by Archer, Amy
We met on a cloudy day in early May, only three weeks before the reunion and the marathon. I was myself nervous to see Rachel, more nervous than I’d been to see my other friends, hoping I’d be able to bridge the gulf between us.
Rachel had suggested that we go to an art gallery near her house, and I was happy to get out of the city, if only for a few hours. I left work as soon as the bell dismissed my students and headed out on the BART.
My stop was a few blocks away from the gallery. I passed fancy sandwich shops and gelaterias, other art galleries and shops full of hand-knit sweaters and gifts. There were tourists were everywhere.
I arrived at the gallery a few minutes early and wandered around looking at the art while I waited for Rachel, feeling my excitement grow at the prospect of taking my students to see art. The room was filled with mostly abstract pieces in splashes of color and unexpected textures. It was pretty, but it wasn’t art I particularly understood.
Back in high school, Rachel had wanted to be an artist. She took art classes every semester, and I remembered her carrying her creations through the halls, huge frames or ceramic vases or masks. I wondered now if she had managed to become a professional artist after all. Did she, perhaps, display in this very gallery? I looked closer at some of the placards but didn’t see her name.
A moment later, I felt a warm hand on my arm. I spun around from the piece I’d been staring at, hundreds of pieces of painted strings strung over a canvas, and there was Rachel.
She looked just how I remembered her. Her dark, somewhat curly hair was cut short, and her eye makeup had softened a bit in the past decade, but otherwise she was the same old Rachel, staring at me with warm, amber eyes.
“Sophie!” she said, and pulled me into a hug. “I’m so glad you got in touch.”
“It’s really good to see you,” I said. “I couldn’t stand the thought of going to the reunion without catching up with my Honeybees first.”
Rachel looked at me blankly. “The reunion?”
“The high school reunion,” I prompted uncertainly. Had she not heard about it?
“Oh right, of course,” Rachel said. “I’d totally forgotten that was coming up.”
“But you’re going, aren’t you?” I asked. “You have to go.”
“I wasn’t…I wasn’t planning on it,” Rachel said, and I looked at her, shocked.
“But I need you!” I said. “I need all of the Honeybees there with me.”
Rachel laughed, shaking her head. “I haven’t thought about that term in so many years,” she said, almost to herself, and I tried not to be hurt. It may have been a long time, but didn’t our friendship matter to her like it had mattered to me?
Then, perking up, she gestured around her. “What do you think?” she asked.
“Do you have work here?” I asked. “It’s all very pretty…”
“Oh, no, I don’t do art myself much these days. But I do volunteer with the gallery a fair amount. I help them install and take down the art, and I particularly liked this batch.”
“Okay, that’s pretty cool.” I was surprised Rachel didn’t do art herself anymore, but if volunteering with the gallery made her happy, then I was happy for her.
“So what do you do these days?” I asked as we started to walk around, looking at the art more closely. Every so often, Rachel would point something out to me that I had missed, or explain what the artist was trying to accomplish with the piece.
Rachel didn’t answer for a moment. Then she said, “I do a lot of cooking. I walk up and down the beach with my dog every day.”
It seemed like she felt uncomfortable with the question, so I interjected, “You have a dog? I have a dog too!”
I told her about Taco, and she told me about her dog, a golden retriever. “I never pictured you as a golden retriever kind of person,” I said, imagining her with a tougher breed, or a mutt, like Taco.
Rachel shrugged. “Edgar always wanted a golden retriever when he was growing up, so we got one.”
“Edgar is your husband?”
“Yep, married almost six years.”
“Impressive,” I said. “I was with my ex for six years, but we broke up a few months back.”
“Sorry to hear it.”
“I’m not,” I said, and for the first time I really meant it. I was truly better off without Matt—better and happier.
We stopped in front of a glass sculpture, colored bits twisting upward like arms toward the sky. “Okay, I’ll admit it, I said. “This is beautiful, but I don’t get it.”
Rachel stared at the piece, considering. “I don’t know that there’s anything to get, really,” she said. “It’s just about playing with form and color. The spirals show movement, even though the glass obviously can’t move. It looks like it’s reaching upward to the sky, like toward the heavens. Maybe like a child reaching up for a parent.”
“Well, that’s a lot of interpretation if there’s nothing really to get from the piece,” I said, and she laughed, conceding the point. Now that she had said it that way, I pictured the piece as Angelina, full of a five-year-old’s energy but careful to stay perfectly still anyway. And I thought of Devin too, his contained chaos, the way that he, like the sculpture, was so many different things put together, colors and shapes, vibrant and flowing. But did he also have the stillness of the glass, or was he only the movement and spontaneity it portrayed?
Maybe I was taking this a bit too far.
“So what’s it like being married?” I asked. “My ex and I lived together after college, but it seems different to actually be married.”
Rachel stared at a piece of art for a moment without answering, and then said in careful tones, “It is different. On the one hand, it’s scary to commit yourself to a single person. No matter how happy the relationship is, you’re always wondering what your life would be like with someone else. But on the other hand, there’s comfort in that stability. There’s comfort in knowing that even if one day goes horribly, horribly wrong, there’s always the next day, and the next. And the next. Because you made this commitment that you’re going to be together.”
I nodded, thinking. “That stability, the stability of knowing that you’re with someone for life, that you’re in it together, that’s something I’ve been thinking about lately.”
She glanced at me, listening.
I continued. “I’ve been dating someone new since I broke up with my ex—well, since he broke up with me. But he’s so spontaneous and unpredictable, and it scares me sometimes. I always like everything to be planned out in advance. I mean, he’s really great…” I trailed off, feeling like I’d unintentionally betrayed Devin.
“I think sometimes we seek out in others what we don’t have in ourselves,” Rachel said. “You’re not spontaneous, so you’re attracted to someone who is. You find the balance in him that you can’t find within yourself.”
“Is that how it is for you, in your marriage?”
“I think so, yes,” she said. “Edgar works so hard, and I don’t work, at least not for money. He has a temper, and I stay calm most of the time. He’s an extrovert, and I’m an introvert. We balance each other out. He works long hours and earned lots of money, and I support him and make sure he’s comfortable when he’s home. And then the rest of the time I have lots of time and space to just do whatever I want to do.”
I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t sure I’d like Edgar, from the sound of him. But if it worked for Rachel, I was glad.
But I did like what she had to say about two people balancing each other out. Maybe she was right. Maybe balance couldn’t always be found within ourselves, and we needed other people to help us achieve it.
“So maybe,” she continued, “you just need to go with the flow with this new guy. Let him be spontaneous sometimes, and let yourself get swept up in it. And then other times, you can help ground him.”
“Interesting,” I said. “I like that, Rachel. Thank you.”
Finishing our loop a
round the room, we left the gallery, and Rachel invited me back to her house. Her husband wouldn’t be home until later, she said, and she could use the company.
Her house was stunning, even more beautiful than the couple of photos I’d seen of it online. I almost couldn’t believe that anyone I knew, anyone my age, could live there. It wasn’t just near the coast, it was right on the beach, with a deck that looked out over the Pacific ocean and huge windows all around. The house itself was large, wood everywhere, with clean, modern touches, yet felt welcoming and cozy at the same time.
“Arnold Palmer?” Rachel asked, opening the fridge in the spacious, clean kitchen. “I have some fresh-squeezed lemonade.”
“That sounds delicious.”
She poured us our drinks and we went outside to the deck, where comfortable chairs circled a mosaic table. I felt calmer and stiller just being there by the ocean, and was suddenly overwhelmed with excitement at the thought of getting away to the coast with Devin two weeks later.
“I can’t believe you live here,” I said, shaking my head. “It’s so beautiful.”
“I’m very lucky,” she agreed. “When I first graduated and started looking for jobs, I saw how much museum curators and artists made, and I compared it to Edgar’s salary. It wasn’t even worth it. It was a drop in the bucket, relatively, and felt like a waste of time.”
“But don’t you miss doing art?” I asked.
She stared out at the waves as they crashed against the rocky shore. “Yes and no,” she said. “I did some painting when we first moved out here a couple of years back. But it felt kind of pointless and indulgent since I’m no longer trying to be an artist professionally.” It seemed like there was something else she wasn’t saying, but I didn’t push.
We sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping on our drinks and staring out at the water. I pictured Devin running along the shore with Taco, and couldn’t help but smile. Maybe Rachel was right. We balanced each other out. We needed each other. Sometimes opposites attracted, and just because Devin and I were very different people didn’t mean we weren’t right for each other.
As the sun moved lower in the cloudy sky, I said my goodbyes to Rachel, wanting to get back on the BART before it got dark. At the door, we hugged. “I hope I’ll see you again soon,” I said.
“I hope to too,” she said. “Maybe I’ll take a second look at that high school reunion.”
“I’d love to see you there.”
I left Rachel’s house with Devin on my mind. We may never be able to afford a house on the coast like Rachel and Edgar had, but our love deserved a chance to prove that we could be each other’s complements like the two of them were.
Over the next two weeks, I saw Devin pretty much anytime I wasn’t working, running, or sleeping. I still worried that his habits were at odds with mine—his desire to stay up late, to train less than I needed to, and to consume indulgent foods I was trying to avoid—but the conversation with Rachel had mostly put my mind at ease.
I was excited about our trip to the coast—really excited, in fact. At training one morning, he told me about the little cabin he’d booked for us in the woods, near the coast but hidden from surrounding houses by forest, and which allowed dogs. It sounded perfect, and two days later when he showed me photos online at his house, I confirmed that it looked perfect too, cute but not pretentious, cozy but not too small.
Finally, the day arrived. I’d packed my bags full of everything I thought I might need—with Devin, after all, I needed to be prepared for the unexpected.
“You want to leave straight from training, right?” he’d asked the night before. “You’re bringing your bags with you?”
“I’ll need to take a shower first!” I’d protested, and he’d assured me the cabin contained a shower.
I’d insisted, telling him that no way was I going to ride an hour in the car with him after running several miles. He’d pronounced it ridiculous, telling me that he’d seen me dirty before, for instance every session when we ran together. And in the end he won; I agreed to bring everything I’d need for the weekend with me to training.
“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” I said when I saw him on the chilly morning of our trip, following him to his car to load my bags into it.
“Into spending a romantic weekend with me?” he’d asked innocently, but before I could answer Taco had pulled his leash out of my grip and was running at full speed toward a squirrel.
By the time we’d caught him, I was fully warmed up, and Devin was fully awake. The rest of the training passed uneventfully, but I was hyper-aware of the fact that our marathon was only a week away. The coach gave us all a pep talk, reminded us that we had one last training session and needed to push ourselves hard this week, then get lots of rest on Friday. I’d shifted uncomfortably, thinking of my high school reunion.
If I was honest with myself, I wasn’t sure I was ready. I’d spent so much time over the past few months hanging out with Devin and adopting his habits, and I could see how it was hurting me. My running times weren’t what I’d thought they would be at this point, and any weight I’d lost I’d since regained.
In the car on the way to the coast, Devin noticed that I was quiet. “What’s on your mind?” he asked. “What are you worried about?”
“How do you know I’m worried about something?” I asked. “Maybe I’m just tired. Maybe I’m just thinking.”
He grinned and gave me a sideways glance, his fingers tapping on the steering wheel. “I can tell,” he said. “You’re worried.”
I sighed. “I’m worried about the marathon,” I admitted. “I don’t think I’m ready.”
“Of course you’re ready,” he said. “I’ve seen you run.”
“Slowly!” I insisted. “And not nearly far enough.”
“Everyone gets jitters before a marathon,” he said.
“Do you have jitters?”
“Nah,” he said. “Everyone but me.” And he flashed me that beautiful, irresistible grin that I loved so much.
I changed the topic, and we talked instead about what we’d do that weekend. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I should’ve been home, should’ve been putting everything into the marathon on this, the last weekend before the big day. And before the reunion.
But what good would it do? I’d perform however I’d perform, and there was no use putting my life on hold for it. I tried to put my fears out of my mind.
“So there’s a little cafe I found that I thought we could go to for dinner tonight, and then tomorrow maybe cook at the cabin?”
“That sounds great.”
“And we need get you showered, because you’re so dirty I can hardly stand it.”
I laughed. “Hey!” I protested.
He grinned again. “Just kidding, I don’t mind a bit. But I know you do.”
We drove along the coast in silence for a few minutes, just staring at the landscape and enjoying being away from the hustle and bustle of the city. Eventually, we neared a sandy swimming beach, and Devin put on his turn signal.
“What are you doing?” I asked in surprise.
“We’re about ten minutes away from the cabin,” he said. “But I thought you might want to go for a swim instead of just taking a boring shower.”
“In my clothes?”
“You’ve done it before,” he pointed out, and I blushed, remembering my dress getting soaked that day on Baker Beach, the first day we’d kissed.
He parked the car and we got out, me stripping off my sweater and long-sleeved shirt, leaving only a tank top. He was taking off his shirt too, then started unbuttoning his pants.
“You’re going in like that?” he asked, eying my jeans.
I glanced down at myself, then at Devin, who was down to his boxers. “No,” I said. “You know what, no, I’m not. I’m going to pretend my underwear is a swimsuit.”
“That’s my girl!” he said, as though proud of me.
I stripped down to my matching polka
-dotted bra and underwear, and we trudged down to the water with Taco. “Ooh, cold!” I squealed as the waves lapped at my ankles.
“Wimp,” he teased, and dove into the crashing wave. I followed, trying to catch him as the white foam of the sea obscured my view. We wound up with tangled limbs, laughing and gasping for air as we emerged from the surf.
“Oof, it sure is cold,” he admitted, and I grabbed him and held him tightly to me, shivering. “Let’s go!” I cried, and we swam in deeper. Taco, now much more comfortable with the saltwater than he’d been on his first encounter, doggie-paddled toward us, then got swept sideways by a wave and turned. We followed him out of the water and Devin pulled me down on top of him in the sand. I kissed him, not caring who was watching, not caring that I was in my underwear, which were almost certainly see-through now that they were soaked in seawater.
By the time we inched our clothes back over our wet bodies, we were both so damp and sandy that I hoped the owner of the cabin wouldn’t be there to greet us when we arrived…though honestly, with my boy and my dog with me, I didn’t really care.
We got back on the road, heater blasting, and a few minutes later had pulled up outside a small cottage, even prettier than the photos had shown.
“We’re home!” I said.
He turned to me. “I hope we can have a home together one day for longer than a single weekend.”
I swallowed, my heart suddenly beating faster. After all these months together, he still knew just how to turn my stomach to butterflies. “I hope so too, Devin,” I said.
The owner of the cabin wasn’t there after all, but had left us a note of welcome with instructions on where to find the spare key. “What trust,” I said.
“You’d never even find the cabin if you didn’t know where to look,” he countered.
