This Sky

by Autumn Doughton

  He raises both eyebrows. My heart squeezes tight in my chest.

  “You ready?” he asks.

  I nod my head but really, I’m thinking, Am I?

  Landon

  The beach was a bad idea.

  But I knew that as soon as I said the words, didn’t I?

  Friday night as I watched Gemma meeting with Tish and Jamie about the job at Aunt Zola’s, my off-kilter mood had only become more jagged. Sure, it had something to do with Abby stopping by to ask me for money, but that wasn’t all of it. I couldn’t think straight—couldn’t breathe right or get my mind on my job. I kept thinking about that short blue dress Gemma had on and those long, beautiful legs.

  I fantasized about the sound of her voice. The way she held her head to one side and moved her hands in the air when she talked.

  I thought about her mouth.

  I thought about the inside of her mouth.

  I thought about her underwear.

  Her underwear.

  Like a pervert.

  As I scrubbed down the tables and restocked the bar, I bitched under my breath and told myself I wasn’t going to let it happen, even if she did have stormy eyes and skin milkier than a cavefish.

  But when I dragged myself out of bed this morning at the butt crack of dawn, threw some clothes on, and stuffed my shit into a backpack, I didn’t expect her to be sitting on the bottom step like I’d conjured her up out of some dream. I didn’t expect the slept-in brown hair tumbling over her shoulders in messy waves or the shorts covered in little pink flamingos. And I didn’t expect the glasses. I definitely did not expect the glasses.

  Suddenly, I hated that I’d been such an asshole to her. I hated that I’d been cold and rude right to her face and even a little taunting in the very beginning. I hated that I’d let my attraction to her cause me to fuck everything up so badly. I hated that she seemed scared and nervous around me—her narrow eyes dancing around the courtyard and her hands squeezing her forearms and fiddling with the bottom of her sweater.

  And as we stood there, carrying on a stilted conversation, Gemma seemed so out of sorts—so fucking young and sad and screwed up. For a few seconds I forgot everything else in my life and I just looked at her—really looked.

  I wanted to rewind time back to two days ago when I was that helpful guy paying for her gas. I wanted to be the kind of guy who she would thank and smile willingly at. I wanted her to look at me and see something other than a crusty loser with a shady past and a guy headed nowhere.

  Do you want to come with me?

  The words were out of my mouth before I really thought about what I was asking.

  And now we’re in my car driving out to the beach and my head is crammed full of questions I want to ask her. I don’t know anything about Gemma but I want to. I want to know about her family and where she’s from. I want to hear her stories and find out what her favorite movie is. I want to know if she has an irrational fear of the dark or heights, or if she gets annoyed by social media and political talk shows as much as I do. I want to ask her about her ex. I want to find out why she bites her nails and how it’s possible that she smells so good.

  But I don’t ask any of those things. My lips stay closed, my eyes stay forward, and Gemma and I ride to the beach in this grating, awkward thirty-five minute silence. The only exceptions are the occasional three-word snippets one of us offers up about the band that has popped up in the song rotation on the radio, and our pit stop for coffee where Gemma threw herself through the door acting like we’d been on a three-day trek across The Sahara and this was our first sign of water.

  I’m not sure exactly what my problem is. It’s not as though I’m some celibate monk who’s never talked to a woman before. Back when I toured, there were too many girls to count. All over the globe, it was the same—we’d show up at the beach and they’d be there, in their skimpy bathing suits, just waiting for one of us guys to notice them. It was always a simple offer—one night and no follow-through.

  Lately, there have been fewer girls. They’re still around; I just don’t normally notice them. But some nights, I admit that I need to lose myself for a while. I need forgetting. I need skin and a warm mouth and the feel of a heartbeat against mine.

  And it’s fine. Good even. But by morning, I’m always ready for them to go. Never once have I asked someone to stay. I don’t make breakfast or try to talk to them. I don’t jot down their numbers or make promises I know I won’t keep. I wait for them to disappear through the door of my apartment, and when they do, I breathe out in relief.

  This is different. Gemma is different. And I know that it sounds corny but I want to know what’s happening in her head.

  When was the last time I felt like this? Have I ever felt like this?

  I glance over. Her head is tilted. She’s looking out the window. Wyatt is sitting halfway between us—slobbering and breathing hard like he’s recently taken up a two pack a day smoking habit.

  He has this thing where he likes to ride in cars with his hind legs positioned on the backseat and his front paws braced on the center console so he can see out the windshield. Of course that means that when I stop the car or turn a corner, he sways back and forth and nearly loses his balance. Every time it happens, Gemma turns around to ask him if he’s okay in a diffused voice. I try not to let myself dwell on how charming that is—her asking my dog a question like there’s a real possibility he might spontaneously answer her.

  Even at the beach, neither of us says much. In silence, Gemma watches me take my board off the top of the car and pull my wetsuit up over my arms. Before heading out to the surf, I yank my thumb toward the water and she nods in understanding.

  I know that I should be stoked to be out today. The wind is right and the waves are cranking—breaking near the pier and moving fast in toward the shore. But instead of enjoying it, I spend forty minutes flopping around in the whitewater like a kook who doesn’t know his shit. I can’t seem to get a handle on anything. Every time I flounder on a cutback or miss an easy aerial, I feel more outside of myself.

  Taking in a lungful of salty air, I scan the water beyond the break to make sure nothing is creeping up on me from the outside. Then I stop moving for a minute and I let my body relax.

  The cool water flickers against the legs of my wetsuit and licks up the rails of my board. I know that I need to be present in the moment, but my eyes keep tracking back to the shore where Gemma is curled up with her feet tucked under her lean body. Her pale fingers are splayed on the damp sand and Wyatt’s small head is resting in the center of her lap.

  For the briefest instant, I let myself wonder what it would be like to be up there beside her on the beach. I imagine the crunch of gritty sand beneath us, the sting of her brown hair breaking free from its binding and the feel of the mingled heat rising up from our bodies. I think about how soft her skin felt this morning and the look on her face when I tucked her hair back behind her ear. It stirred something deep within me.

  I make a couple more attempts but when some dude on a log drops in on me and I have to bail, I decide that I’ve tortured myself enough for one morning. I dip my head under, feeling the weight of the water on every part of me, and I come up blinking, my bleary eyes automatically returning to the beach.

  She’s standing up now. Her back is curved and her oversized sweater billows out behind her like a sail caught in the wind. I catch the moment she sees me come up. She pops onto her toes and lifts a hand to her face to block the wind from her eyes. She smiles.

  My heart thumps.

  I swallow all the spit in my mouth, tasting blood and salt and my own stupidity, and start to paddle into shore.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Landon

  “So, are we playing the quiet game?” she whispers.

  It’s just before ten and Gemma and I are headed home. Back at the beach, I ditched my wetsuit for a pair of black baggies and a thin light green t-shirt. I’m sticky and gross and in the close confines of my car
I’m sure she can smell just how ripe I am.

  “No, I—” I stop myself, moving my eyes from the road to her face. “What are you talking about?”

  She glances to the backseat and frowns. “Ever since Wyatt fell asleep it’s been so quiet in here. You’re so quiet. I feel like I intruded on your private morning or something. It was bad that I tagged along, wasn’t it?”

  I tighten my fingers around the gearshift and clench my jaw. I am quiet, but it’s not because I don’t want to talk to her. And it’s definitely not because she’s intruding on my morning.

  “No, I wanted you to come with me. I liked having the company.” As soon as I say it, I know it’s the truth.

  “Oh.” She fingers the lid of her empty coffee cup, playing with the plastic edge of the mouthpiece.

  “Even though it was probably boring for you.”

  “It wasn’t boring,” she says smiling to herself. I’m not quite sure what to make of that.

  “Gemma, I don’t want to be quiet, I—” I falter, the words pulling at my brain. This is what it comes down to, doesn’t it? What can I possibly tell Gemma about myself that won’t make her run away screaming? I’m a former pro surfer who was kicked off the tour two years ago for drugs and fighting. I’m sure that’s going to go over real well with someone like her. “I haven’t done this in a while, and I’m bad at it.”

  She looks skeptical. “You’re bad at talking?”

  “No,” I say as I downshift into a right turn. “At the tell me your life story bullshit.”

  “I don’t know if you heard, but right now my life story is too depressing to share.” She’s smiling but I can hear the misery in her voice and it squeezes my chest like a vice.

  “Claudia told me about your breakup,” I tell her, feeling like an absolute tool.

  A hint of color spreads over her cheeks and she gives a choked laugh. “Then you know that my boyfriend was Ren Parkhurst. And you know that I am the epic idiot who walked in on him having sex with our waitress. And you probably have already heard that you can see the whole thing happen on YouTube.”

  I clear my throat. “Gemma, that guy—”

  “Landon, you don’t have to give me the ‘it’ll get easier’ talk. I’m fine.” She stops and takes in a long, steadying breath. “Well, let’s just say that at this precise moment, I’m not falling apart. I guess I would say that I’m somewhere between where I was and where I’m going.”

  “I know the feeling,” I reply honestly.

  “Good. So, let’s just skip the background stuff and try something different so that I don’t go crazy in this quiet.” She angles her head toward the passenger window and touches her index finger to her top lip. “How about your pet peeves?”

  I lift my eyebrows. “You want to know my pet peeves?”

  “Why not?” She turns in her seat to face me. “It’s kind of illuminating to find out what really annoys the hell out of a person, isn’t it? And frankly, if Friday night was any indication, you’re someone who’s annoyed a lot.”

  I try to seem aggrieved at her assessment of me but I’m a crap actor and she’s right. That’s exactly how I came off.

  “So,” she presses on. Right then the sun rises up over a building, lighting up the windshield and her face. Now that I’m close enough, I realize that I was wrong before. With the sun hitting her face, I see that Gemma’s eyes aren’t grey. They’re full of color—flecks of deep blues and greens that have me thinking of the sky bleeding out rain and thunder and fathomless water moving beneath me. She blinks her heavy black lashes and I think about kissing her. Just pulling over and kissing her midsentence. Surprising the hell out of her.

  “What pisses you off? Mouth-breathers? Nose-pickers? Gum-smackers?”

  “Uh, telemarketers?” I venture.

  “Telemarketers?” She shakes her head in disappointment. “That’s all you’ve got for me?”

  I laugh and try again. “Litterbugs?”

  “Better.” She grins and looks away quickly.

  “How about pencil lead that keeps breaking while you’re in the middle of writing?”

  She nods in agreement. “Stepping on gum.”

  “Zippers that stick.”

  Gemma thinks. “Pretentious wine people.”

  “Bad tippers.”

  “Cigar smokers.”

  “People whose favorite book is Catcher in the Rye,” I shoot.

  She clenches a fist, holds it in the air and bellows, “Holden Caulfield people are the bane of my existence.”

  This makes me laugh. Her face. The way she looks serious and silly at the same time.

  I say, “Driving too slow in the fast lane.”

  She says, “Ugg boots in the summer.”

  “People who ask you for your sign.”

  “Freezer burn on ice cream,” she volleys back.

  “Justin fucking Bieber.”

  She makes a barfing sound. “What about the people who constantly use speakerphone in public places? Like any of us really needed to hear what you’re making for dinner Tuesday night or how bummed you are that your boyfriend’s meds are making him impotent.”

  “If we’re going to talk about phone etiquette, can we give a shout out to the egocentric dipshits who text or talk during a movie?”

  She cringes as though the thought of someone talking in a movie theater is physically hurting her. “Or when people play with their phones while you’re in the middle of a face-to-face conversation with them and you’re all, ‘I’m up here!’”

  I laugh because I know exactly what she’s talking about. “I see that all of the time at the bar. They walk up to order a drink and then leave me hanging while they update their status or check in or some shit.”

  “Obnoxious and just one of the reasons I’m off of social media. At least for now.” She pauses and turns her mouth to one side. “Okay, something else that annoys me is having to listen to people talk about protein ingestion and working out.”

  Flexing my biceps, I growl, “You mean you aren’t interested in knowing about the Paleo diet or my lifting regimen?”

  “God, no!” Gemma waves her hands in front of her body and laughs loudly. It’s a fantastic laugh. Like a catchy new song that you want to play on repeat until you’ve managed to memorize all of the lyrics. I think the only thing better than hearing her laugh is making her laugh.

  “Crumbs on the booth at a restaurant,” I say.

  “Crumbs in bed,” she counters.

  I pull up to a stoplight and my gaze swings to her.

  She’s twisting her coppery hair over her shoulder and blowing out a short breath. “When you miss the mailman and have to go to the post office and wait in line to pick up a package.”

  I wrench my eyes back to the road. “When you’re in line at a coffee shop behind someone who waits until they get to the front of the line to decide what they’re going to order.”

  She looks at me from the side of her eye. “What about when you’re in line getting a hot dog and the person in front of you has her credit cards get declined and you end up having to buy gas for her?”

  “That doesn’t make my list.”

  She scoffs, dropping her face toward the window so that I can’t see her expression. “You must have thought I was such a loser.”

  “You obviously can’t read minds because that’s not even close to what I was thinking. And don’t change the subject on me now—not when you’re the one who started this.”

  “Sheesh, I’m thinking.” She taps her finger on the window glass. “How about checking out at the grocery store and you realize too late that the person in front of you is carrying a massive coupon binder?”

  “Or a checkbook,” I put in.

  “Or someone who whips out the coupon binder to end all coupon binders, writes a check and is in the ten items or less checkout aisle with twenty items.”

  “Or when that person has too many items, gives the cashier a pile of coupons to scan, writes a check and then leaves
their shopping cart it in the middle of the parking lot so that it rolls into someone else’s car.”

  She throws her hands in front of her face. “I give up! I think my head is going to explode.”

  I arc my eyebrows. “We can agree that there’s a special place in hell reserved for that person?”

  “We can.”

  The two of us laugh and exchange a searching look. Maybe it’s curiosity. Maybe it’s a lot more. I’m still working that part out.

  As our laughter fades, I worry that the awkward quiet from before will return, but it never does.

  Gemma talks. And the conversation is all over the place but it’s not annoying. She’s funny. Clever. Everything she says seems shiny and lit up, like she’s holding the words over the top of a flashlight.

  She tells me random things, the first book that made her cry—Where the Red Fern Grows—and her favorite kind of popsicle—mango-pineapple—and the story of the road trip to San Francisco she and Julie made in the twelfth grade when they got two flat tires.

  She laughs at herself. A lot.

  She talks about her love of coffee and the galleries she frequented in L.A. And she tells me about a new band she discovered a couple of months ago.

  Smiling out the window, she explains, “It’s the kind of music you want to listen to while you lay on the grass and get lost in the sky. It feels like sunshine breaking on your skin.”

  And just like that, I’m done. Hooked. And it’s not just because she’s pretty—which she is. It’s more than that. It’s the way she talks. It’s how her hands move—her fingers building shapes in the air, her palms keeping the rhythm of her words like a metronome. It’s the way she pulls her fingers through the ends of her hair and keeps fixing her glasses. It’s how she holds her breath like she’s nervous. It’s all of her.

  When we get back to the apartment complex, we linger on the balcony outside Julie’s place with the day sliding in all around us. Wyatt is running circles around our legs, making sniffing sounds and licking the dried saltwater off the skin of my calves.