by Rosa Sophia
It’s almost as if we’re the only ones there.
The ocean of people disappears. And there’s nothing left but the sea and the wind as it tosses strands of loosened hair across my face.
When we cross the finish line, there are people cheering, and he and I hit the other side at exactly the same moment. Then we start laughing, and I lean against my knees, huffing. After a moment, I straighten, my hands on my hips.
“I’m Wes, Wesley Ladner,” he says.
“Nina Archer. Nice...to meet you.”
“Just breathe,” he reminds me as we accept our finisher’s medals from a grinning middle-aged volunteer wearing a Palm Beach Roadrunners t-shirt. The announcer’s voice booms around us, and we walk toward an open patch of grass to relax and stretch. “Are you here with anyone?” he asks.
I’m not sure if he’s trying to find out if I’m single, or just being chatty, so I hesitate. “Oh, I just come to these things by myself. I don’t really know any other runners.”
“Now you do.” His smile is so inviting I feel immediately comfortable around him, and I can’t help but return his warmth.
He reaches out, then stops, and I’m not sure what he’s doing until he touches my forehead, gently brushing the hair out of my face with his fingers. A tremble passes through me and goose bumps rise on my flesh despite the heat.
“Sorry for touching you.” He steps back, seeming almost confused, as if the same sensation passed through him. As if something had compelled him to touch a total stranger, and he wasn’t sure why.
“No, it’s okay.”
I try to remember the last time a man touched me. Since I left Dylan two years ago, I haven’t dated. Men frighten me. I feel—
Panic.
“Are you sure?”
Our eyes meet. He’s my height, and it’s hard to escape his gaze. Not that I want to.
“What? Sure about what?” I half-listen to the announcer as he congratulates the top male and top female runners.
“I mean, are you sure it’s okay? That was a little weird, I guess, since I just met you. But I can’t shake the feeling I’ve seen you before. Something about your eyes.”
“Me too,” I agree, perplexed.
“This might be a little presumptuous of me, but would you like to get breakfast with me?” He nods in the direction of the Loggerhead Café on the hill, a squat, yellow building by the beach.
“Yes. Yes, that sounds nice.” I could hardly believe the words coming out of my mouth.
When I move to adjust my shirt, tugging it straight against my blue shorts, he takes my hand. At first, I think he’s trying to take things too far too quickly, until he gasps and says, “What happened?”
“What do you...?” I glance down at my hands. There’s blood on my palms, mingling with my sweat, spreading from small cuts in my soft flesh.
Now I see why my therapist frowned on dissociation.
I’d clenched my fists so tightly my nails had drawn blood.
***
We both take off our race bibs, and I walk with him to his car so he can get a shirt to wear in the restaurant. I’m grateful for this, because his body is a distraction that quickens my pulse as blood rushes between my legs. I’ve never felt such an instantaneous attraction, and as he lifts his arms and tugs a plain white t-shirt over his head, my gaze darts to the wispy hairs just above the elastic band of his shorts. I glance away fast, not wanting him to catch me.
What is wrong with me?
This is not the voices, but my own self-doubt, my own fear of intimacy rearing up in the depths of my shadowy subconscious. If he knew what was going through my head—
“So what do you do?” he asks as we walk across the parking lot toward the café.
“I work in a bookstore, and I’m a writer.”
“Oh?”
I nod. His smile is magnetic.
“I’m a writer too.”
“You are?” My eyes widen in surprise. “What kinds of things do you write?”
“Literary fiction. I have something with an agent right now, actually. I think I’m close to getting it published. What do you write?”
“Everything.”
He chuckles. “Everything, huh?” Wes opens the door of the café, and a wave of chatter pours out. He ushers me in, and I step forward, not accustomed to having a man hold a door for me.
A bubbly waitress pops out from behind the counter. “Two?”
Wes nods, and the waitress leads us to the back, seating us at a small table by the window across from each other. We order water and coffee to start.
“I’d love to read your writing sometime,” Wes says. “What are you working on now?”
“A novel.” I glance down at the menu.
“What’s it about?”
“I...it’s hard to explain.” A foolish titter escapes my lips, because I’m so shy that I often laugh nervously when I don’t know what else to do.
“What is it, a dirty book or something?”
He winks, and I balk, gasping, my face flushing. “No! It’s...it’s...I’ll just let you read it sometime, okay?”
“Good. I look forward to it.”
“What about you, what do you write?”
“Well, the novel my agent has is mainstream fiction, but I’m also working on a romance. I have an MFA in creative writing, and I also took business classes, so I’m trying to combine my creativity with targeting the market so I can actually sell this thing.”
“Wow. You have an MFA?” I am impressed, but I have heard how much they cost—which is why I didn’t bother with college, remaining happy at my little job at the bookstore, typing away at home in my off hours.
The waitress takes our order, then sashays away. I turn back to Wes, crossing my arms on the table, and add, “You must be buried in debt.”
He shakes his head. “Not at all. Everything’s paid off.”
My eyes widen in shock. “What? How?”
For a moment, he appears hesitant. “My family has a lot of money. I don’t even need to work, but I was working for a long time because I got sick of my parents’ politics. They don’t think I’ll be able to sell this book. They’d rather I be in business. They aren’t very supportive that way. They live in a completely different universe, and I’ve always been the black sheep. Sometimes I think someone dropped me off on their doorstep when I was a baby.”
“So, you’re rich...you just get anything you want?” I cover my mouth, cringing. “Oh God, that sounded so rude. I’m sorry. I don’t get out much. I can’t remember the last time I sat down and talked to a human being.”
Wes laughs and shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. But to answer your question, pretty much, yes. To me it’s embarrassing, but I’m sure there are a lot of people who wish they were in my shoes.”
“What does your father do?”
“Actually, my mom is the main breadwinner. She’s the CEO of Winder Communications Incorporated.”
“Oh!” I’d seen the tall, imposing building that housed the main offices in West Palm Beach. “What about your dad?”
“He was a systems analyst until he met my mom. Now he spends most of his time fishing and sailing. How about your parents?”
“I live with my mom right now. I had to move in with her to save money, so we share an apartment in North Palm Beach.” I almost add how I’m losing my mind, how I get panic and anxiety attacks, and some days I’m screamed at or berated, and by the next day she’ll forget what she said. Instead, I just smile, an expert at faking that little upturn of my lips, knowing the beam won’t reach my eyes.
“And your dad?”
I grab a piece of paper—the wrapper that held my fork, spoon, and knife in place—and start folding it into a triangle shape, avoiding his eyes. “He’s dead. He died in a car accident when I was ten.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
It isn’t okay. It’s never okay. But this handsome stranger need not know it. Deep down I
worry if he knew my dark secrets, he would walk away. The thought saddens me, because it’s so rare that I meet someone I really connect with. And for some reason, I feel the electricity flowing between us.
It is almost as if no one else is in the café. At least it feels that way until the waitress clunks our dishes down in front of us and asks if we need ketchup. We both shake our heads, and she steps over to check on the next table.
I wear a watch, but I don’t look at the time until the place empties out, and someone comes up to us and says, “Excuse me, we’re closing at two today.”
Dumbstruck, I glance up at her. “So?”
“So, it’s one-thirty.”
The race had taken place that morning, and Wes and I had been sitting there talking for hours. He grabs the check and pays, and we walk out into the afternoon sun.
I’ve already washed my hands in the bathroom, and I look at my palms. The cuts are red and swollen, but they aren’t bleeding anymore.
I let Wes hold my hand when he walks me to my car. And even though the sweat stings my wound, the tingle rushing through me when I touch him makes it worth my while.
Chapter 4
I feel my way through the dark hall, guided by the unnatural light flashing against the plaster from my mother’s television set. Loud voices—the volume is too high. I know I’ll have trouble sleeping.
“Mom.” I gently push open her door. She’s reclining on her bed, her eyes glued to the screen. “Mom, can you turn that down?”
“Oh, shut up,” she sneers, waving her hand in my direction. “You get to do everything you want, and what do I get?”
“Mom, I don’t know what you’re—”
“Just leave me alone.”
I want to sink into the floor and shrivel up. We’d argued earlier because I’d promised to take her to an art museum, but my work schedule had changed at the last minute, forcing me to cover an afternoon shift at the bookstore. I’d apologized, but she’d forgotten that conversation, and now we were back to the beginning again, rewinding the tape and playing the same track over and over.
I go into my room and shut the door, climb into my bed, and cover my head with a pillow. Ten minutes pass by, and I can’t sleep yet. Then I hear shuffling noises, see bare feet on the floor by my bed.
Uncovering my head, I look up at her. “Hi, Mom.”
“I’ve done everything for you, Nina.” Her voice is quiet, even. “I worked so hard to take care of you after your father died. I worked full time, I helped you with your homework, I fed you, I put a roof over your head. And then I ask you to do one simple thing, and at the last minute you back out on me.”
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
The gripping pain takes hold of my chest, squeezing. It radiates outward, cutting through my arms and legs, making every cell in my body squirm. It’s as if I’m trying to escape myself, and I wonder if now would be a good time to drift out of my skin. I remember my therapist, the only one I ever had, whom I haven’t seen in three years, and I wish I could still see him, get his thoughts on this. But to do that I’d have to—
“You are nothing but a manipulative bitch.” The words emerge in a snarl. She leans over me, her hands on her hips.
Then she stomps out of the room, and I’m alone. I listen to sirens blaring somewhere in the distance and watch the play of headlights against the ceiling of my room. I drift into a heavy slumber, my face wet with tears, my mind plagued with nightmares.
I wake in the morning groggy and delirious, the pain in my chest ever present. It doesn’t go away until after my morning coffee and bagel, followed by a kiss on the cheek from my cheerful mother, who cannot remember last night.
***
I dig my toes into the sand, and the heat radiates up through the soles of my feet. I think of my mother and how much I love her when she’s sober. I’m not sure who she is when she’s drinking—someone else, someone I don’t know.
Now I’m waiting for someone I don’t know very well—Wes, who called to see what I was up to. He lives in Cocoa Beach, two hours away, and he’s in the area visiting friends.
It’s Saturday, and I’m scheduled off from the bookstore, so there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than here, watching a sailboat in the distance, the puffy clouds in the sky, the people walking their dogs out past Juno Pier. I can’t help but be elated, content, as if I’m floating with those clouds, weightless and free.
My fingers are hooked around my flip-flops, and I’m wearing a white tank top and black running shorts. Just as I’m thinking about taking a jog down to the water, I hear someone move behind me.
“Hey, Nina.” Wes steps up beside me, wearing a t-shirt and shorts. It looks as if he’s left his shoes in his car. Dark sunglasses cover his eyes, and the breeze tosses an errant curl over his left eye. The dimples form in his cheeks when he smiles, and for a split second I wonder what it would be like to kiss that part of his face, where the dimple meets the scruffy beginnings of a beard he’ll probably shave off by tomorrow morning.
I shake the thought out of my mind as quickly as it pops into existence, almost as if I’m worried he’ll read it. Shy, I cross my left arm over my body and scratch at my elbow, even though it doesn’t itch.
“Want to go for a walk?” I ask, desperate to do something that will take my mind away from him. I’m afraid if we exchange too many glances, he’ll know what I’m thinking, or something will happen I’m not prepared for.
He nods, and we walk along the beach, discovering treasure troves of shells that washed up during yesterday’s rain. I reach down and scoop up a spiral-shaped shell, small, no more than an inch and a half long, and marvel at its beauty.
“I hardly ever find ones like this,” I say, showing it to him. “Isn’t it pretty?”
“Yeah, there are so many today, you can hardly see the sand in this spot.”
He’s right. They rub together under our feet, and when the surf washes up, it tosses all the shells together, making it sound as if Poseidon is playing a tune we might dance to.
We stand for a moment and stare at the water. “I like to watch the waves wash up,” I muse. “If I stare at the water long enough, I’m mesmerized. I feel like I’m drifting out of my body, like I did at the race.”
“You told me about that. You should be careful.”
“I know. That’s what my therapist said. I used to do that stuff all the time, drifting out of my mind and telling myself stories when I was a kid, but I didn’t know it had a name.” I look at Wes, shaking my head. “I don’t see what the big deal is, but my therapist said to me, ‘Nina, dissociation is a defense mechanism, you need to think about why you do this.’”
“And did you?”
“To a point. But I think I know why I do it.”
“Why?” Wes reaches down and picks up another spiral shell before slipping it into my hand. When our fingers touch, I shiver.
“I mentioned I grew up in dysfunction, more than most people. I know nothing’s perfect, but I had to take care of my mother. She took care of me too, but sometimes I felt like our roles were reversed.
“She’s such a wonderful woman, Wes. But when she drinks she becomes…someone else. She’s a writer like me, but she doesn’t think much of anything she does. She’s really good, but she doesn’t believe it.” I glance at him, shrugging. “And I didn’t have any friends growing up, so I learned to be my own friend, make up stories, create characters. Maybe she did the same thing, maybe we’re the same that way. I guess you could say writing in itself is a defense mechanism for me.”
“I can see that. In some ways, I’m sure it is for me too. Did you tell your therapist that?”
“I don’t see him anymore. He…he had to quit the practice.”
“Oh,” Wes says, and I’m grateful he doesn’t ask me about it. I don’t want to go into the whole story. Then I’d have to tell him why I went to a therapist in the first place.
“I haven’t spent this much time here in a while,” I say. We walk sl
owly along, finding a stretch of beach where smooth rock formations, like sandstone, create circular pools of water. We watch as the sea spray jumps up through the rocks, covering our feet when we stand in between them.
“When was the last time you were here? Before the race, I mean,” Wes asks, scooping up a few more shells, examining them, dropping whichever ones he doesn’t want.
“Last week, but not for very long. I got home from work, and Mom wanted to go to the beach.” I sigh, reach up, and rub my hand across my neck, another action reserved for moments like this when I don’t know what to do with my hands, a nervous habit like scratching at my elbow or playing with my earrings. “She wouldn’t leave me alone. I was trying to write, and she kept barging in my room.”
“Lock the door?” He snickers.
“It wouldn’t do any good. She just knocks and yells at me until I open it. If I don’t, the yelling turns into screaming.” At his perplexed expression, I explain, “She starts drinking around three. She’s retired now, so she’s home during the day. Which is fine, I love her when she’s sober. She’s the best mom a girl could ask for. Until the bottle comes out.” I sit down on one of the massive rocks, and Wes sits across from me. “She yelled at me and badgered me until I agreed to bring her here, but I didn’t realize until we got here that she was drunk. We started walking toward the beach, and she stumbled and almost fell in the bushes.”
“What’d you do?”
“What I always do. I grabbed her arm to steady her, and she swatted me away and said she didn’t need my help. I told her she was drunk, and she got even more pissed at me. I was so scared someone would see us, so embarrassed.”
“I don’t blame you. I can’t imagine what that’s like. But you have to remember it’s not your fault, and no one is going to blame you for her behavior. Forget what other people think. Fuck ‘em. They don’t matter.”