by Brooke Moss
Aunt Isla ticks my nose. "If you flirt some, you might be able to get some inheritance out of someone."
"Are you allowed to say that?" I ask, laughing.
She waves me off. "I can say anything I want. It's a benefit of being old. Anyway, it might not be worth it considering you have mine to look forward to. But let's not think about that! So morbid."
She takes my hand in hers and gives me the chance to grab my suitcase, before she drags me away. The door clicks and opens, letting us inside. She leads me down a hallway, then stops at a door halfway down. Her name is written on it in neat, cursive handwriting.
"I apologize ahead of time you'll be sleeping on the couch. At least it pulls out," she says.
"I'll be fine," I promise her. If I know Aunt Isla, she probably didn't go cheap on her pull out couch. It's probably more comfortable than my bed. I have a feeling, if not for my parents (and maybe Sam), I‘d never want to leave here.
Her apartment matches her personality with its eclectic decor. It's spacious, which isn't what I expected—I guess I pictured something similar to a motel. Instead, there's a full sized kitchen and living room, which are bigger than my entire house. Nothing really matches in either room, but it all somehow goes together. My favorite part of the entire place is her curio cabinet. Inside, she stores an elephant for every different place she's visited. Each one is unique and gorgeous. She’d even sent me a matching one after her Paris trip because I asked. It has little golden Eiffel Towers etched into the saddle. It’s my most prized possession.
"I know you probably want to get settled in, but how about in an hour, we go meet some people? Did you bring your swimsuit?"
#
Aunt Isla has more energy than a person half her age. I feel tired just watching her. She buzzed around her apartment, chitchatting about everything, until I finally told her I was ready to leave. I didn’t find it annoying—I loved it. My mom's a lot like her and I hope I'm like my mom.
I change into my two-piece bathing suit, which might as well be a one-piece. Aunt Isla lets me borrow one of her cover-ups, and wears one herself. Her bathing suit reminds me of something from the forties. She also gives me a large lipped hat to wear. Somehow it all makes me feel glamorous.
"My friends are going to love you," she says as we travel the hallways to the swimming area behind the building. The beach isn't far beyond, but Aunt Isla said they only go there on special occasions. "We might drown," she explains. "Evidently we're old, so we need a lifeguard."
"I don't think old has anything to do with it," I tell her jokingly. "I would need a lifeguard, too."
"I guess following the rules means you can sue them if you drown."
"Nobody can sue anyone if they're dead," I point out, making her grin.
"You have the best humor," she says. "I'm going to claim it's because of my genes."
I’m sure she’s right. My dad has a drier sense of humor, which can be super hilarious, but you have to listen carefully to catch it. So, obviously it comes from my mom’s side.
We're met with laughter and loud voices when we step outside. It seems as if everyone is back here, either in the pool or by it. Clearly they have their own cliques because they're all bunched together in groups.
Aunt Isla leads us over to one of the poolside tables, where there are two empty seats. Three people are already there. One is an African American man wearing a Hawaiian shirt and swim trunks, along with a dapper, tan hat. Another is a woman who looks younger than the others and is flaunting it—wearing a bikini top and a high-waisted skirt. The final woman has long gray hair and is wearing a peasant shirt. Her eyes are glassy and there's a vacant look on her face.
"This is Hope," Aunt Isla tells them. "Hope, this is Arthur, my special friend." I choke. Special friend? What does that even mean? I'm not sure I want to know. "Shirley, the floozy. And Marilyn, the sweet but forgetful one."
I wave, which earns me a wave back from Arthur, a side-eye from Shirley, and a huge grin from Marilyn. Aunt Isla sits down next to Arthur and taps the other vacant seat. I take it. There's no missing how Arthur immediately twines his hand with hers. How did we not know about him?
"So, how're you liking it here so far?" Arthur asks.
"The place is beautiful." I'm not sure if I'm really liking the trip, per say. I love Aunt Isla and getting to see her is a dream. The only problem comes with seeing Aunt Isla and Arthur together. It’s clear love exists in old age, too. There's no escaping it. At least, there will be no babies, new home, or life changes to worry about.
I hope.
Here I am blaming social media for all my troubles, but maybe it’s all on me.
"It had better be," Shirley says. "My children pay a pretty penny to hide me away in here. Only the best for a mom they don't want to see." She crooks her finger at me to lean in and lowers her voice. "Life lesson: your children will hold resentment toward you if you're married four times. You love them and raise them, then next thing you know, they're telling a therapist about how you ruined them."
"Hogwash," Aunt Isla interrupts. "Your children love you."
"I never said they didn't," Shirley replies.
Aunt Isla rolls her eyes, but smiles. "Let's not scare the girl off. You don't want her talking to a therapist about you, too."
Arthur shakes his head at the two of them, then looks at me. "You'll learn these two'll wear you out. It's almost like they feed off each other." He gives a look at his watch. "You have ten more minutes till you're free to breathe."
"More like ten minutes until we die," Aunt Isla says dramatically.
"What's in ten minutes?" Marilyn asks, piping up. She has a strong draw to her voice, as if she should be drinking sweet tea on the veranda.
"Water aerobics, dear," Shirley says, patting her on the arm.
"You can watch or mill around," Aunt Isla tells me. "Or you can swim. I would not do the aerobics, mind you. They're god-awful."
"I guess I should go get my swimsuit on," Marilyn says, starting to stand.
"Sweetie," Shirley says, gently. "You already have it on."
"Oh," Marilyn whispers, blushing.
"What's wrong?" Shirley asks her. She gives me a sly wink, which Marilyn misses. "You reminded me to slip mine on in the first place, Mar."
"I did?" Marilyn asks.
"You did," Arthur confirms. He automatically receives points for his kindness.
"Speaking of reminders, somebody please remind me Paul’s stopping by to fix my faucet. I need to look my best," Shirley tells us all, then starts adjusting her bathing suit top.
"Every woman—other than me, Arthur—and some men are vying for Paul's heart," Aunt Isla says. "What makes you think you'll be special?"
Does she mean “special” in the same way she called Arthur her “special friend?” "Who's Paul?" I ask.
"He's our resident dreamboat," Aunt Isla tells me. "He's leading man material. Like Cary Grant."
"Better than Cary Grant," Shirley clarifies.
It makes me smile they're sitting around talking about cute guys. At least, some things never change, whether you're a teenager or you're in your retirement. I honestly can't wait to see this Paul to know what they find "dreamy."
"And he's deaf in one ear—wounded from the army. It's so sweet," Shirley says, fanning herself.
"Half of us are deaf around here," Arthur points out. "And half of us served in the war."
"And we're grateful for that, love," Aunt Isla says. "It's okay to be jealous."
"I'm not jealous," he mutters, almost pouting.
A beeping starts, interrupting their banter, and they all stand. "That's our cue," Aunt Isla tells me. "I'll be done in an hour and a half."
I decide to take my chances and visit the ocean. Barely a day into the trip and I've developed a devil-may-care attitude, tempting death by going lifeguard-less
I sit so the water just barely touches my toes. My mom used to tell me if you wished on water, your wish would travel across the wo
rld so it could come true. The idea made me so giddy, thinking how easy it sounded. I once wished for Sam to get into a summer-long camp for science. I visualized my wish traveling through streams and drains to the committee members' houses.
When the water drifts all the way up to my heels, I close my eyes and let out a breath. I wish this summer would help me find what I'm missing.
#
The next day we take a bus into town. The bus does a town-and-back trip everyday so the residents have the chance to go out and run their errands since all the stores are centrally located. There’s a definite seating arrangement, sorted by cliques. Shirley, Marilyn, Arthur, Aunt Isla, and I took the open seats near the emergency exit. Shirley told me matter-of-factly, they always take those seats because there’s more room for their purchases. I’m sure about two things: (1) it’s not safe to pile groceries in front of the emergency exit and (2) these four rule the roost around here.
Arthur wasn’t planning on going out today, but tagged along anyway. He and Aunt Isla must spend virtually all of their time together, despite living separately. The love between them is palpable and I hope I'll somehow absorb it just by being near them. When Aunt Isla sat beside me on the bus, she immediately reached for his hand between the seats. Then once we came to a stop, Arthur helped her up. Theirs is a quiet love, but that only makes it more beautiful.
"We have a salon date," Shirley says, one arm linked through Marilyn's as she fluffs her hair with her free hand.
"Please tell me it's not for Paul," Arthur groans.
"No, we're going to see Marilyn's handsome doctor tomorrow," Shirley says coyly, as they part from us and start across the street.
"In case you didn't know it, Shirley is Marilyn's sister-in-law. She takes real nice care of her in memory of her older brother," Arthur explains to me as we walk into the grocery store.
"What's wrong with Marilyn?" I ask.
Arthur and I wait while Aunt Isla grabs a cart. He leans on his cane. "She has dementia. It was slow at first, but it's gotten worse. Shirley's worried Marilyn will have to go off to a different facility."
"Marilyn seems lonely," I observe, remembering how she'd talked about her kids.
He nods. "She has a family and a lot of money, but I'd say the only good thing she's really got is Shirley."
"And you and Aunt Isla."
"Yeah, and us," he says. He taps my foot with his cane, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Lucky her."
"Are you two bonding?" Aunt Isla asks, rolling her cart toward us.
"She already favors me over you," Arthur tells her.
"It's true," I agree.
Aunt Isla rolls her eyes and leads us further into the store. About halfway through her groceries, she asks me to head over to the dessert section and find us something sweet to eat tonight. I happily take her up on that because, well, sweets.
My attention is immediately drawn to the different flavors of fudge boxed up, calling to me like the gates of Fort Knox. The advertising claims it's local, handmade, and fresh, and if I want more there's a store. I pick one of them up, trying to smell it.
"You can't go wrong with that one, but I'd do cookie dough."
I jump, nearly dropping the box. Crap. Here I am sniffing this box like a fudge-head. If I wasn't a total and complete weirdo before, I am now. I mean, without turning around, I already know this guy's going to be attractive. It's in his voice. Deep, southern and rolling as the hills I just flew over. This, right here, is a reason why forever alone is my relationship status for life. I can't even do something alone (at least I thought I was alone) without embarrassing myself.
I set the box down—mint chocolate chip—and turn around. My ears were right in their assumption. He's more attractive than anyone I've ever seen. Not hot or sexy—terms I might normally use to describe the ideal man—but handsome. His hair is curly on top and as rich in color as dark chocolate, but shorter on the sides. Thick eyebrows sit atop soulful, brown eyes rimmed with thick lashes. His skin has such a deep tan it's almost as if the sun decided to just merge with him rather than burn him.
He blinds me with a dazzling, white grin. Holy fire-panties, he might have ate the sun with the wattage of his smile. There are even little lines in his cheeks which aren't quite dimples, but are somehow better.
"Sorry to catch you off guard," he says.
I blink. Thanks to the love-deprived woman I am today, I'm about as good at conversing with an attractive man as I am at talking to a brick wall. "Y-you're fine." I set the box back before I murder the fudge. That would be the only thing worse than what's happening right now. I take the rest of him in. He's wearing a pair of khakis and a black short sleeve shirt which shows a set of well-defined muscles that aren't too bulky or too lean. In one hand is a half-gallon of milk and in the other is a wrench which was possibly used to kill Ms. Peacock in the Kitchen. "Probably not a good idea to sneak up on someone with that," I say, stupidly. To make matters worse, I point at the milk.
He chuckles. Maybe I'm not as bad at this as I think I am. Maybe I'm funny.
Ish.
"Just be glad it wasn't the full gallon," he says and winks. Winks. I've seen creepy people, actors and elders wink, but never anyone else. I always thought winking was one of those weird things people do to be cute, even though it really makes them look like they've got a twitch. This guy’s definitely the exception. My stomach has fluttering wings and angry hippos barreling around—good, yet intense.
So this is how you're supposed to feel around the opposite sex. It’s nothing compared to the minor feelings I've had about crushes, where my hands might shake or I might feel a little warm. Two seconds into meeting him and I'm pretty sure I'm in love.
Okay, so not "love," but maybe lust. That doesn't even sound right—affection? All I know is I can already hear wedding bells and feel rice falling on me.
I swear to goodness, if the next words out of my mouth are "I do," I'm either going to go into hibernation or join a convent. My mind is taking this a few years too far into the future.
His mouth starts to move, but I'm too busy watching him like he's some sort of work of art in an exhibit. Maybe a museum—see attractive man not known to woman-kind since the dawn of the twenty-first century and Internet.
He pauses and tilts his head, then drags me back to reality by clearing his throat.
I squint and tuck my hair behind my ear. My mom is always telling me I need to keep it out of my face and how if people can see my face, I automatically appear more confident, even when I'm lacking.
"Sorry, I was just..." I trail off. Tucking the hair didn't help at all. How would I even finish that? Sorry, I was just checking you out and planning our life. Ew. "What were you saying?"
His grin grows; clearly, he's enjoying this. There's something wolfish about his canine teeth. At least, it makes him less perfect, if not more adorable. "I was just saying you should definitely choose the chocolate-chip cookie dough."
"Really?"
"Well, I mean, I like mint, but it's overwhelming after a while," he explains, genuinely excited to tell me this fact.
"Sounds like a reason to choose mint," I say more to myself and my thighs. "No, I was asking what you were really saying?"
"Well, yeah, there's not much further you can take a joke about a milk jug. Sure, there might've been something less than cool thrown in there, but..." he shrugs it off. Great, so he gets to just shrug off his uncoolness, while I'm going to be haunted by mine thirty years from now when I'm still cringing over this. "Anyway, sorry again for scaring you."
He somehow manages to grab his own box of cookie dough fudge, even with the wrench and milk, expertly holding it between his arm and his side. His weight shifts as he moves to walk away. I can feel our moment slipping through my fingers. I don't know if being in a different state has me feeling extra confident (or, arguably, stupid), but I snatch my own box and say, "If you're wrong, I'm suing you."
He turns to face me with a wry smile, somehow compl
etely different than his previous grin. Goodness, it's as if those lips speak their own language. "I'm never wrong."
"That's not probable." I'm trying to flirt, but I never learned how to. Instead, all I know is how to be awkward and talk in math-speak.
"But possible," he argues.
I can't hold back a smile. That's basically the exact answer I wanted. I think this means we're meant to be. "I hope for your money's sake, it's very possible."
He chuckles, swaying on the balls of his feet and tilting his head slightly. I catch a glimpse of faded scars running up from his shirt and toward his ear, reminding me of tree branches. Part of the shell of his ear is missing. It's weird I'm just now noticing it. He doesn't hold himself like he'd be scarred so visibly. I can't help but respect him.
"So, are you a transplant or a vacationer?" he asks. He sets the milk down on the table, along with the box, settling in. He leans against the display and crosses his arms, still nonchalantly holding the wrench.
"What makes you think I'm one of those?"
He shrugs. "I'd have noticed you, if you weren't."
A fiery blush stampedes up my neck and over my cheeks. I'm sure it only makes my hair look extra bright. What does he mean, he'd have noticed me? I'm not really noticeable. I had one or two guys like me in high school, but they were friends first and were probably a result of falling for my personality, not perceiving my looks. I've felt invisible around other people—watching and witnessing, but never interacting.
Maybe he just means it's a small town and everyone knows everyone.
"I'm visiting my aunt for a few weeks," I explain. "You live here?"
The man seems to have an unlimited amount of smiles in his back pocket. "My whole life, with a few gap years somewhere else." Somehow his eyes darken and his mouth twitches slightly, as if there's something going unsaid he's uncomfortable about. He gathers himself just as quickly as he lost himself. "Guess you might always be right, too, huh?"
I hug my box tightly to my chest and take a small step toward him. We're a few feet apart in our little empty corner of the store. I hope it's not too noticeable I'm creeping on him. I just want to be closer. There's something about him pulling me in.