We’re breathing so heavily suddenly, it’s like we’re running a marathon. But then he pulls his lips away from mine.
“You okay?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer, just nods slightly, his eyes closed.
I wait. Then he gives a little sigh and starts kissing me again.
I want to take his shirt off, to feel his bare chest and back, but then I’d have to break our lips apart to get it off, and I can’t risk that, so I just slide my hands under his shirt and I feel his body, so big, warm, his skin so soft. He flinches a little when my fingers trail his side, a ticklish spot. His hands move down the back of my jeans over my underwear, and now he’s holding my butt with both hands, pulling me closer.
Just then Jay’s door opens, and I jump.
“Oh god,” Kyle says, covering his eyes and closing the door.
“Oh my god, I thought it was your mom,” I whisper to Jay. If she’d seen us, I would have died right there.
“Jesus,” Kyle says through the door.
I sit next to Jay and lean back against the bed, close my eyes, take a breath.
“What do you want?” Jay asks.
Kyle opens the door a crack but doesn’t come in.
“Hi, Rachel,” he says without looking at me.
“Hi,” I squeak out.
“Dude, I was going to see if you were okay, but I guess you’re more than okay,” he says.
“Yeah,” Jay says. “Sorry about before.”
Kyle opens the door more and looks at Jay.
“Did you just apologize to me?”
“I guess I did,” Jay says.
“Wow, I gotta go mark the calendar.”
He closes the door and we hear his heavy footsteps run down the stairs.
“That’s so embarrassing,” I say.
“I’m sure he knew something was going on with us.”
“There’s something going on with us?” I ask, punching his arm lightly.
He smiles.
“But,” he says.
“Ugh,” I say. “Please no buts today. I know we have to talk about it at some point, define it, whatever. But not today, okay?”
“Rach.” He takes my hand in his. “It was because of this. I think my anger burst before was because of this.”
I shake my head.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I say. “Why would this make you angry?”
“Not angry, but I freak out from frustration or anxiety or anything negative, too. It’s not always anger.”
“So this is negative?” I ask, feeling that familiar dull pain in my chest. The one I get when my heart’s being broken.
“This is what I wanted to talk to you about before,” he says. “When I’m with you like this, I feel out of control.”
“For me, that’s a good thing,” I say. “I feel free.”
“I don’t. Losing control is what happened before with Kyle and like with that guy Jeremy in middle school. And it’s like I can see myself freaking out but I can’t stop it. And when I’m with you like this, kissing, I feel out of control. It’s scary for me.”
I let the air out through my almost closed lips. I lean back against the bed, staring at the ceiling, which has a small crack just above my head.
Jay goes on.
“I work hard to stay in control. Even with the meds, it’s a struggle. And the feelings that come up when this happens,” he says, gesturing back and forth between us, “they’re so much like what I’ve been trying to control.”
I nod, afraid that if I talk, the tears will come.
“I want this,” he says. “But you heard me before with Kyle. I wanted to rip his throat out because he said artificial turf is the same thing as sod. And when I told him he was wrong, he tried to argue with me. And that’s why I nearly punched him. That’s not normal. Even for me, it’s not normal. Not anymore. I thought I was done with those kinds of reactions. But something is making them come back. And I think it’s this.”
“Maybe it’s something else,” I say, but I don’t know why I’m bothering. Jay never loses an argument.
“Can we just be the regular us again for the rest of the day?”
I nod.
“Let’s eat something,” he says.
We go down to the kitchen, and he opens the refrigerator. I admire his broad back as his shirt exposes a bit of skin when he leans down to get lettuce from the bottom drawer.
“What were you talking with Sawyer Baskin about the other day? In the parking lot,” he asks.
“Nothing. He was just apologizing for Wade. Why? Were you jealous?”
“Yeah.” I knew he’d tell the truth.
“Good,” I say. “But you have nothing to be jealous about.”
He shakes his head slowly as he starts making sandwiches, and I know he’s distracted by the number of slices of turkey he should use on mine.
The way Jay makes his sandwiches has nothing to do with being anal or neat or anything. I know this because with everything else, he’s messy. The floor of his room is always covered in clothes, books, and empty potato chip bags. I’ve watched him shove his laptop into his backpack, and then later pull out crushed homework assignments and turn them in wrinkled or even ripped. But Jay once told me that when everything else is so unpredictable, he likes to have the turkey sandwiches as the one thing that will be exactly the same every day. For a while, when we’d go out for pizza during lunch period, he’d still bring his sandwich. But in the last few months, he’s been okay with ditching the sandwich on those days.
He puts our plates down side by side at the kitchen counter, and we sit on the bar stools. He leans over, takes my hand in his, and squeezes. Not a sexy, let’s get it on some more right here in the kitchen squeeze, but more like I’m glad you stayed and you’re here eating a sandwich with me squeeze. I squeeze back.
TWENTY-SIX
I believe in love at first sight. You want that connection, and then you want some problems.
—Keanu Reeves (actor)
On Monday, I take the bus home from school because Jay has a doctor’s appointment. After his anger burst on Saturday, his mom convinced him to see his therapist for a check-in. I’d forgotten how awful the bus was—hot, bumpy, and loud. And so, so long. By the time I walk home from the bus stop at Route 6 with my bag loaded with books, I’m sweaty and starving.
No one’s at the house. I go into Mom’s bathroom to see if her skirt and blouse are hanging up on the shower-curtain rod. She always does that so the wrinkles will steam out while she showers. The clothes are gone, which means she’s at work. Mom can’t resist rushing off to the aid of any strike survivor within a ten-hour drive, even if it’s in the middle of a workday. So any day she doesn’t lose her job at the bank is a good day in my book.
In her bedroom, I look for the red leather box and find it immediately on the floor shoved between her bed and nightstand. It’s not even hidden.
I open the box and peer inside. There’s a stack of a few folded papers and a couple of envelopes held together by a rubber band. A photo is pushed up against the side of the box. I pull it out, careful to remember exactly where it was so I can put it back the same way. It’s a picture of Mom. Even though it’s in color, the photo looks like it’s from another era. She wears no makeup, her hair’s windblown, and her face looks fuller than it does now. She’s smiling. She looks happy. I turn the photo over. I miss you. –N is written on the back.
I pull out the letters. This is it. If I look at these letters, I’m betraying Mom. But I need to know more. After Reed, I don’t even know if I believe in soul mates anymore, but if these letters can tell me anything about Mom and Carson and how all this started, and how it ended, I want to read them. I want to know why it was so hard for her to move back here, what she was running from when she left. I want to know more about my father, more than just the tidbits Mom has given me over the years—handsome, a football player, smart, thoughtful. There has to be more.
I peel off the rubb
er band, which is loose with age, and unfold the top letter, my heart pounding.
Dear Carson,
Hi! I figured I wouldn’t hear from you, being a boy and all. So, I’m writing to you. You don’t have to write back. I’m sure you won’t.
It’s weird to be back in Connecticut and back in school. Even after all these weeks, I think about you and everyone there every day. I’ve never had friends like you guys. I wish I could live there all year and go to school with you.
My dad and I fight all the time. He doesn’t let me do anything, he’s so much more overprotective here. He seems so unhappy and angry all the time, and I’m the only one around, so it’s like living with Eeyore. I can’t wait to get back to Wellfleet. I know it sucks to be a single dad, but I wish he could just pretend it didn’t suck that bad, you know?
The good news is that we rented the same cottage from last summer, and this time for five weeks. We’ll be there starting July 21st. So, I’m excited about that!
How’s football? How is everyone?
Write back if you want. Or you don’t have to.
I miss you.
Love,
Naomi
Her handwriting is different than it looks now. It was loopy, bubbly, younger. Her whole voice sounds young, and I realize that when she wrote this letter, she was probably younger than I am now. The next in the stack is a photocopied letter with typed pages stapled behind it.
Dear Naomi,
I’m glad you’re coming back this summer. It will definitely be fun. I’m sorry your dad is being a jerk. I hope that gets better. It’s almost like summer never happened here. Football practice is brutal but at least I’ll get a lot of playing time this year. Maybe you can come up one weekend and see a game. I’m sure you could stay with one of the girls, or even at my house if your dad says it’s okay.
So, you were always asking about my writing and I never showed you anything—I guess I was worried that nothing I’d written was good enough for you to see. But I wrote something for English class last month—the assignment was to write a story about something important that happened over the summer. Anyway, my English teacher submitted some of them to our school’s literary magazine, and they published mine. It’s about that day we met—with the seal rescue. It’s kind of embarrassing. When you read it, you’ll see why. But I guess since it’s in a publication and everyone here has already seen it and given me shit about it, I might as well show you. So …here it is.
Carson
The next sheets are photocopied pages from the Nauset Literary Magazine.
THE SEAL
By Carson Hayes
He didn’t often go to the beach in the summer. Mostly the locals left the beaches to the tourists. But his football coach told them to run on the sand for at least half of their runs over the summer—something about give and turf and ankle-strengthening.
Luckily, it was an overcast day with rain on the way, so Lecount Hollow Beach was practically empty. And it wasn’t too hot.
After he ran, he bent forward and let the sweat from his hair drip onto the sand. Then he sat on the towel he’d left on the beach.
He stared at the ocean and wondered how he’d become so immune to its beauty. That wasn’t supposed to happen. And then, out of the corner of his eye, something moved, and he looked, and there was a girl about his age. And something happened to him when he saw this girl on the beach. He stared at her—her thick wavy brown hair, her muscular legs and small feet, her navy blue bikini top that was sprinkled with tiny white dots. She was small, and for the briefest moment, the image of lifting her in his arms and holding her flashed into his head, and he nearly felt the light weight of her against him.
The girl was sitting with a man—her father. He was packing up their things—umbrella, chair, cooler. The girl stayed sitting on the sand, hugging her knees to her chest, her eyes focused on the water. The father said something, and she nodded, not looking at him.
“One hour then,” the father said. “And wait in the parking lot. I don’t want to have to come back down the dune.”
Then the man trudged across the hot sand, making his way up the dune.
The boy lay down on his side so he could watch the girl less obviously. She was so still, he couldn’t even tell if she blinked at all. He stared and memorized for so long, he must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew, he opened his eyes and she was gone. He watched the spot where she’d been, willing her to come back. He could almost see the indentation in the sand where she’d been sitting.
Then he heard a sound. At first he thought it was the cry of a seagull, but then he saw that it was the girl, and she was crying. The beach was practically empty now—it was already five o’clock. She was close to the water’s edge, kneeling with her back to him.
He stood and walked toward her. He heard her clearly now, sniffling and talking softly.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I want to help you, but I can’t if you won’t let me near you. I don’t know what to do.”
And then he saw that she was talking to a small seal whose flippers were tangled in yellow fishing line. It was barking and flapping itself up and down like a seesaw.
The boy crouched down next to the girl. She turned to him, her skin blotchy from crying, her dark blue eyes pained.
“Shhh,” he said. “You’ll scare her.”
He hadn’t meant it to sound so harsh, but it was true. If the seal thought it was in danger, it would go back into the water, and then they’d never be able to help it.
“I’ll go for help,” he said. “There’s a pay phone in the parking lot.”
He started to stand, but the girl shot out her hand and grabbed his wrist. He felt the pleasant shock of her skin on his.
“Don’t go,” she said.
“One of us has to.”
“Okay.” She nodded.
He ran as fast as he could up the dune and to the pay phone. Once the operator connected him to the Wildlife Rescue, he told them about the seal and asked them to hurry to Lecount Hollow Beach.
When he got back to the girl, she was exactly where he’d left her. He was afraid she’d be gone, like maybe the whole thing had been a dream.
“They usually come pretty quick,” he said to her quietly. “Let’s go over here.” He pointed to his towel. “If we stay too close, we’ll scare her and she’ll go back into the water.”
“How do you know it’s a she?” the girl asked, her voice cracking a little.
They walked slowly back to his towel, and she turned several times to make sure the seal was staying put.
“I guess I don’t,” he said. “I just always think of sea animals as she’s.”
She smiled, and it lit up her dark blue eyes. “I always think of them as he’s.”
“Oh, come on,” he said. “Even dolphins?”
She nodded.
“Dolphins are totally she’s,” he said.
She sat down on half of his towel, making sure that they could still see the lump of the seal down the beach. She smoothed out the other half of the towel for him to sit on, which he did. Her hair smelled like coconut.
“Do you live here?” she asked.
“Born and raised.”
“I’ve never met anyone my age from here before.”
“You mean us Wellfleet ‘townies’? We like to keep hidden in the summer,” he said. “You people can be pretty obnoxious sometimes.”
“Hey,” she said.
“I only speak the truth.”
“Thanks for not making fun of me about crying over a seal.”
“Why would I make fun of you? It’s sad.”
The seal was quiet now, lying still.
“Will she die?” the girl asked, and he noticed that she’d called the seal a “she.”
“No. The rescue team will cut off the line and get her back in the water, no problem. But if we’d scared her and she went back into the water now, she might die. She can’t swim with her flippers like that.”
Soon after, the rescue team came—a guy held the seal down while a woman cut through the line with a sharp knife. Once it was free, the seal moved like an awkward caterpillar into the water and swam away. Everyone clapped and cheered.
The rescue team left, and then the girl looked at her watch.
“I promised my father I’d wait for him up in the parking lot. He’s probably already there.”
The boy said good-bye, but he felt a heaviness that he’d never felt before.
He was afraid he’d never see her again.
“Hey,” he said. “I work at the Newsdealer. Come say hi sometime.”
The girl’s face lit up. “I will.”
She waved as she went up the dune.
The boy watched her go.
Later, he would realize he felt different.
My chest is tight with longing. When I turned seven, Sue and Ron took me to the aquarium while Mom was at work, and they bought me a stuffed blue seal in the gift shop. When we got back to our apartment, I showed Mom the seal and she told me a story about a real-life seal whose flipper had been tangled in a net on the beach and that she and a friend helped get the seal safely back into the water. I’d loved that story, and it made Mom into even more of a hero in my mind than she already was. The seal was immediately promoted to the top of my stuffed animal hierarchy. Something about reading Carson’s words, knowing that Mom was telling the truth about the seal, made my heart feel a little too big for my chest.
I wonder why Mom has never shown me this, why she’s never shared anything real about Carson with me.
It’s getting late; I can feel the room darkening little by little. Mom will be home from work soon. I decide to allow myself one more letter for now, maybe two.
TWENTY-SEVEN
It is not love that is blind, but jealousy.
—Lawrence Durrell (writer)
Soulstruck Page 13
