by Orly Konig
The sound of waves and gulls calls me, and I make my way to the edge of the water. A Weimaraner bounds up to me, nudging at my hands.
“Hey you.” I squat and rub his ears. His tongue slurps across my cheek and nose. “Well you’re friendly.”
“Max, get back here.” The dog’s owner arrives next to us in a pant from his sprint down the beach. “I’m so sorry. He has personal space issues.” He grabs for the dog’s collar, but I wave him away. For the first time in months I’m laughing—really laughing. Max continues to lick my face, his stump of a tail wagging furiously.
I fall onto the sand and wrap my arms around the dog’s neck. “No need to apologize. Actually, that’s exactly what I needed today.”
Max’s owner smiles and offers a hand, which I willingly take. “Sorry again. He’s very excited to be at the beach.”
“I get it.” I brush sand off my butt and give the dog another rub behind the ears. “I’m always excited when I’m let loose on the beach.” I turn to Max’s owner. “Are you here on vacation?”
It turns out that Max and his owner, Brian, are renting a place on the other side of town for the summer. We chat for a few minutes about places to eat in town, the best times for running on the beach, and avoiding crowds. With a final lick, Max follows Brian down the beach in the direction of their rental.
I slip into the stream of runners, finding my pace. The morning breeze tugs at my ponytail, and suddenly I’m as free as Max. I hear the waves and the slapping of my tennis shoes on the wet sand. I hear my breathing getting raspier as each swallow beats at my eardrums. My arms and legs propel me forward, past walkers and slow joggers, past seagulls and sightseers, past an old couple holding hands and a dad chasing his toddler. Faster, harder.
I stop and double over, forcing the salty air through my lungs. What the hell possessed me to take off at such a speed after months of no running? Ghosts, that’s what.
Vale had tried getting me to talk after we left my brother’s house last night. Thomas and Bree had both called and texted and called again. I overheard Vale talking to Bree on the phone. He thought I was in the tub and couldn’t hear. “It’s been a tough year, Bree. I don’t know what to do anymore.… I know, Bree, it’s been difficult on me, too.… I’ve tried that. But she keeps shutting me down. And shutting me out.”
Anger rolls through me, sudden and unexpected. I shut my eyes, willing my body to move, to get me as far from these feelings as possible.
“Hey, you okay?” I watch the toes of dark-gray running shoes as they pop up and down in place. They twist to the side and a neon green Nike swoosh dominates my vision. The shoes continue to run in place. The voice above me sounds more urgent. “Maya?”
I suck in a lungful of air and force my eyes from the bouncing sneakers, up sculpted calves and taut thighs. Thank god the shorts are long. “I’m fine, thanks.” I force my body upright and I’m eye-to-eye with Simon.
Just like that, I’m fourteen again. The new summer hunk is leaning against one of the umbrella sheds, a swarm of giggly girls surrounding him. He’s captivating them with stories of life in Hollywood. I’m standing at the back of the circle, sure beyond my wise years that he’d never actually played basketball with Rob Lowe or mowed Harrison Ford’s yard.
My friend Sissy pokes me in the ribs with her sharp elbow and swoons—literally swoons, like we’d seen actresses do in the old movies her mom liked to watch. I roll my eyes at Sissy, at the rest of the swarm, and at Hollywood Hunk and his stories. That’s when he caught my eyes. He’d been watching me, his expression amused by the challenge of the hard-to-impress girl.
“I’m outta here.” I shouldered my way out of the baby-oiled, glistening mass of girls and trotted to the volleyball net, where a handful of kids were ramping up for a game.
“One more,” the already familiar voice of Hollywood Hunk comes from behind me. Our team won that game. And since we banded together for the rest of the summer, we won pretty much every other game as well.
“That was some pace you had going.” Simon pulls in a long draw of damp sea air. “I’m obviously too old for those sprints, though.”
I blink myself forward twenty-some years. Simon is leaning forward, pushing down on his thighs with the heels of his hands. I stare as the muscle in his right thigh ripples.
“I … I have to go,” I stammer, feeling a flush in my cheeks that has nothing to do with my ridiculous attempt at a morning run. After all that’s changed, nothing has changed. Simon still gets to me.
He can’t get to me. I’m the one who left, I’m the one who walked away—no, ran away—the night he proposed.
“Wait, Maya, we should talk.” He catches up easily, his steps matching mine. Left, right, left.
“About what?” I spin to look at him.
“About us.”
“There is no us.”
“There should have been.” He’s got me there. But if there had been, then I would never have met Vale. Or lost a baby.
When I don’t counter, he continues, “I saw you a few times. Once you were with him. Another time with your grandma. You looked beautiful pregnant. I saw you at the grocery store a few months ago. You were staring at canned vegetables. You looked so sad.”
My mouth opens, then closes. Simon saw me with my husband, saw me pregnant. I try to imagine how I would have reacted if I’d seen him with his wife. Even worse, if she’d been pregnant. I remember that day in the grocery. The sight of pumpkin puree had unraveled my barely stitched-together nerves. I’d fled right after that, leaving my cart in the middle of the canned goods aisle. Milk, ice cream, tampons, apples, toothpaste. Abandoned.
“Simon…” I look around as though people are all around us, listening, when the truth is, there’s no one remotely close enough to hear, nor would they care. What was I going to say? What can I say?
“Why?”
I look up, unsure if Simon asked the question or if it was a trick of the wind. He’s watching, waiting.
“Why what?” I know, I just don’t know how to answer.
“It was our dream. We’d talked about it for years. So what the hell happened? And what was so awful that you vanished? Poof.” He makes an exploding fist gesture.
“I got scared.” It’s the lamest answer I can give, but it’s also the most accurate.
“Of what?”
“Of us.”
“What does that mean?” His voice vibrates with frustration.
“We were too young.”
“What? It’s not as though we were considering running off and getting hitched by an Elvis impersonator.”
I watch a jogger go by. She adjusts her earbuds and taps at the phone strapped to her bicep. I want to join her. I want to sprint away from this discussion and the memories frothing to the surface.
Simon takes a step to the side, blocking my view. “If you weren’t ready, you could have said something. You should have said something. You were leaving for a year in London. I wanted you to know I’d be here, waiting.”
“I knew you would be. I never doubted you.” I can’t meet his eyes.
“I don’t get it.” His hands shoot up, the frustration threatening to crash over both of us like an overzealous wave.
I shrug. I know before my shoulder hits the peak of the arc that I’ve sealed whatever friendly terms we could have moved forward on. Simon was not a fan of my excuse-for-everything-and-nothing shrugs. Neither was my mom.
“Seriously, Maya? Twelve years and the only explanation is a lousy shrug?”
We’d been together six years. We’d had all our firsts together. And I’d never once imagined myself with anyone else. Not even during the various college parties when guys asked me out, or during our all-night study sessions, when my boyfriend was halfway across the United States and everyone around me was hooking up on one-night stands or collegiate flings.
I never doubted we’d be together forever until he asked me to be his forever.
“I guess the finality of t
he commitment freaked me out.” I still my body, denying my shoulders their freedom again.
“Commitment issues? After everything we went through together?”
“We were kids.”
We glare at each other, a game of emotional chicken.
I’m the first to cave. “And yet six months after proposing, you married someone else.” The memory of the wedding announcement stings my eyes. Mom had sent it with a “thought you should know” note. Thanks, Mom.
“It was a mistake.”
“Looked like a pretty glamorous mistake.” I’d smudged the newspaper image beyond recognition, trying to dissect every nuance in the photo. Simon in a tux standing next to a model-perfect woman in a slinky designer gown, slit up to her hip, and stilettos that brought her to Simon’s shoulders. Her arms were wrapped around his torso, his right arm draped around her shoulders. His left hand shoved into his pants pocket. I’d wanted to see the wedding ring. I sneak a quick glance at his left hand. There hadn’t been a ring on it yesterday. Still no ring.
“Yeah, well you disappeared with only an ‘I’m sorry’ note left on my car. And ignored every letter after that. What was I supposed to do?”
“Not rebound so fast?” I have no right to be jealous. I didn’t back then and I certainly don’t now. Like a slow-motion cartoon, his last comment slams into me. “What do you mean I ignored your letters? I didn’t get any letters.”
“It doesn’t matter.” His posture is defiant, but his expression is defeated. “I don’t know why I thought talking now would help. Forget it. Good-bye, Maya.” He turns to leave.
A sudden chill races up my spine. Is he saying good-bye for now, or is there more finality to it? Does that good-bye include Hank?
“Simon,” I reach for his arm, but he’s faster and moves before I make contact. “Can I still come see Hank?”
He studies me for an unnervingly long couple of seconds. “Suit yourself. Just don’t break his heart as well.”
Ten
The undercurrent of heartbreak propels me to the edge of the water, where the remnants of a wave chase me back. I toe-out of my running shoes and pull off my socks. The wet sand is wake-up cold. I shiver but walk forward anyway.
Excited voices behind me call attention to a dorsal fin swimming close to shore. A woman squeals as her kids run to the edge of the water. The crowd has grown to the size of a small mob.
“Relax, people.” A man in a tracksuit and floppy fisherman’s hat announces as he leans on the metal detector he’s carrying. “It’s a smooth dogfish shark. Only dangerous if you’re a crab or a clam.”
Despite the assurance, the squealing woman doesn’t release her death grip on her kid’s hoodie. If I were that kid, I’d unzip and make a run for it. But this one doesn’t, he just looks like a bulldog straining against a choke collar.
The shark swims away and the crowd disperses. I head in the opposite direction from the flow of beach walkers until I’m almost even with my street. I look up at the top floor of the houses on prime oceanfront lots. I can just make out the top of the street sign. The dune cuts off half of everything, including the bodies of people walking along the boardwalk.
I should be getting home. The carousel horse needs my attention.
My phone buzzes in the pocket of my sweatshirt.
“Hey, bathroom store is open now. I’ll even buy you breakfast on the way. How about it?”
It’s not just the carousel horse who needs my attention.
The first time I met Vale, I was twenty-four and the bike I’d borrowed from Grandma’s garage punctured and bucked me off. Not one but two flat tires, and a nasty case of road rash on my right arm and leg.
Luckily, it had happened on this street, a street I rarely took back then, and in front of a house I’d never paid attention to until that day.
Vale had seen me go down and came to see if I was okay. He tossed the old bike into the bed of an older pickup, thankfully better maintained than the bike, and drove me back to Grandma’s.
“Can I buy you breakfast on the way?” he’d asked. Breakfast at the Robin Hood Diner became our special time. When was the last time we went? The promise of French toast makes my stomach gurgle.
I turn back to the ocean. A woman, maybe my age, probably younger, jogs by with a shaggy dog of miscellaneous breed. She looks fresh while the dog looks like he’s ready to flop over and be carried home.
“Can we get a dog?” I text Vale.
“Breakfast and tiles first?”
My stomach gives a reminder kick, but my legs don’t move. The feathered end of a wave tickles my toes and the soles of my feet. I brace myself as the sand shifts with the receding water.
Just don’t break his heart as well.
Good advice, even if he hadn’t meant my husband. I type, “On my way,” and turn for home.
* * *
By the time we get to the bathroom-and-tile store, I’m hopped up on four cups of coffee and ridiculously close to a breakfast-food coma. I should have stopped after the third slice of French toast, but the fried eggs and bacon had smelled so good.
“Think you can get out, or should I come around and haul you out?” Vale grins as he turns the ignition off and opens the driver’s side door.
“Ha. Ha.” I pull at the latch and the door pops open. A groan helps propel me out of the bucket seat.
“Elegant.”
“Oh, kiss my ass.”
“Happily.”
“You’ll have to catch me first.”
He laughs. “That’s not much of a challenge right now. You can barely get out of the car.”
I give him the nastiest face I can muster before his laughter becomes contagious. We get a few curious stares as we walk into the store, which only kicks off another wave of giggles. Vale winks at me when we finally catch our breath. In this minute, we’re the old us.
“Okay, okay, time to get serious. How about looking at sinks first?”
“Toilet is more important.” I grab his arm and pull him to the row of toilets. I sit on one, announce it’s too small and walk to another, shaking my and head muttering, “Too big.”
Vale laughs. “Okay, Goldilocks, over here. This one is just right.”
He’s almost right. We compromise on the one next to it, with the more modern shape and handle. And the slightly higher price tag.
“Sinks.” It’s Vale’s turn to lead me across the store. “That one is nice and should fit in the space we have.” He’s pointing at a mahogany-stained cabinet with a glass bowl precariously perched on top. I run my fingers around the lip of the bowl, then lift the handle for the water, turning it left and right and left again.
“You do realize you can’t make water come out of the faucet, right?” He leans over my shoulder and together we stare at the lifeless faucet.
“Yeah, yeah. I like it. Isn’t it too modern though?”
“Too modern for what?”
“The bathroom? The house?”
“You’re the one who wanted the most modern crapper in the store. It’s perfect, Maya, come on.”
I stall, slowing his walk to the tile department with my lead feet. This is all going too fast suddenly. We can’t make these big decisions faster than a finger snap.
“Too expensive. What about this one instead?” I break free from his hold and walk to another mahogany-stained cabinet. Still modern lines and with open space at the bottom, but the basin is square porcelain.
“Nice. Fine.”
“What kind of answer is that?” I turn on him with a burst of aggression like water erupting from a long-unused faucet.
“Whoa.” Vale holds up his hands in surrender. He turns and, without another word about the vanity or my outburst, walks to a row of tiles.
I want to pull the nastiness back into the bottle, cork it, throw it into the ocean. But once released, the bitchy genie doesn’t want to be contained. “Hey, don’t walk away.” I march after him like a petulant child.
“I’m not goin
g to fight with you, Maya.”
“I’m not looking for a fight.” Except I am, and I don’t know why.
Yes I do.
“What are we really looking for, Vale?”
He stops midway down a row of tiles. “Everything that’s now missing from the bathroom. Which is pretty much everything.” He tries for a light tone that falls heavy.
“No. What are we looking for?” I don’t back down. With the spigot open, I can’t let it go. “Are we fixing or remodeling?”
His face hardens. “This isn’t the time to have this discussion.”
“It wasn’t the other night either.”
Vale scans the tiles around us. I cross my arms and wait for him to look at me.
“Remodel.”
“For us or a buyer?” My heartbeat hammers in my ears.
“Let’s start with us.” It’s more a question than a statement though.
Thoughts and questions trip over each other, but none escapes through my clenched teeth.
Vale pivots to face the row of tiles behind him. “How about these tiles?” He points at shimmery rectangular glass tiles. They seem to change shades of blue and teal with each twist of my head and sideways step. They’re gorgeous. And perfect.
“Nice. Fine.” I’m being a brat. I feel it. I can’t stop it. “I prefer these.” My finger traces the wave pattern along the edge of a light blue tile. I see us from above, and I’m appalled. A couple of hours ago, I stood on the beach wanting to do the right thing for my marriage. An hour ago, we were having a great time over breakfast and the right thing was right there in my grasp.
“A bit cliché, isn’t it?”
A couple walks past, the man pushing a stroller, the woman cradling an infant in a purple kangaroo pouch strapped to her chest. It’s an ugly purple, not the color I would have chosen. I’d turned my nose up on those when we used to go to the baby stores. I’d give anything for one strapped to my chest right now.
