A FEW DAYS later and it’s the weekend before college starts back up for our final year. Blaise and I are at a café not too far from the beach. I’ve enlisted his help with my legacy listing for the day, but he’s still struggling to grasp the concept.
“But why would you just give them away, Woodstock? You know you could make money by charging people for them.”
Today, I’m leaving my favorite books and CDs in various locations around town. Attached to each of them is a note that says, ‘I made the most of every minute I spent with this. I hope you do too. When you’ve finished enjoying it, please leave a legacy by passing it on.’
I also have a few disposable cameras in my purse with instructions attached for the person to ‘capture the moments that make you feel alive.’ I’d left one on my dad’s bench as we were leaving to come here, which sparked Blaise’s confusion.
“I know, but that would defeat the whole point. The idea is to pass something good on just because, not so you can get something out of it.”
“But I thought the whole point was to make it part of your legacy?”
“It is.”
“So then you are getting something out of it.”
The icy truth of his words freezes the comeback on the tip of my tongue and reminds me of the selfishness inherent in good deeds.
“I guess so, but money isn’t it.”
“Fair enough. I still don’t see the fun in being a good person.” His teasing words are in direct contrast to his being. He’s one of the best people I know.
We’re interrupted as the waitress comes over to deliver our coffees. I watch with amusement as her eyelash extensions flutter like fairies in flight. Even after her job is done, she continues to hover around Blaise, much to his annoyance and discomfort. The discomfort that swims through his rich, whisky colored eyes has me dismissing the waitress with a friendly but firm, “Thank you.”
Her flirtatious smile dims as she turns and strides off in frustration. Although his posture has relaxed, Blaise’s jaw is still clenched to the point of breaking and his rough, calloused fingers rip the napkin on the table into mosaic fragments. I place my hand over his to halt his movements, forcing apart his fingers before entwining them with my own and squeezing.
“You okay?” I whisper. The café is quite empty considering the time of day and we’re right at the back in a sheltered booth, but I know Blaise doesn’t like to talk about his emotions in public, if at all.
His shrug is morose as he avoids my eyes. “I guess so. I’m not sure I remember what that means. I’m alive aren’t I? That should be enough.” A crack forms in the deep timbre of his voice.
“A big difference separates living and surviving.”
He doesn’t say anything, but as his soulful eyes flick up to mine, he allows me to see the sadness and vulnerability in their depths as he acknowledges the veracity of my statement.
“You know you can talk to me about anything and everything? Completely free of judgment. I’ll even restrain myself from dispensing any ‘hippie’ advice if all you want is someone to listen.”
“I know, but I’m a man. We’re not exactly famous for talking about our feelings.”
“Regardless of gender, I just don’t want you to feel like you have to hide behind a façade of humor. I know you think it is, but your armor isn’t impenetrable. You’re human, Blaise. It’s okay to be vulnerable. It’s okay not to be okay. And I know you think you’ve mastered the art of masquerade, but some of us see the real you beneath it. I see and love the man behind the mask. I wish you could love him too.”
He seems startled at my words; as if he thought he was fooling people with his joker act, when the only one he was fooling was himself. I watch as his internal struggle plays out across his face. He’s deciding whether to lower the drawbridge on his defenses and let me in once and for all. Victory flows through me as he sighs in defeat.
“It’s easier said than done, Woodstock. I’ve spent so long playing a character that I no longer know where he stops and the real me begins. At this point, I think we’re one and the same.”
“You’re not.”
“You can’t be sure of that any more than I can. How can you distinguish the man behind the mask when it’s superglued on by years of lies and pain? At least I used to have my brother to remind me who I used to be, who I should be. I was someone’s twin, someone’s brother, someone’s something. Now I’m no one’s anything. I’m just floating around without an identity, trying out ones from the lost and found to see if they feel right. I’m an actor even without an audience.”
His pain is as devastating as his handsome good looks. At six foot five with a hulking, protective frame and savagely handsome features, Blaise St. Clair is as beautiful outside as he is in. It’s no wonder the waitress was powerless to his imposing presence, which radiates rugged masculinity. He attracts women like moths to a flame. It’s just a shame he’s not interested in them.
Through slips in conversation, gaps through his walls, and fragments from drunken ramblings, Blaise has painted me a picture of a haunted soul, confused and afraid. I know more about him than he realizes.
He used to be the star quarterback at his high school with a professional career shining like a bright beacon on the horizon. Forced to hide his sexuality in the pursuit of machismo, he buried his true self under layers of lies, jokes, and women he felt nothing for.
The only person who knew his secret self was his twin brother, Beau, who died three years ago, leaving him with one-half of his soul. After a career-ending injury wrecked his sporting dreams and ability to exercise the pain away, he turned to his other love of art to help him through his troubles.
His final words to his brother were an elicited promise that he would be true to himself and follow his heart. So even through the murky aftermath of his twin’s death, Blaise came out of hiding and lost most of his macho high school friends and the words of his devout French Catholic parents, who now barely speak to him.
“It’s like both of us died that day,” he says, almost reading my thoughts. “I died right along with him and I don’t know how to rebuild myself out of the ashes.”
I glance up at the countdown above his head. 71 years, 9 months, 28 days, 39 minutes and 43 seconds is a long time to live without a sense of self.
“I’ll help you,” I tell him. And although I’m not quite sure what it will involve, I know that I mean every word. Helping Blaise find his way back to himself will be another element of my legacy.
“And how are you going to do that, Woodstock?” His tone is cynical, but his eyes are wide with the flickers of hope that he doesn’t dare turn into a flame.
“We, are going to do it together. We’ll rebuild you one brick at a time. One like and dislike at a time. We’ll work out who you are now, and who you want to be, by establishing who you don’t want to be.
“And you may not be the same as you would have been before you came out, or gave up football, or before Beau died. But different doesn’t mean bad. Different can be better. You’ll be Blaise 2.0.”
“Blaise 2.0, eh?” The mask-less man is giving me one of his rare, genuine smiles, but his eyes are alight with love and gratitude, saying all the words his voice can’t. “Sounds good to me.”
As he leans over to kiss me on the cheek, I resolve to pull my flailing friend out of the embers, happy, healthy, and whole.
I SAID GOODBYE to Blaise a few hours ago and I’m now in the meadow with Tristan, setting up a tent for backyard camping. It sounds like something I would come up with, but it was Tristan’s idea as a way to say goodbye to the summer, not mine. Leo is delighted to be in the meadow, running around in the wide-open space chasing butterflies and birds with an instinctive sense of wonder reserved for the simplest of life’s pleasures.
His new best friend, Oscar, is spending the weekend with my mom visiting my grandmother in Morro Bay. The bond between Osky and Leo has to be seen to be believed. Much like with Tristan, the connection was i
mmediate and infinite. As long as he stays outside, mom’s allergies are okay so Oscar pleads with me every day to bring him round. I’ve been replaced by a dog in my brother’s affections.
Tristan’s wild laughter makes me smile as I recount the story of the man who called after me when I left a disposable camera on a sidewalk bench and accused me of littering.
“So how did you leave it?”
“Well, I knew the second we left he would get rid of it and he knew it would stay if he walked away, so we all just stood there having a standoff until this girl walking her dog saw it and fell in the love with the idea. She asked me if I was the one who left it there, and with every second, we spoke about the legacy list, the man’s scowl deepened. She thought it was wonderful though and said she was going to create her own list. She left with the camera and the man stormed off muttering about young people and their lack of respect. Blaise was imitating him the whole way home.”
“Inspiring someone in a matter of minutes, not a bad day’s work, Baby Bear.”
Even though it’s not what he’s referring to, I think back to my conversation with Blaise and how much happier and lighter he seemed afterwards. His shoulders were almost floating with the lightened load. “I hope so.”
“I know so. I’m looking forward to camping. I’ve never done it in a backyard before.”
I raise a playful eyebrow at the double meaning of his words, which I know he hasn’t even considered. At my reaction, he replays his words then trips and stumbles over them as he tries to clarify. “I didn’t mean…”
Putting him out of his misery, I laugh. “I know, I was just teasing. Backyard camping is the best, especially in a space like this.” I dust off my hands as the final tent peg goes in.
“You want to check on our trees?” I say, referring to the ones we planted two weeks ago.
“Yes, can’t wait. That reminds me of something.” His words are muffled as he bends and reaches into his rucksack, which is lying on the grass. He pulls out a packet of seeds, which he puts into his pocket and a small pocketknife, which he holds up to me. “We still haven’t carved our names into a tree as part of the legacy list yet. The ones we planted are too young, so I thought we could do it on the treehouse oak? It has special meaning for us.”
I’m so touched by the thought that it takes me a moment to settle my emotions. Tristan mistakes my silence for hesitancy. “We don’t have to.” He backtracks. “I know that tree means a lot to you. It’s your tree. Not ours. We can carve our names somewhere else. It was just an idea.”
I shake my head. “It’s perfect. I love it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Okay then.” He beams, holding his hand out for me to take. “Let’s go check on our legacies and then immortalize ourselves in bark.”
So that’s what we do.
The trees we planted are nothing but tiny sprouts in the ground, so there isn’t much to see. Since he’s no stranger to handling and chopping wood, Tristan takes care of the carving. As he stands back to admire his work, I wrap my arms around him from behind and look out at the engraving from his side. I laugh even as tears spring to my eyes when I see what he’s carved. Instead of our first names surrounded by the cliché love heart, he’s written:
‘T.I.M.E.
Tristan Isaacs and Matilda Evans.
Today – Forever
Forget-us-not.’
Around the neat woodwork writing, is a large flower that I think is supposed to be a forget-me-not.
“What do you think?” he asks, his voice shaking, “I mean, I did just deface your favorite tree in the world.”
“It’s what was always supposed to be there.” I press my face into his back, wetting his caramel colored sweater. He must feel the water seep into his skin because he turns around and takes me in his arms, pressing my head against his chest.
After a while, we break apart and Tristan tilts up my head to kiss the tracks of my tears.
“So how does it feel to live forever?”
“You’re by my side so it feels pretty perfect.”
His eyes soften at my words and we just stare at each other, suspended in saccharine sentiment. If Blaise were here, he’d be making gagging noises.
“So what do you want to do now?” I break the spell. “We have a few hours before dusk descends. You want to hang inside the house for a few hours?” I look around to check on Leo who is playing a game of catch by himself. Throwing the ball with his mouth every time he catches it.
“Actually, I had another idea.” He shifts, restless, with an anxious expression on his face, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out the packet of seeds which I had seen him put in there earlier. Looking out at his outstretched palm, I see the forget-me-not seeds that we give out to the people who are part of our legacy listing.
At my quizzical look, he elaborates further. “I thought we could plant them. You give these to everyone else, but you don’t receive any back. These are from me to you as part of my legacy list. So you don’t forget me.”
“I could never forget you.”
“I don’t know how long I have left,” he whispers as my eyes swing, unbidden, to the clock above his head. “For all I know, I could go tomorrow.”
I want to shake my head and tell him not to worry, but I know I can’t without catastrophic consequences for both of us. I’m restless with a love for life at the best of times, but I’ve never had a harder time keeping still.
He continues in a hoarse voice. “If I go before you, I just want you to have something from me that I left behind. Something that will always be with you when I can’t be. I remember you saying that your dad is the one who planted you that field of daisies that you use for the flowers in your hair. Every time you see a daisy, you think of him. Well, every time you see a forget-me-not, I want you to think of me. Of us.”
“Tristan…” I don’t know what to say.
“From what I can tell, there are two types of women. The ones who wait to receive flowers and the ones who go out and pick them. The first type are the ones who prefer diamonds around their neck to flowers in their hair.” His fingers glide down my fishtail braid filled with daisies as if proving his point.
“And there are three types of men. Ones who do nothing, ones who buy flowers from a store, and the ones who plant a field of flowers for the woman they love. I love you, Matilda. Let me be the type of man who plants a field of flowers, so you can be the type of woman who picks them.”
“I… I love you too. So much.”
Air rushes out of him at my declaration as if he’s been winded by my words. I know the feeling.
He cups my face with his spare hand and gives me the kiss of a lifetime, before dropping his hand into his pocket to pull out his watch. He breaks apart from me to fiddle with the clasp as I reach down to my stopwatch underneath my denim shirt and press the button to stop our world of two from spinning. We both whisper, “Pause,” against each other’s lips before joining them together.
After we break apart, we walk hand in hand, heart to heart, through the meadow, looking for the perfect place to sprinkle pieces of our souls across the earth. The field is crowded with flowers, but we find a large, untouched patch of grass with the ideal conditions for forget-me-nots to thrive. After I retrieve the appropriate gardening gear from the house and a few more packets from my supply, we plant the seeds of ourselves into the soil and hope that they live forever, even though we won’t. Especially because we won’t.
AS WE LAY entwined outside underneath a blanket of stars a few hours later, I study Tristan’s silhouette in the glow of the moonlight. I ignore the small white numbers counting down to his departure and instead focus on his features.
He’s beautiful. I guess you aren’t supposed to call a man beautiful, but to me he is. His strong, masculine features are offset by long, think lashes, which kiss his cheeks every time he blinks. Catching me watching him, his head turns toward me.
“You ok
ay?”
I nod as I shift down on his body so that my head rests against his chest instead of his shoulder. He runs his loving hands through my hair, which I’ve taken down in preparation for sleep. A contented silence falls over us like a comforter as we gaze up at the infinite depths of the galaxy.
I’m at once small and safe in Tristan’s arms as I try the impossible task of counting the stars. Drowning in the majesty of the constellations is a reminder that the universe was here long before us, and it will be here long after we’re gone. When our bones become nothing but ash and earth, the world will keep on spinning. People will die, cry, love, and live as if we never were.
But we are now. And that’s all that matters.
In this moment, we are.
Nothing but a boy and a girl.
On the cusp of something greater than ourselves.
Entering into the unknown and hoping we make it out to the other side.
With a strong sense of ourselves, and only a faint idea of who we want to be.
We are what we are.
And We. Are. Now.
Young, free, alive.
Here, together, loved.
“I almost forgot,” I exclaim, shooting upward in excitement.
“What?”
“Just give me a second,” I tell a perplexed Tristan as I run back into the house to retrieve what I need, my long hair whipping in the wind behind me.
“Are you okay?” he asks on my return, giving me a worried frown and opening his arms for me to get comfortable in my spot.
I love that I have a spot.
“I am now.”
“What did you forget?”
“This,” I say, holding up the official papers with pride for him to see. The only light is that provided by the cosmos, but I know when he understands what he’s looking at when his squinted eyes widen like mini-moons.
“You named a star after me?”
“After us,” I correct. “Look.” I take back the papers and flick through them to find the page I want. “This is a map of where they’re located.” It takes me a while to follow and match the patterns on the paper to the ones in the midnight sky. “There! Do you see?” I point to the location of ‘our’ stars.
The Counting-Downers Page 18