Your story sadly unheard,
Waiting for my eyes.
I STILL REMEMBERED THE FIRST time I saw the ocean.
It was on my ninth birthday, the sun at its peak as my eyes set on the jeweled waters crashing over the sand like large hands, pulling the tide back in with every rolling wave. I was enamored. I was in love.
I was home.
I’d bolted for the water, dying to feel what the salt felt like against my skin. Ready to see the fish and find my kingdom hidden somewhere within the murky depth.
What I wasn’t prepared for was how hard the waves were.
I dove head-first, kicking as the water pulled me in, almost as if welcoming me. But then the next wave came, and I wasn’t ready. The undertow yanked me, ripping the breath from my lungs. I rolled and tumbled, fighting for the surface.
It wasn’t what I imagined. It wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
Luckily, my father had been right behind me. He grabbed me up by the stomach and carried me back to the towel as my mother fawned over me like a broken doll, and I remembered looking back at the ocean in a new light.
The sparkling water glistened like knifes. The rhythmic waves crashed like heavy hammers.
I couldn’t help but think of that drowning feeling when I thought about Dean.
He was a lot like the ocean. Beautiful and deep, but dangerous to swim in.
I peered over at him as he hummed in tune with a song playing on the radio, the deep, slow vibrations settling my nerves. I wanted to swim inside his voice and let its calm wash over me. He had his hand gripped on my thigh, a sated look on his face.
A look I put there.
He must have felt me watching, because he glanced over at me the moment we were stuck behind the only red light in town, hooking a smile on his lips that tapped the cage of butterflies in my stomach.
I could stare at him all day. Could get lost in the fields of green in his eyes. He was remarkably handsome. A rough coating of stubble hiding the strong jaw line I knew was underneath. Full lips that were deliciously warm when soft and open.
Being next to him, our bodies still coming off the high we built in each other, I couldn’t see past the moment. I didn’t want to.
He was fast becoming the excitement of a tomorrow I never used to look forward to.
Words spun through my mind as I closed my eyes, letting my head sway as the slow cadence of the song played. I let my fingers lift in the air. Felt them swirl out the words that pressed against the flesh of my heart.
I could love you, if I let me.
I could love you, if I don’t forget me.
You’re handing your heart,
While I hide in the dark.
I could love you, if you let me.
I could love you, if you can accept me.
What if… what if I let myself fall completely? If I let my reservations get swept under the high we felt when touching each other? Everything seemed perfect in his arms. His kisses were like oxygen. The more I took, the more I couldn’t live without them. His mind was like the sun. It was warmth and light, and I could feel myself growing, just like I had five years ago.
Petals blossoming within the rays of his confidence.
But what if that went away? Reality was fast approaching, and then what? What would we be to each other then? A memory? Something more? And what about Charlie and my problems? What about Matt and the case?
What am I doing?
“I’m just going to run in and grab the coffee. I’ll meet you in the bookstore?” he asked as he pulled into a parking spot in front of the coffee shop.
“Okay,” I said, my stomach fluttering as if it had wings.
His hand lifted from my thigh as he put the truck in park, and then shut off the engine. The spot where it had rested felt cold the moment he took his heat away, my body reacting before my mind could catch up.
I wanted to pull him back to me. Tuck myself in his arms. Hide somewhere in the woods for just a few moments more where the world disappeared and all that remained was me and him tucked inside his truck, our bodies providing each other warmth. Our minds feeding each other’s souls.
He looked at me, eyes scanning over my face, and then he touched his fingers to my chin. It was just a light graze, but it felt like he’d pulled me into his arms. I wanted to dissolve into that moment.
“You okay?” he asked, always seeming to pick up on my inner thoughts.
His smile was intoxicating, like a light chasing out all the shadows. I didn’t want to get lost in all the what-ifs anymore because, no matter what, there would always be another what-if waiting around the corner.
I nodded, because I didn’t trust myself to speak.
With one last grin, he got out and jogged around the front of the truck before I had time to grab my purse and open the door. I knew it was a stupid reason to blush, but a small part of me thoroughly enjoyed being treated like a lady.
He took my hand when he helped me out, the small gesture warming me through. When my feet were planted on the ground, he shut the door and stepped onto the sidewalk.
“See you in a few?” He left the question hanging open.
“Yep,” I replied, adding my own reassuring smile.
Waving, he entered the small coffee shop, the doorbell chiming. The display window to Mr. Walters shop was painted with patriotic colors, an image of the American flag bleeding soldiers out of it. I smiled as I thought about how he must still let the art students use his window for practice, and then leaned in, finding the small piece of paper with the typed names of high-school artists who’d contributed.
That was one of my favorite parts of growing up in a small town—everyone helped everyone.
The rain had lightened to a slight drizzle and felt refreshing against my heated skin as I passed by the coffee shop in the direction of the bookstore. Everything needed was within walking distance—furniture, tools, groceries, clothes from a small boutique.
It was simple living, but there was nothing ordinary about it.
There was a familiar vanilla scent coming from the ice cream shop across the street. I stopped, turned my head up to the sky as the sun peeked through the disappearing clouds, and inhaled. It had been so long since I’d been somewhere where the air smelled fresh and crisp.
Somewhere that smelled like home.
Nostalgia brushed my mind, bringing me back to who I was. Dad used to bring me into town, setting me free on my rollerblades while he ventured into the different shops to get what he needed. It was our Saturday routine, which always ended with ice cream.
I’d hoped I could make memories like that with Charlie. That one day I wouldn’t need to pull doubles just to make ends meet.
Maybe that day would come if I’d put more time into my writing.
My phone rang, jarring me out of my daydreaming. I fished it out of my purse and recognized Dad’s number. Panic clawed at the back of my throat.
Charlie… what if something had happened to Charlie?
“Hello?” I answered, trying my best to cover the fear in my voice until I knew what was going on.
“All is well, Andy,” Dad said, chuckling lightly. “Although your son has out-fished me on more than one occasion now.”
A light bit of relieved laughter slipped out. “He gets it honest,” I said, hand over the rapid beat of my heart. “What’s up? You don’t normally call in the middle of a camping trip…”
Dad’s voice muffled as he told Charlie to go check the bait bucket to see if they needed to get more before their big fish-off the next morning. Charlie gave a cheerful reply, laughing briefly, before Dad was back on the line. “Only got a minute, so I’ll make it quick. I filed a restraining order on your behalf against Matt for harassment. It’s being pushed through and should be served to him either today or tomorrow. From there, a date will be set for court. When you return home, we’ll attend and get everything squared away as far as personal boundaries being set for you and Charlie.”
&n
bsp; My lips scrunched in thought. “Oh? I didn’t realize you could rush a restraining order through that fast. Will you be notified once Matt is served?”
“I will. And as soon as I get the call, I’ll let you know,” Dad answered. “Gotta go. Charlie’s headed back. See ya in a few days.”
I said goodbye and hung up, feeling a little more in control of my life. A little more like things were finally falling into place.
There was a light at the end of the tunnel. For once, it wasn’t a train.
Ms. Violet’s was two shops down from Mr. Walter’s place. I glanced over my shoulder, just to see if Dean had made it out yet, and jumped when the blur of someone caught the corner of my eye.
Matt.
I scanned back over to where I thought I saw him, standing a few feet away, leaning against a wall, but there was no one there.
I checked around me before heading in that direction, determined to know if he’d indeed been there or not. By the time I made it over, there was no one there. I even peered into a few windows, just to make sure.
He isn’t here, Andy. You’re just paranoid.
Laughing at myself, I headed in my original direction, and then reached for the door to Ms. Violet’s. The bell hanging over the door jingled when I pulled it open. All at once, I was hit with the familiar and welcome musty scent of paper that reminded me of a forest as it aged. Knowledge and secrets hidden within the bindings, just waiting for a pair of eyes.
Books were stacked to the ceiling. Shelves jam-packed with the words of so many.
There was an art to moving through Ms. Violet’s shop. A method to her madness.
I stopped near the first shelf, running my fingers over the spines. They weren’t organized by author name or genre. Not by color or by subject. Every book that made its way through her door was organized in the order in which she’d first discovered and read them.
She kept the first and most precious to her up front.
I pulled out A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf. The spine was creased, the cover tattered, but the words within the yellowed pages remained as prominent and real as ever. Through fires and floods, and time itself… her words remained.
That was the wonder of literature—a portrait would be interpreted. A photo could capture but a moment of one’s existence. But words… they were permanent and unquestionable. They were visceral; a brush stroke to the perfect painting of a soul.
I skimmed through the pages and stopped when a line caught my eye. It read:
So long as you write what you wish to write, that is all that matters; and whether it matters for ages or only for hours, nobody can say.
I closed the book of essays and released a quiet sigh. Held it close to my heart as my eyes misted over and my heart beat words through my mind. I wanted to find that feeling again, so badly. When it didn’t matter how or when, I just had to get the story out. Dean inspired that urge in me. He’d encouraged me to move forward with my manuscript back when I thought I could conquer the world.
And then I ran away. From him, and from my writing.
But he was back in my life.
“Andy, dear?” I heard Ms. Violet say.
I swiped the pads of my fingers at the corners of my eyes before I turned to face her, planting a large smile on my face. “Ms. Violet, it’s so good to see you.”
If she was shocked to see me, she hid it well behind her welcoming smile. I strolled right into her hug, a small piece of me feeling like that young girl with big dreams again. The same girl who hid within the shelves of this store, nose glued between the pages of a book.
She squeezed me hard, always a good hugger.
“It’s been so long. I thought maybe you forgot about me,” she said as she stepped back. There was something about the way she always treated me that made me feel special.
“I could never forget you. I’ve just been caught up with life.”
I tried not to think about Matt and the problems he brought.
“I used to be able to say the same. Now, I find myself becoming more and more of a cat lady,” she said, her sincerity making me smile. “Just yesterday, I took in another stray that was claiming my dumpster as his hiding ground. That’s the second cat this year. If I take any more in, you might as well call up Hoarders and tell them you’ve found them another subject.”
As if on cue, a small white cat jumped down from the shelf and began circling my feet, weaving in and out.
She put her hands on her hips and looked at him, affection in her eyes. “That there is Whitman,” she said. “Langston is off hiding somewhere.”
I hitched an eyebrow. “Into poets lately?”
She waved me off with a laugh. “Nah. I figured it makes me sound a bit more refined to the customers who visit. Especially to Old Man Walter. He is into poetry, and this old girl needs all the help she can get.” She leaned closer, hand shielding her mouth as if she were about to tell me secret. “Because, between you and me, Old Man Walter only gets better looking with age.”
I giggled as the cat plopped his butt right on my foot.
“So,” she said with an inhale. “What brings you back to this godforsaken town? It surely can’t be for the pie and gossip.”
Ms. Violet was one of the rare few who went against the grain of the town. She didn’t partake in the gossip, but she was still able to remain in social circles. It was a rare gift of hers. When a soul was pure, no one could turn it away.
“You know… the annual Hale & Thurston Fourth of July celebration at my parents’ place,” I explained, bending to pet the cat. It purred as I smoothed my hand over its soft fur. “It’s been so long since I’ve been down this way. I figured I owed it to Charlie to let him have this small piece of the town’s magic.” I stood and smiled, tucking my hair behind my ear.
Ms. Violet pursed her lips and made a sound. “I don’t know about magic, but a boy does need freedom to run wild, and your parents’ place is the perfect setting for that.” She stopped. Looked me over. “You look so… so healthy, dear. Like a freshly bloomed flower.”
Dean’s face flashed behind my eyes. Heat built in my cheeks as I tried to hide the smile he ignited in me.
Clicking her teeth, her keen eyes appraised me. “I know that look. You’re in love, aren’t you?”
My smile vanished.
Dipped in pinks and reds,
Shot by Cupid’s bow.
Candy hearts are spilling,
From a love I cannot show.
The bell jingled, and my nerves tied into one large knot.
Ms. Violet turned and then gasped. “Is that Dean Thurston I see walking through my door?”
She stepped around me to greet him.
His smile stretched. “It sure is,” Dean said, holding out the coffee and a small paper bag. “A Thurston bearing gifts.”
She patted him on the arm as she took the bag and coffee from him. Despite the town’s whispers, Ms. Violet never treated Dean any different. It was like she could see people’s essences. Her store was always a sanctuary to him.
Unfolding the bag, she took a small whiff. “Mmm. Blackberry. Only you would bring me my favorite muffin.”
Dean put his hand over his heart and smiled. “Anything for Ms. Violet.” His eyes shifted past her and landed on me, practically undressing me with his gaze.
I swallowed as she giggled and turned to me. “I don’t know what I did to deserve a day like this. Two of my most favorite people just so happen to walk into my shop? It can’t be coincidence.”
“It isn’t,” Dean offered, tossing me a wolfish grin as he moved to stand next to me.
My eyes widened a little as she looked between us. “You two came together then?”
I nodded slowly, feeling like mortification was painted over my entire body.
She watched me a moment longer, eyes searching for something… something I was trying to shield.
“Is this a business or pleasure visit?” she asked me, digging for a word on my manuscri
pt.
“Pleasure,” Dean said.
My body went stiff. Just dig a hole and throw me in it, because I was dead.
As if someone had lit a fire under her, she set the coffee and bag on the counter nearby, and then tottered around us, excitement clipping at the notes in her voice. “Well, then. Come. Let me show you what I’ve recently discovered.”
We followed her to the back of the shop, looking through several dozen books as she explained the uniqueness to each one. Dean’s adoring gaze interloped with mine when Ms. Violet wasn’t looking, adding on layers of heat that made me blush all the way to my toes. Made me wish we were somewhere alone. The minutes spent with Ms. Violet sped by, turning into hours. Yet, inside those minutes, time slugged toward the moment Dean and I could be alone again.
I couldn’t get enough of how he looked at me, or how my heart responded to his smile in return. His attention. His adoration. His…desire… he was a fire I never wanted to put out.
“…but I don’t think you need to be in this section.” Ms. Violet continued her tour. Eating up the company. Making us feel right at home.
I watched her reach up on the shelf in the back, fingertips inching a book out of place as I said, “Oh, yeah? What section is this?” I tripped over my own feet as I tried to cross over to help. Not that my height was of any use.
Dean was right there, steadying me before I fell onto a pile of books. His chuckle was dark and daring. It raised the hairs on my neck from the closeness of his body.
“Here we are,” Ms. Violet said.
I jumped back from Dean’s arms and turned, holding my hands out, trying to tell my speeding heart to slow down. She turned and gave me two more books, stacking them on top of the one I still held close.
I glanced at the cover of the one on top. “A Coffee Addict’s Guide to Finishing a Manuscript?” I eyed her down. “Why do I get the feeling you’re trying to imply something?”
“Oh, it’s not a feeling dear. It’s a fact,” she concluded, pinching my cheek for good measure. She looked to Dean. “What happened to you two? You were so spirited a few years back when Andy was working on her novel. I remember, as if it were yesterday, when you’d both come in for research and my opinion. Some days I sit here and watch the door, hoping the two of you would step back in and pick back up where you left off after you just… vanished.”
The Taste of Her Words Page 17
