been caught. I flipped open the box and started picking at my sandwich. My appetite still hadn’t come back but I couldn’t just sit there doing nothing.

  Flynn polished off his burger quickly and then ate his fries, one at a time. Dipping each in ketchup and then wiping the excess off with his fork before popping it in his mouth.

  I tried not to stare. But his eating habits were so ritualistic that it was fascinating.

  “I told you to stop looking at me. I hate it when people look at me,” he mumbled, taking a drink of water.

  “Why do you hate people looking at you?” I asked him. Though I could hazard a guess why.

  “Because people aren’t very nice when they look at me.” He reached over and speared one of my French fries that I had yet to eat and dipped it in his ketchup.

  Then without asking, he claimed a few more from my plate.

  “Uh, you wanna ask before you take my shit,” I told him. Flynn took another fry and I dropped my hand down on top of his before he could escape with it.

  “Don’t cuss,” he said crossly, wiggling his hand beneath mine, trying to pull away.

  He released the fry and I allowed him to withdraw his hand and pulling it into his lap. He didn’t apologize. He didn’t excuse his deplorable manners. He just began to rub his hands together.

  “People aren’t nice to me a lot of the times. They look at me a lot. Kevin said I had to learn to deal with it. That getting upset and angry would just make them look at me more. It’s hard though. Because I just want to tell them to fuck off,” he grinned then and I grinned back, forgiving his French fry transgression.

  “Flynn, don’t cuss,” I teased, parroting the words he had just spoken.

  He didn’t pick up on my attempts at a joke and instead hung his head. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  I clucked my tongue in frustration. “I was kidding, Flynn. It’s cool. I like a good fuck as much as the next gal,” I said. Flynn’s cheeks turned an alarming shade of red and then I realized what I said.

  I cleared my throat, feeling suddenly embarrassed and self-conscious.

  “Well, Kevin sounds like he knows what he’s talking about. Is he a friend?” I asked, trying to turn the conversation back into more comfortable territory.

  “No, he’s my therapist. He helps me a lot. He tells me how to act in public and when I’m being rude. I can tell when people are angry now. And when I say something to upset someone, I know by the look on their faces. But I still mess up a lot. I still have a lot to learn.”

  We had never talked about his disability much before. When we were younger I had been too ignorant and self-involved to think about what was going on with him. But I hoped I had grown up a bit in the last six years since to understand a little of what he went through.

  He was different. He was more than a little odd.

  But looking at him, staring into his lap, chewing on his bottom lip, I also knew he was more than a little special.

  “That’s awesome, Flynn,” I said and I meant it.

  Flynn jumped to his feet and took my plate that held the remnants of my food. He picked up the club and took a bite of it.

  “I wasn’t done with that,” I admonished.

  Flynn dropped the sandwich back on the plate and handed it back to me.

  “Here,” he said and I pushed it back towards him.

  “I’m not going to eat it now that you’ve taken a bite out of it, am I?” I cocked my eyebrow.

  Flynn took my plate back and looked down at the half-eaten club. “Yeah, I guess not. That was pretty gross, huh?”

  “Yeah, it was. But I’m not that hungry, so it’s cool,” I told him.

  “I have banana bread if you want. It’s my mom’s recipe,” he offered, going to the counter and putting a slab onto a plate and bringing it back to me.

  “Sure, banana bread sounds great,” I replied, taking it from him. I might not be very hungry, but I couldn’t pass up banana bread.

  “I like being with you. I missed you,” Flynn said, surprising me. Of all the things for him to say, I had not expected that. It was such an innocent thing but it held so much weight.

  He missed me.

  After everything I had done to him.

  He missed me.

  I couldn’t respond. I had nothing to say to that. I couldn’t reciprocate because I hadn’t missed him. I had spent most of the last six years despising him. Blaming him for things that weren’t his fault. It had just been easier to hate him than to hate myself.

  “You stopped talking to me. After my birthday. You never called me again. Mom said to leave you alone. That you weren’t my friend. But you were my friend. Because you told me I was and I believed you.” His eyes were bright and even though he wouldn’t look directly at me, I knew his eyes were wet.

  I should tell him the truth. I should shatter his illusions of me before they could grow into something more dangerous.

  His mother hadn’t told him what I had done. She had saved him from that particular pain. I didn’t know whether to be thankful or upset that she had done that. Because now here we were, six years later, on the cusp of something not yet realized and I struggled.

  I wanted to tell him. But I wanted to lie as well. I liked the way he looked at me. To Flynn Hendrick, Ellie McCallum was important. She was wanted. If I told him the truth about that night, I was sure that would all change.

  My self-destructive side urged me to tell him everything. To sever the delicate bond that was forming between us.

  But I had another side that insisted on silence. The side that was scared to see this new Ellie disappear; because she was a girl who liked to feel. And the numbness of my past just wouldn’t cut it anymore.

  Before I could be truthful or dishonest, Flynn got up again and started loading dishes into the dishwasher. He wiped down the counters and threw the food bag into the trashcan.

  “Do you want to watch TV? You like TV. We could watch the A-Team,” he suggested.

  “I love the A-Team,” I said, slowly joining him in the doorway leading into the other room.

  “I remember,” he said, a shy smile on his face. His hair fell into his eyes and I wished he’d let me brush it back off his forehead. Our touches had hardly ever been intentional. And when they were purposeful, they had never lasted long enough.

  I had been okay with that. Because touching him would be to admit a physical closeness I didn’t want and I convinced myself that I didn’t need.

  Now I wasn’t so sure.

  We got comfortable on the couch that I realized was brand new. The sale tags were still attached to the arms.

  Flynn flipped on the television and started going through the channels. “It’s four forty-five, the A-Team doesn’t start until five. Right now it’s Laverne and Shirley,” he recited, stopping on a channel that played old shows.

  “You watch a lot of Laverne and Shirley?” I smirked.

  “They’re funny. It was my mom’s favorite show,” he said and I nodded.

  “Well, let’s watch Laverne and Shirley then,” I told him, watching as he sat on the other end of the couch.

  He sat upright, his hands in his lap, his feet flat on the floor. He didn’t look particularly comfortable.

  So we watched television together. And I smiled at the sound of Flynn’s barking laugh. His shoulders shook and his mouth curved upwards into a beautiful grin. He looked happy.

  I spe
nt more time watching Flynn than I did the television. But he didn’t comment. He was too focused on the show.

  He really was sort of amazing. After everything life had thrown at him, here he was, whole and healthy. He hadn’t become embittered or angry. He had become content and fulfilled in ways I could never understand.

  He had welcomed me into the home I had destroyed. He sat beside me, sharing his space, opening his heart and even though I felt the weight of my truth deep in my soul, I also felt the joy.

  Had I ever felt joy before?

  Yes I had.

  Once.

  With him.

  I surged upwards on my feet, startling Flynn. He looked up at me, his brow furrowed in confusion.

  “I have to go,” I told him suddenly.

  His frown deepened.

  “You don’t like the show? I can change the channel. We can watch the A-Team another time,” he said, consulting his watch to be sure of the time.

  I shook my head.

  “I don’t fucking want to watch TV!” I fumed, unable to hold back the outburst that barreled its way out of my chest.

  I needed to leave. The hateful part was combating the tiny shred of happiness that had unwillingly unfurled in my gut. The happiness didn’t belong there. It had no place in the black pit of my heart.

  “You’re mad,” Flynn deduced, watching my face, analyzing.

  Yes I was mad. I was freaking furious. But it made no sense.

  I was fucked up. I was scarred and ruined. I would taint him with my ugliness.

  I needed to leave.

  “I just need to go.” I didn’t explain. There was no way I could give voice to the demons possessing me.

  “I’ll drive you. I can watch the A-Team tomorrow. It’s on at 5:00 every day.” I was sick and tired of hearing about the stupid A-Team!

  I didn’t say anything. I waited for him to get his car keys and I let him take me home.

  I couldn’t say I’m sorry.

  I hated those words. They sucked and they were never true.