This Sky

by Autumn Doughton

  “It’s close enough,” Julie argues, shaking her head and looking exasperated. “And really, Claudia? I would not have taken you for a Howl fan.”

  “I’m aware that it’s cheesy, but it’s deliciously cheesy, so I fully embrace it. Episode ten when Hunter’s father died, I bawled. The goodbye with Felicity, the woodland pixie, at the end of this past season gave me the chills. And that body of his—all that sculpted lean muscle and those arms—booyah!”

  “Like we said—she lacks a filter,” Smith tells me. He shakes his head and takes a playful swipe at Claudia’s arm.

  Sure, hearing Ren praised is the mental equivalent of having my skin buffed by a cheese grater, but it’s not like I’m stunned to hear these things.

  My ex has obscenely sharp cheekbones. His smoky green eyes were made to stare deeply into a camera lens. His gratuitous abdominal muscles and shiny golden blond locks are the stuff that legends are born of.

  I completely get the interest.

  Been there.

  Done that.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Gemma

  A few hours and three thousand calories later, the four of us are sprawled around the living room. Weebit’s cage is set up in the corner next to the futon and he’s watching us through the bars as he snacks on some uncooked oats.

  Benedict Cumberbatch is on the TV, pacing in a black duster. A red scarf is looped around his neck, only adding to his air of sophisticated elegance.

  Empty food containers, crumpled cellophane wrappers and a Scattergories game board clutter the coffee table. A little while ago, Claudia disappeared for ten minutes. When she came back, her phone was playing mariachi music and she had a kid-sized sombrero on her head and a pitcher of blended margaritas in her hand.

  I have to admit that despite her crush on Ren, the girl is rapidly growing on me.

  “Badminton isn’t a team sport,” Julie is saying. She’s looking over my shoulder, checking the answers on my Scattergories game card against her own. “Why wouldn’t you put down baseball or basketball, Gem?”

  “Because I was going for obscure,” I answer even though it’s not entirely true. It just sounds better than explaining that I can’t think properly with that little timer ticking off the seconds like a doomsday clock.

  “I put down bowling,” Smith says, frowning down at his own list.

  Julie’s head pops up. Her mouth pulls sourly to one side. “Bowling is not a team sport either.”

  Claudia lifts a finger. “One might argue that it can be a team sport. Look at all those leagues.”

  The next five minutes are devoted to a debate about the merits of bowling as a team sport. There’s some shouting, a few pretzels are launched across the room and a round of penalty shots—the alcoholic kind—are proposed.

  After watching from the bench for a few minutes, I finally find the courage to throw myself into the fray. “Last December, our work Christmas party was held at a bowling alley. We competed princes against princesses and combined the scores. Doesn’t that make it a team thing?”

  “Exactly!” Smith gives me an appreciative grin and lifts his hand for a congratulatory high-five.

  Julie glares at me. “Et tu, Brute?”

  Claudia ignores her and rolls the die for the next letter in the game. “So, Julie you never said how you two became friends.”

  “Drama camp,” Julie and I say simultaneously.

  “We bonded over our mutual love of show tunes,” she explains.

  “And an instructor with stale cigar breath, who liked to flirt with the older girls more than he liked to teach Shakespeare. It was pretty much friendship at first sight.”

  Julie grins. “I believe there were fireworks and a rousing musical score.”

  “Drama camp, huh?” Smith asks. “So, we’ve got another actress to add to our little herd?”

  “Yes,” Julie answers before I can even open my mouth.

  “I used to want to be an actress,” I correct her. “Not anymore.”

  “Stop it, Gem.” Julie rolls her eyes. “You’re not serious.”

  “Actually, I am. As I’ve told you before, I think about two hundred rejections have cured me for life of the acting bug.”

  Her confidence doesn’t waver. “You’ll change your mind.”

  I shake my head. “I’ve decided to come up with a new career path. So far I’m thinking insurance adjuster or beekeeper.”

  “Beekeeper?” she asks, her eyebrow cocked and a droll look on her face.

  “I don’t know if you’ve heard this, Julie Ann Ackerman, but we are currently facing a major bee crisis. It’s a complete disaster for the ecosystem. If there aren’t enough bees, just think of all those plants that won’t be pollenated and all of that honey that won’t get made.” I touch my hand to my chest, right above my heart. “With some equipment and a little bit of initiative, I could do something about it.”

  My best friend shakes her head. “That’s ridiculous.”

  I arch an eyebrow. “Are you saying that you want to live in a world without plants? Are you hinting to me that you’re anti-bee?”

  “I’m not anti-bee!” she cries, flustered. “I meant it’s ridiculous for you to give up acting to become a beekeeper.”

  “Maybe I’ve got an obligation to the world,” I insist.

  “This isn’t about bees or your obligation,” she says, grabbing at my arm. “The truth is that you’re afraid of rejection.”

  “And so what if I am?” I shrug out of her grasp. “After the week I’ve had, I think I’m entitled to feel however I want to feel.”

  Smith nods to me. “Truth!”

  “Rejection sucks,” Claudia says over an Oreo topped with whipped cream, crumbled peanuts and rainbow sprinkles. In the past few hours, I’ve come to the conclusion that despite her slim build, Claudia is some sort of junk food prodigy. “I think all three of us should forget auditioning. We should just write our own screenplays and star in them ourselves like Sylvester Stallone did with Rocky.”

  “Or Ben Affleck and Matt Damon with Goodwill Hunting,” Smith throws in.

  Claudia considers me as she chews. “Your script can be about Ren and walking in on him and that woman.”

  “She was our waitress,” I clarify.

  “Waitress. Got it,” she says with a sidelong smile. “I know this guy who directs these ten-minute online webisodes. I should hook you two up.”

  “I don’t know. It seems sort of morose to dwell on my ex, doesn’t it?”

  Claudia cocks her head in thought. “Not when it’s done as a comedy. Then it’s more like revenge.”

  Julie says, “You have to admit, it’s great material, Gem.”

  “You’re right. I can almost hear the snap of the clapboard and the director through his megaphone,” I respond sarcastically. “The Oblivious Girlfriend Scene—take one!”

  “Sex sells,” Smith says with a sage nod.

  “I get that, but it isn’t even hot sex,” I tell them. “There isn’t a shimmer of orangey-red candlelight over smooth sweat-slick skin. There are no rose petals scattered on the ground. Al Green isn’t crooning soulfully from a record player in the corner. The video was shot in a bathroom and looks more like prison surveillance footage than arty porn. The lighting is of the fluorescent fast food variety. There’s hard tile, rolls of toilet paper and a tampon dispenser. I’m sure if you were to open up the closet in the background, you’d find things like a plunger and a mop. Decidedly unsexy, unless you’re into some seriously kinky shit.”

  Claudia laughs as she shoves another Oreo into her mouth. “You mean you don’t use cleaning supplies for foreplay? I gotta tell ya—you’re missing out big time.”

  “I love me some bleach in the bedroom,” Smith teases.

  Julie slaps her hand against her thigh and laughs loudly. “I’m more of a toilet cleaner kind of girl myself.”

  “The cleaning supplies aren’t even the worst part,” I say, my voice ticking up. “The worst part is that my boy
friend is the star of said sex tape and I’m not even his costar.”

  I’m the sidekick. In this case I’d say that I fall into the second tier of supporting actresses. My role is simple and can be broken down into three parts.

  Step one: Enter bathroom.

  Step two: See boyfriend having sex with waitress.

  Step three: Pass out.

  “From Hollywood girlfriend to Hollywood ex-girlfriend in five seconds flat. I’m such a cliché,” I conclude, thoroughly disgusted with myself. “I know it sounds stupid now, but I thought Ren and I had the real deal.”

  “Did you really?” Julie asks, setting down her margarita glass.

  “Well, yeah. I was with him for two years. Didn’t you think so too?”

  She cocks her head to the side. “I don’t know, Gem. I didn’t want to say before because you were sensitive about it, but I don’t think you’ve been happy with Ren for a while now.”

  I run my tongue over the jagged edge of my top teeth. Something about what Julie is saying makes my stomach clench. “I was happy,” I assert.

  “Were you really? Because to me, you seemed content and that’s not the same thing as happy.”

  “Look, I know what you’re doing, Jules.”

  Her eyes widen. “Tell me—what am I doing?”

  I flick my hand at her. “You’re trying to twist things. Trying to make me think I haven’t lost anything at all because I’m better off without Ren.”

  “Is it working?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe?” My brain is chugging backward, sifting through the memories. I’m thinking about the nights I woke up in bed next to Ren, panicking and wondering what I was doing, and the silent dinners where we both played around on our phones so we wouldn’t to have to talk to each other.

  Have I been fooling myself all this time? Have the last two years of my life been one extended joke? Was finding Ren in the bathroom simply the punch line?

  “Despite his beautiful face, you were never giddy over him,” Julie says, bringing me back to the conversation. “Doesn’t that tell you something?”

  I swallow and tilt my face away to take a sip of my drink. “It tells me that I’m not a giddy kind of girl.”

  “You get giddy over books and plays. I’ve seen you lose your mind a time or two over Mr. Darcy and Heathcliff. And do I really need to bring up your two-year obsession with the movie Amélie?”

  “That’s completely different,” I insist. “Those things are fantasy.”

  “Are they?” she contends. “Don’t you want to at least try for that in real life too? Don’t you want what Amélie and Elizabeth and Catherine had?”

  Keeping my voice muted, I remind her, “Catherine died.”

  Julie sighs. “Ugh! I hate how disillusioned you are now! You used to want static and excitement and passion!”

  “I guess I’ve changed.” I tell them my idea about the caterpillar that becomes a moth instead of a butterfly.

  “Inspirational stuff,” Claudia comments drily, chomping on another cookie.

  “Oh my God, you’re not a moth!” Julie laughs, disbelieving. Then she studies my face for a moment. “Gem, you know what you need?”

  “A job?” I joke.

  “Well, yeah, but that’s not what I was getting at,” she replies. “It’s obvious that Ren and L.A. have sucked you dry. What you really need right now is a major confidence boost.”

  “Confidence? What’s that?” I ask mildly.

  She quirks a strawberry-blond eyebrow at me. “Do I need to remind you of The Great Melissa Maxey Takedown?”

  Claudia’s eyes skip between us. “Spill it. Who is Melissa Maxey and what did the poor girl do to you to require a takedown?”

  I groan, but Julie launches straight into the story. “Melissa Maxey was not a poor girl. She was an evil, cantankerous imp who was in a drama club with us. She and Gemma were both up for the role of Viola in Twelfth Night. Needless to say, Gemma here put Melissa in her place.”

  “Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun; it shines everywhere,” I quote the play, adding to the dramatics.

  “You put her in her place with your knowledge of Shakespeare and your winning smile?” Smith asks.

  “And lots of blue hair dye, a dozen glazed donuts and a blow-up doll,” I say evasively.

  “A blow-up doll?” He looks stumped.

  “The point,” Julie stresses, “is that you were awesome. Nothing got in your way and no one—not the Melissa Maxeys or the Ren Parkhursts of the world could bring you down. And do you know why?”

  “Why?” we all say in unison like a Greek chorus.

  She lifts her hands in the air like a preacher on the pulpit. If she weren’t being so serious about this, I would have to laugh. “Because back then, you had confidence, Gemma!”

  Claudia bows her head and claps reverently. “Hallelujah!”

  “And,” Julie continues, “I have a plan to get it back.”

  “And what’s that?” I ask.

  “What you need is the relationship equivalent of a bridge loan.”

  I feel my forehead crease in confusion. “A bridge loan?”

  “That’s a temporary type of loan. Like, if you’re not ready for permanent financing, it’s a way to get the money you need to hold you over until you’re cleared to move on to the next stage,” Julie explains assuredly, reminding me that both her mom and dad are in finance. “In your case, the bridge loan we’re looking for is a rebound guy. Really, it’s two for the price of one. Confidence and a sizzle all wrapped up into one perfect low-interest package.”

  Claudia obviously agrees with this plan. She is saying that a rebound is “inspired” and muttering things about bad boys and chains and lots of black leather.

  “And whips,” Julie adds with a smirk.

  “Cleaning supplies!”

  I prop myself up on my elbows and shake my head. “Nuh-uh.”

  Claudia’s face falls. “To which part? Whips?”

  “Chains?”

  “Bleach?”

  I make a stop motion with my hands. “All of the above.”

  “Then what’s your type? Athletic? Cowboy?”

  “Gangster?”

  “How about a paint-smattered artist who loves Wes Anderson films and discussing French Romanticism?”

  “No,” I say.

  Claudia thinks about this for a second. “Lumberjack?”

  “Is lumberjack even a type?” I snort through my nose.

  Julie takes the lead on this one. “Oh yeah, lumberjack is hot. Living off the land is very rugged and manly. All that hard, honest work and sweat.” She closes her eyes and breathes out in satisfaction.

  We all look at Smith since it’s his turn to weigh in. He shakes his head, holds up his hands and says, “Don’t look at me. I’m still trying to figure out what Gemma did with the blow-up doll.”

  “I appreciate that your hearts are in the right place but a rebound is a terrible idea,” I tell Claudia and Julie firmly. “A guy is what got me into this situation to begin with. I don’t think the answer to my problems is to run out and find myself a new one.”

  “Rebounds shouldn’t be broken down or analyzed. They just are.” Julie flaps her hands at me. “And you’re not running out to find someone to marry. You’re just having fun.”

  I look away. “Julie, I’m not ready to trust someone.”

  “We’re not talking about the future Mr. Right. We’re talking about man-eating. We’re talking sinking your teeth into someone’s flesh and taking him for all he’s worth. We’re talking about sex, Gemma. S-E-X,” she forms each letter slowly, quite literally spelling it out for me. “You don’t need trust for that. You just need a condom.”

  Despite myself, I bark a surprised laugh. “Jules!”

  Her grin is unapologetic. “I’m telling you—one roll in the sheets with a hot guy who knows what he’s doing and you’ll forget all about that shitweasel and what he did to you.”

  I wince. Not fr
om her use of the word shitweasel, but because I am having serious doubts that anyone or anything could make me forget Ren and my very public humiliation.

  Claudia drains her margarita glass and snaps her fingers. “That settles it. I think we should go out and start the search tonight.”

  “Instead of thinking of this as the end,” Julie says, picking up a chocolate candy and rolling it between her thumb and finger, “you need to think of this as the beginning.”

  “The beginning of what?” I murmur back.

  “Of something good.” Julie blinks at me. “The beginning of you.”

  Landon

  By the time my feet hit the sand, the sun is starting to melt into the Pacific and the sky is softening into the warm glow of twilight.

  Setting the board down, I collapse to my knees and bend my arm behind my back to unzip my wetsuit. With my head bowed low over my chest and my eyes tightly closed, I shake, shedding the saltwater from my hair like a dog after a bath.

  The suit makes a dull sucking sound as I roll it down past my waist and thighs. Finally able to breathe right, I smooth my hands over the wet, sticky skin of my chest and crane my neck to the side forcing the water from my ears in a hard, jerky motion.

  On that last set, I got rag-dolled by a right-hander. My jaw hurts from where I took a hit from the board and my body and my head are starting to pound like I’m coming off a three-day bender. There’s an angry knot buried beneath my shoulder blade and a cramp in my right thigh muscle.

  I fold over the brace on my knee and straighten out my leg, digging out a gritty channel in the sand with my heel. Jesus, my kneecap is red from where I whacked it. It looks and feels like I got popped on the joint with a fucking lacrosse stick.

  I figure work is going to suck balls if I’m limping around behind the bar all night, but I needed this. I needed to get out here on the water and cast off the shitty residue from the week.

  I bite back a groan as I shift the brace back into place and sink down to my elbows. Wet sand chafes and squishes from beneath my lower back. I look around the beach and suck in a long breath. To the north, a couple is walking along the shore, holding hands and dipping their bare toes in the backwash. To the south, I can see the silhouette of a surfer just this side of the pier. I’m pretty sure it’s Pat, one of the first of the local crowd to accept me when I was just a grommet. He must be pushing seventy now but he’s out here every day, rain or shine, surfing like his life depends on it. And for all I know, maybe it does.