#SandyBottom

by Alexi Venice

  “Good morning, girl,” Chance said. “How do you feel?”

  “A little foggy, but really well-rested.”

  “Going somewhere?” His eyes traveled her bod.

  “Yeah. I thought I’d clear the cobwebs with a run on the beach.”

  “Smart,” Chance said, holding a spatula and clad in a khaki-colored apron with a vertical rainbow down the center. “Best to get out there before everyone shows up with their lawn chairs and umbrellas. I think you have low tide, too, so go for it.”

  Amanda hesitated a sec while she glanced around nervously. Only Timpani Tom was present and accounted for, standing by the picture window in the living room, out of earshot. She sidled up to Chance. “Margot and I didn’t—you know—last night, did we?”

  Chance growled a conspiratorial chuckle regarding matters of the night. “You don’t remember?”

  She leveled a deadly look at him.

  “Right,” he said. “No. You made out for a while, but she and I helped you up the stairs to your bedroom. When she asked if you wanted help getting undressed, you very politely told her no.”

  Amanda expelled an epic sigh of relief. “Good. Not that she isn’t attractive, but I shouldn’t complicate my life right now.”

  Chance spread his arms for a hug. “Come here. I know how it feels.”

  She hugged him briefly then set her empty cup and cell phone on the counter. “I’ll be back in an hour. Save my cup for more coffee.” She turned and headed toward the living room.

  “Run like the wind, dear,” he said.

  “You may not call me dear!” she threw over her shoulder on her way down the veranda steps to the soft sand.

  She heard him bark with laughter.

  Springing into an immediate run at the bottom of the stairs, she felt her left knee wobble then buckle, causing her to stumble and pull up short. She couldn’t tell whether she strained it, or if it was just temporary instability due to the transition from hardwood floor to soft sand. Damn . She stopped and rubbed her kneecap, gently moving it from side-to-side. Not painful. She pressed her thumbs into the sinuous bands that ran alongside her knee. Not painful. She shook out her leg and decided she had better walk through the soft sand until she reached the hard, packed sand next to the water’s edge.

  I hope to hell Timpani Tom didn’t see me stumble. What a flail. Am I going to be able to do this? Of course I can do this. It’s just running. A natural movement. Not anywhere close to yoga poses.

  When she hit the hard sand, she took a breath, bent her arms, and started running. After the first few yards, she catalogued the function of her tendons and joints. No wobbly knee this time. As her feet pounded the sand, she focused on smoothing out her stride, relaxing her shoulders, leaning slightly forward, and keeping her chin up. Jen always stresses good posture when running.

  Amanda ran through her body’s initial shock of the jarring of hips and knees and ankles. Her skeleton felt like it was going to shatter under the weight of gravity, but she motored on, envisioning herself as a ballerina floating across the stage on her toes, barely skimming the surface. Smooth out the stride. Even though her body was aghast at what she was doing—so accustomed was it to downward-facing dog—she soldiered on, trying to find a comfortable pace, striving for less up-and-down movement.

  Everything felt painful and unnatural for a half mile, then by sheer force of determination and steady breathing, her body relented and settled into a rhythm. Maybe she was just numb. She wasn’t sure. Either way, she coughed a few times, the burn of the marijuana smoke still fresh in her lungs, and took some cleansing breaths. If she didn’t know better, the burn could have tricked her into thinking she had already gone for a run, but it was due to the smoke, not the exercise. No more weed.

  After one mile, she tried to think about something other than her form, the euphoria of exercise lifting her spirits. She breathed in deeply, the salty, organic smell of the ocean fueling her soul. As long as she was alive, she would be at home next to the Pacific—the humid spray conditioning her skin and tightening her corkscrew curls, the sound of the surf restoring her sense of life-balance, the salty aroma improving her mood, and the early morning sun warming her body.

  God, I’m blessed to be here. Why do I keep feeling sorry for myself? Why do I keep fucking up an otherwise perfect life?

  She forced herself to pick up the pace by a beat, embracing the challenge. Nothing was burning yet, but she could feel her core and quads protesting.

  I need to take control of my life. My emotions. My heart. No more weed.

  Her arms pumped faster as she lengthened her stride, her feet barely landing on the sand between steps.

  Enough sulking. Enough grieving. If I want Jen, I need to go after her.

  She found herself nearing the end of the sand spit, the small town of Bolinas on the other side of the inlet. She turned around and regained her pace, setting her intention to run uninterrupted the two miles back to Chance’s house. I can do this. Unbroken.

  Feeling her ankles stiffen, she focused on pushing off the balls of her feet, bending and flexing her ankles, causing a few creaks and cracks, but the motion felt good. Despite the assault, they still flexed with mechanical efficiency.

  She was grateful for her body’s physical ability to keep up with her psychological demands, as her heartrate increased, pounding against her chest wall. Focus on the sand ahead of me. Don’t think about how tired I am. Steady breaths. Calm breaths. I need a mantra…no more weed…no more weed…no more weed.

  She welcomed the tiny beads of sweat forming along her hairline and rolling down the sides of her face, cooling her. She could feel her nylon shorts getting damp above her butt crack where some sweat dripped down.

  No wonder Jen does this. It’s sort of liberating in a relentless, violent way, shocking my body into submission. I’d rather get an endorphin high by having sex or smoking weed, though. No. Can’t do that. No more weed.

  Putting one foot in front of the other, she envisioned movement in its simplest form, pushing herself to keep pace, so she didn’t languish or give in to the urge to break her run. She pretended like she was running on air, only occasionally allowing her feet to touch the earth.

  Voila! And, there it was—a huge thought bubble in the blue sky above her: the epiphany she had experienced while staring into the firelight last night. Her spiritual realization populated so distinctly in her mind that she was almost frightened by its powerful clarity. True insight, enabling complete understanding of oneself, wasn’t for the faint of heart. If she wasn’t utterly fearless at this point in her life, she would have kept the profound understanding at bay, protecting herself.

  She allowed the gift of clarity to unfold before her; to help her know herself and grow from that knowledge. She prepared to accept herself in an unvarnished state of truth, no matter what the truth revealed. She was ready to achieve true enlightenment.

  The protective bubble between reality and her soul dissipated, breaking the thin, customarily-impenetrable, barriers. She entered a new realm of insight, almost as if running into the air in a different dimension. No longer conscious of her body running on the beach, she felt as if she were floating in the air like the mist from the ocean. Unsure whether she was going through life; or life going through her, she chased the epiphany. Come here. Open yourself to me.

  The insight violently washed through her. I’m guilty as charged. I live with a killer’s instinct in my heart, not borne from battle, not even from watching George getting killed or killing Eddy myself. The instinct is imbedded in my soul, stronger than a hunter for meat for his family. Why? Karma from a previous existence? Is this why I can’t be happy-go-lucky like others? Is this why I feel driven to immerse myself in work, yoga, cello, alcohol and drugs—to escape my innate killer instinct? Either push it so deep, or run away from it so that it can’t control me? I might never know, but I do know that I love Jen and being in love with her quells my desire to kill, almost vanquishing it. Jen
and Kristin bring me more happiness than I ever thought I could experience. They are my salvation.

  She pictured the three of them at the dinner table, smiling and laughing. She pictured herself walking on the beach with Kristin, helping her pick up sand dollars. She even pictured herself pregnant with her own child while holding Kristin’s hand. Then, she pictured herself making love to Jen. I have to get her back. I need them in my life. I have to go to her. Salvation.

  The thin opening in the layer that separated true enlightenment from daily reality fused together again, preventing Amanda from further accessing the dimensions of her soul. She returned to her immediate world, her powers of comprehending her past, present, and future abated by the parameters of human limitation. She again felt her body pounding the sand as she ran. Just her by the ocean.

  She glanced to her left toward the sand dunes and discovered that she had passed Chance’s house, having made it back and then some. Allowing herself the satisfaction of accomplishment, she pushed herself, continuing down the beach for another half mile. She was determined to finish her run with all she had. To spend every last ounce of energy on the beach. To make herself proud. To reward self-awareness. To shun acts of moral turpitude. To win back her soul. Maybe she would have a chance in this lifetime to redeem herself. Atone for past lifetimes of killing and sinning. Driven by discipline, ambition and love, she was determined to leave a new legacy in this lifetime.

  When she turned around and sprinted down the beach toward Chance’s house, draining her entire tank of energy, her legs flew with renewed vigor even though her lungs protested in agony. As soon as she reached the soft sand, she doubled over and greedily gulped buckets of air, her heart thundering against her chest wall, sweat pouring off her brow and dripping from her nose. Resting her hands on her knees, she decided she would go to Jen as soon as Jack could rustle up a pilot for her parents’ private jet.

  My salvation lies in Jen’s love.

  After walking off her run, she re-entered Chance’s kitchen, now crowded with the weekend guests. Margot was eating with others at the dining table, so Amanda avoided eye contact, as she made a bee line for her coffee cup and cell phone resting on the counter where she had left them. She filled her cup with coffee, cream and sugar, carefully considered the food buffet before nabbing a piece of bacon, then walked past Margot and the others toward the expansive veranda.

  Amanda gingerly sat on the top step and ate her bacon, washing it down with coffee. Choosing her words carefully, she typed a text to Jen, erased it, then retyped in its place: I channeled my inner Jen today and went for a run on the beach. I can see why you run, and, more importantly, I understand why you ran. I would love to run with you someday.

  She admitted that the message was a little weird—and maybe even obtuse—but if Jen still loved her, she would understand.

  Sixteen

  After sending her heartfelt text, Amanda sipped her coffee and stared at the ocean, wondering what Jen and Kristin were doing half way across the continent. Is Jen teaching Kristin how to swim? Does Kristin have a tan? Does Jen think about me when her head hits the pillow at night?

  When tears stung the back of her eyes, Amanda fought them off. God, not again. Can’t I just be done with this?

  God didn’t get the chance to answer because Margot flopped down next to Amanda, Margot’s unmanicured toes curling over the wooden lip of the step. Amanda was never drawn to au naturel toes unless they were Jen’s, who had naturally beautiful, pink nails, even for a runner. For everyone else, she considered a pedi a basic necessity of grooming.

  “Hey,” Margot said, “I heard you went for a run this morning.”

  Amanda nodded, her eyes firmly fixed in front of her, giving the impression she was lost in thought while staring at the ocean, still fighting back tears over Jen.

  “Any regrets from last night?” Margot asked.

  “About that…” Surprising herself—and probably Margot—the tears spilled over Amanda’s lashes. She had never, ever lost control while telling a woman she wasn’t interested, but her current situation was unique to say the least. Margot would probably think Amanda was a sap, or worse, that she was ambivalent. They had only kissed. What’s wrong with me?

  Margot lay a hand on Amanda’s bare thigh. “No need to let me down easy. You were quite clear yesterday when we were cheek-deep in sand that you still have feelings for the woman who broke up with you. I don’t want to pressure you. I was just having fun.”

  Through the film of tears, Amanda found Margot’s grey eyes, which were disarmingly sharp in the morning sunlight in contrast to their softer hue in the firelight last night. “Don’t get me wrong. I had fun, too, but I realized that I’m a mess right now. It was unfair of me to lead you on. I’m sorry.”

  Faint disappointment gave way to a protective expression on Margot’s face. To her credit, she adopted the suits and trappings of empathy. “I understand. I’ve been there. You have my number, so maybe another time…when you’re not on the rebound, huh?”

  Amanda patted Margot’s leg, hidden under a long, striped skirt. “Maybe another time.” She knew she was being misleading, but it was her nature.

  Margot cleared her throat, stood, and disappeared into the house, leaving Amanda to wonder if she did, indeed, have Margot’s number in her phone. She had no idea what Margot’s last name was, and she’d be damned if she would look at her phone right now for fear that Margot might notice and draw the wrong conclusion, or worse, rush to Amanda’s side, reciting a number that Amanda never intended to call.

  Forget about her. Back to Jen.

  Amanda stood and walked down the steps, her knees and hips reminding her that they had just performed like a thoroughbred. She rotated her hips in a stretch as she called her father, Jack.

  He picked up on the third ring. “Hi honey. Is anything wrong?”

  “No. Why do you ask?” She held her hand flat to her brow to cut the morning sun.

  “I don’t know,” he said in a cautious tone. “You had a rough week last week, and I was wondering if…you know…you felt better. What can I do for you?”

  “Thanks for asking. I do feel better, and I’m wondering if I can borrow your jet for a trip to Wisconsin.”

  She could sense his curiosity through the connection. “Surprise visit to see Jen?”

  He was clever that way, fishing for whether they had made up or whether Amanda was making the first move.

  “Um…well…yeah. I want to see Jen and Kristin, so I feel it’s best if I make the first move.”

  “If you love her, go after her,” he said.

  He obviously eats at the same Chinese restaurant as Chance . “I’m going to,” she said, although her voice lacked the punch her words required.

  “Are you up for it?” he asked.

  “I am,” she said with more enthusiasm. “I just went for a run on the beach, and I haven’t eaten breakfast yet, so I’m a little drained. Will you text me when your jet is available?”

  “I take it you want to go as soon as possible?”

  “Yes. Today even.”

  He sighed, indicating that would be unlikely. “Let me see what I can do. You know we co-own it, so the Martins or Meyers could be using it right now. We usually schedule a few months in advance.”

  “I know. Just see what you can do in the next few days,” she said.

  “Anything for my baby.”

  They rang off, and she twirled in place. I’m going to see Jen. Yes!

  She trotted back into the house, a new woman. Smiling at a few people as she sailed through the buffet, she filled her plate with scrambled eggs, a single pancake and a pile of bacon—her favorite meat. She poured maple syrup over the entire pile of food and squeezed into a chair between Chance and Kip at the full table.

  “Generous use of syrup,” Kip observed. “Do eggs and bacon taste better when they’re covered in syrup?”

  “Everything’s better with syrup, you idiot.”

  Kip laughe
d. “Did you have a good run?”

  “Very nice.” Amanda didn’t look up, as she lay her napkin in her lap and poised her knife and fork over her plate.

  “Did you go to the end of the spit?” Chance asked.

  “All the way,” she said before stuffing her mouth with a bite of pancake.

  Kip poured a glass of orange juice for her from a pitcher on the table.

  “Thanks,” she muttered and drank half of it.

  “When are you going to let me interview you about the Kara Montiago murder investigation?” Kip asked without preamble and even less subtlety.

  Amanda set down her glass with a purposeful thump then scooped up a heap of scrambled eggs. Stretching time for dramatic effect, she waited until she shoveled the eggs into her mouth, then said, “Ah, never.”

  “Oh, come on, DA Hawthorne. You represent the people, and they deserve to know why Montiago ended up dead on the roof of a car outside her lawyer’s office.”

  “Not now, Kip,” Chance said in a defensive tone.

  Amused by his protectiveness, Amanda turned and winked at Chance then pivoted back to Kip. “I thought you already interviewed Ryan Delmastro.”

  “I did, but we both know the Chief would never give me the entire scoop. He was strangely clipped and irritated about the entire matter.”

  She glanced back at Chance and saw his eyes were narrowed. She deduced that he hadn’t relayed to Kip what Kara’s love life had been, or who was the real father of her red-haired daughter. Chance knew, of course, having worked side-by-side with Montiago on her campaign.

  She continued eating nonchalantly, giving the impression there wasn’t a story there. “Hm. You know I can’t comment if the investigation is still open.”

  “When you guys clam up like this, I get suspicious.” Kip’s right eye twitched with excitement.

  “I’m not ‘clamming up,’ I’m eating.” Amanda took a monster bite. There was no way she was outing the Ryan-Kara extra-marital affair that they had managed to keep a lid on for 17 years.

  “What’s the status of Vincent Voss, Kara Montiago’s personal lawyer?” he asked.