by Rosa Sophia
“Mom? I’m here.” I step into the kitchen, where Mom is taking another tray of chocolate chip cookies out of the oven. “I’ve never seen you bake so much,” I tell her.
“Did you know how much sugar alcohol has in it?” Mom says excitedly, as if she just learned this on the Science Channel.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Well, there’s so much sugar in it that when you quit drinking, you get this insane craving for sugar.” Her eyes widen as she grabs a cookie. “Cakes, pies, everything—I just can’t get enough!”
Mom’s short brown hair seems to bounce as she moves, and I notice the color in her cheeks. She’s even gained a couple pounds, and she looks good. Healthy.
“Can I ask you something?” I lean against the counter, watching her sort cookies. I snag one, and she glares at me.
“Hmm?”
“Did Dad run with me a lot?”
“What do you mean, honey?”
“Well, I always had that medal hanging in my room, the medal he won when I was two.” When she offers a blank look, I add, “When I was in the stroller. He told me about it again when I was nine. I always used to ask.”
“Oh. Yeah, he ran with you a lot.” Mom leans against the opposite counter, wiping her hands on the legs of her jeans. “Why do you ask?”
“I just wish I remembered more about him.”
We don’t talk about Dad much, but ever since Mom stopped drinking, I feel more comfortable around her. Now, I’m not so sure. She turns abruptly and starts washing pans and cookie sheets in the sink. When I touch her shoulder, she swats me away.
“Why’d you come over here if you just want to make me miserable?” she snaps. “I don’t want to think about that shit.”
I step away as if I’ve been burnt. I should have known.
“Sorry,” I whisper, and as I step out of the kitchen to leave, I glance into the hallway and remember how she got drunk and screamed and shoved me against the wall. She’s sober, but she’s still hurting. I can’t be around her now.
I head out to my car, wanting nothing more than to go home. And right now, home is the apartment I share with Jenny. Maybe I never had a home with Mom. Not really. At least, not since Dad left us behind.
When I get behind the wheel, I take a few moments to calm myself down. I focus on the bark of the tree in front of me, watching a lizard skitter up into the Spanish moss that sways in a gentle breeze. I sink into the seat behind the wheel, the windows closed, listening to the silence around me as I fight back tears. When I’m ready, I take a deep breath and turn on the engine. I concentrate only on the road, fearing distraction. The last thing I need is to get into an accident and join my father.
Chapter 5
I’m always nervous before a race. Jenny can’t be here today, even though she helped me train. I stand in a crowd early in the morning as we all wait for the start. I’ve stretched. My muscles feel ready. My whole body feels prepared to cut through the air and run thirteen miles. I jog in place, clad in my favorite shorts and tank top. I’ve never felt stronger. My ponytail bounces against the back of my neck as I move.
Roberta’s light brown hair falls around her face as she jumps toward me and wraps her arms around me. She’s wearing a black tank top that reads, ‘I Hate Running’. “You’re gonna do great!”
“Only if you let me breathe,” I tease, taking a step back. She laughs and claps her hands. “You seriously wore that shirt?”
Glancing down at her chest, she says, “Well, it’s true. You’re the runner, not me. I like walking, but not running.” She’s also wearing a brightly colored knit cap, one of the hats her father made for her. She tugs it down a bit and steps gingerly over to the side of the road, then waves at me over a sea of sweaty people. “Break a leg!” she calls out.
“Roberta, for crying out loud,” I retort, “that is not what you want to say to a runner.” I chortle and shake my head in amazement. She’s one of the nicest people I have ever known. But she can be so odd and awkward at the same time.
A young man steps between a group of runners who are all wearing the same t-shirt advertising their running club, obscuring my view of Roberta. The man is pushing a stroller. I am unable to suppress a grin when I see the little girl peeking out from underneath a sun shield. She could have been me. I say hello to the man, but he barely acknowledges me, so I let myself be swallowed by the crowd, just a part of the hundreds of people around me who are about to shoot for the finish line at varying speeds.
When I run, everything seems so much easier, and I’m proud of how far I’ve come. I know Roberta will be waiting for me at the finish line. I met her at my ACA meeting—Adult Children of Alcoholics—in Kill Devil Hills. Since then, I haven’t needed the Program anymore. Things leveled out after I moved in with Jenny and went back to work at the bookstore.
Nothing makes me feel better than running. I swoop down the street as though carried by the wind. I feel strong, but the farther I go, the more my muscles ache. I regulate my breathing and use the techniques that keep me moving. I refuse to pause.
I grab a cup from the water station and think of my dad spilling water all over my mother on this very same road, all those years ago. It was a wonder she went out with him after that.
Other people’s paper cups crunch under my feet. Volunteers with plastic bags are ready to pick them up once we pass. All around me, people are sweating and gasping and panting. Some look more pained than others. Everyone is focused and determined. A few runners are chatting. A middle-aged woman pauses, lost in the crowd behind me as she rubs her side to work out a muscle cramp.
I begin to pick up my pace, and I lose track of time. How long have I been running? I wait for the next mile marker.
Time seems to swim like the heavy, hot air around me. My focus keeps me going as I start to enter a deep meditative state, broken only by the sound of someone’s voice calling out.
“Nina!” It’s a man’s voice, deep and familiar, but I can’t tell where it’s coming from at first. I turn my body amidst the crowd, glancing around people, across the pavement.
Then I see him standing on the sidewalk, his brown curls a bit longer around his ears, his skin more tanned. He looks a little older, but he’s still the same.
I was wondering when Wes would come back, but I almost thought I would never see him again. I slow down, almost stop, and then he yells, “What are you doing?” A peal of laughter cascades from his lips. “Hurry the hell up. Don’t you want to win?”
I nod in a way I doubt is perceptible, then dart off without glancing back. I’ll see him at the finish line.
***
I spot Roberta first, jumping up and down. I try to keep moving in place as I slow incrementally. Stopping all at once would be a shock to my system. I see my number flash across the digital display as I pass the finish line, and I certainly didn’t win, but there are a bunch of volunteers clapping and cheering as if I have. Every person who passes by is handed a finisher’s medal. A young lady with round cheeks and wavy hair hangs it around my neck and says, “Congratulations!” in a cheery voice. I run my hand through my ponytail and move my head from side to side, stretching.
Roberta runs up to me, grinning. “You did it! Great job. How do you feel?”
“Exhausted.” It takes a lot of energy just to get the word out. With my hands on my hips, my chest heaving, I look up at the sky and say, “Happy birthday, Dad.”
“He’d be so proud of you,” Roberta says, a sorrowful look in her eyes. She has been through a lot with her own father, who tried to kill himself. Now that he’s recovered and goes to Alcoholics Anonymous meetings regularly, he enjoys knitting as a relaxing pastime, and Roberta is almost always sporting one of his creations. I can’t help but be envious that she still has her father in her life, even though he’s a little off-kilter.
Startled out of my thoughts, I hold my breath when I see Wes approach from across the nearby parking area. Following my gaze, Roberta spots him, then glances ba
ck at me. He’s stopped to let a few cars pass by. A gaggle of young girls who’ve just finished the race hurry by him, carrying their medals proudly.
“Who’s that guy?” Roberta asks.
“Remember that one I—”
“Oh,” she says, drawing the word out as realization dawns. “That guy.” Before I can stop her, she says, “Listen, I’ll catch you later.”
“Where are you going?”
“Back to your place. Jenny and I are going out for breakfast. Besides…you’ve got stuff to take care of.” She takes off before I can say anything, and heads for her car.
Wes looks different, maybe because he’s wearing khakis instead of running shorts. He crosses the rest of the lot and steps into the grass, bypassing runners and spectators as he climbs the small hill and heads in my direction. His sandaled feet are tan like the rest of him, and his white t-shirt is a contrast to his dark Ray-Ban sunglasses. He doesn’t take his glasses off at first, but when he does, I know there’s something different. He looks worn out, like a man who’s been through too much in a short time.
“Wes.” People shuffle past us as I ignore the sound of the announcer.
“Did you win?” He hooks his glasses onto the front of his shirt.
“No.” I scoff. “You kidding? Of course not.” I’m not sure what to do, and I wonder if I’m supposed to hug him. He makes no move to close the space between us.
When he smirks, I almost see the playful, energetically charged man I once knew. “I distracted you out there. That must be why,” he says.
“Oh, sure.” I sit down in the grass, still breathing heavily.
He sits beside me, but he still doesn’t reach out or touch me. “It’s been a while.”
“It’s been longer than a while. Six months?”
“Something like that.”
“How’d you know I’d be here?”
“A little bird told me.” The corner of his mouth turns up. “Jenny.”
“How come you always go through her to get to me?”
“Makes it more of a surprise.” Our eyes meet, and for the space of time it takes me to breathe in and out, in and out, we watch each other. I’m grateful for my temporary preoccupation with trying to remember how to stay still, because otherwise the intensity of his stare would’ve been my undoing. After running thirteen miles, I feel like a puddle of sweat and limp muscles. I ache all over.
He stands, holding out his hand. “Will you have lunch with me?”
There’s something hanging between us, some kind of sorrowful tension I can’t define. I let him help me up, hoping I’ll find out what’s happened to change him so drastically. “Sure.”
Chapter 6
He waits for me while I shower and change at home. Then he takes me out in his car. At the Hurricane Café, we find a booth in the back, and I slide in until I’m almost against the wall. We’re in the corner, and I can see patrons coming and going, and servers hurrying past with full trays. Colorful ocean scenes decorate the room, which is filled with the overwhelming scent of food cooking, making my stomach grumble. I focus on everything except him because it’s easier. When he recaptures my attention, I startle.
“So how’ve you been?” he says.
“Good, since I came back.”
“North Carolina didn’t work out for you?” His tone is low, seeming to have a double meaning.
“No. It didn’t work.” In a second, a rush of images and memories flood through me. It was worth it, every moment, but it wasn’t where I belonged.
“What have you been up to?”
“Running. And working in the bookstore. I’m just trying to keep it simple right now. I haven’t done a whole lot of writing, but I will start again soon.” A pang of jealousy creeps through me, knowing Wes is a New York Times bestselling author, and I’m nothing. Just a girl who pens mediocre novels on a legal pad whenever the bookstore is slow.
His eyebrow quirks up as he laces his fingers together. “That’s not what Jenny told me. She said you have been writing.”
“Sure, if you call jotting down notes writing.”
“I do.” He smirks. “How about the fact that you’ve been submitting your book to publishers?”
“Just sending query letters. How did this get around?” I sip my coffee, stretch my legs under the table, and wince at the ache in my calves and thighs.
“Jenny’s very proud of you.”
“She has no reason to be proud,” I retort. “Nothing’s been accepted. I’ve gotten lots of rejection letters, though.” The last letter I received was from a small press in San Diego. The editor had taken the time to scrawl a note at the bottom of the form letter, which could have been interpreted as either well-meaning or insulting. It read:
Nice writing, but no surprises.
I tore it up and went so far as to flush it down the toilet. I regretted it afterward, thinking perhaps I should’ve kept it because I was unlikely to get another hand-written rejection note.
“We all get rejections,” Wes says, pulling me from my thoughts. “It doesn’t mean your writing is bad.”
“I think it does.” Suddenly I’m in a sour mood. I hope this doesn’t ruin my day, and I wish he’d talk about something other than my writing.
“Think of it this way,” Wes says. “Imagine a publisher gets thousands of queries, but they can only pick twenty or so novels to publish. I’m just throwing a random number out there.”
“Continue,” I tell him, wishing he wouldn’t.
“Well, there’s bound to be lots of great writing in those submissions that aren’t picked. They’re inundated with tons of stuff from lots of different people. They can’t publish everything, Nina. All I’m trying to say is, there is a home for your book out there. You will find a publisher. You just can’t give up.”
“I know.” I slump against the cool surface of the table. “I’m just getting discouraged.” Even though I’m despondent about it, I know he’s right. I have to keep trying. My manuscript is probably floating around in the slush pile at a few different small presses. Eventually, someone’s bound to come across it and like it. At least, I hope so.
After our meal, we step out into the hot sun of the parking lot. For a moment, Wes looks uncertain, and I don’t recall ever seeing him that way. He’s looking at me differently. Wish I knew what he was thinking.
“Want to go see the turtles?” he asks.
“What?”
He nods in the direction of Loggerhead Park. “The rescued turtles. Or a walk on the beach, maybe?”
“Let’s start with the turtles,” I decide resolutely.
Our lunch conversation proved to be casual, relaxed, and enjoyable. But right now I don’t want to feel pressured to look at him. My curiosity about him is only deepening—his life, his adventures all over the world, and whatever chemical attraction is between us. The thing is, I don’t want to have to deal with it. This way, I’ll have the turtles as a distraction. But how long before I’ll have to face whatever is between us, especially when I don’t even know what that is?
***
A sense of heaviness descends upon me when I look at the huge loggerhead turtle in the tank, so beaten from being hit by boats that I can tell by its eyes that it’s almost ready to give up. Yet, despite all the pain it endured, there is an innocence that cannot be denied. Determination. Despite having difficulty swimming because it no longer has rear flippers, it tries to surge to the surface, and finally makes it.
I am startled out of my reflections by Wes as he brushes his hand against my arm.
“The poor thing,” I mumble. “Look. It can barely swim.”
The turtle sinks sideways until it falls to the bottom.
“It manages somehow,” he says.
We walk out of the park and down toward the beach, passing ocean scene murals that display sea turtles swimming, fish darting in and out of colorful reefs, reminding me of the paintings in the restaurant. As we cross the road and head for wooden steps that lead be
tween the sea grapes and down to the beach, I notice how distant he is, his face just as expressionless as it had been when we sat together at lunch. Something has changed. I’m not sure what it is, but he’s starting to remind me of the turtle—broken and struggling to survive.
“So, what’s going on?” I ask. “You told me about your writing, and your next book that’s coming out, but you didn’t say anything about what’s really going on with you.”
“That’s really going on with me.” He gives me a peculiar look.
“Something else is up. I can tell.” We step down onto the sand, but I don’t take off my flip-flops until we reach the surf. The sand is hot and stings my flesh. Bronzed girls in bikinis sun themselves on wide, colorful beach towels while guys toss volleyballs and older couples lounge under umbrellas.
Wes is quiet as we walk. A good distance away from the last lifeguard station, the beach is mostly empty except for an old couple seated beneath a wide, lime green umbrella, and a man fishing with his son. Wes turns to me and asks, “You don’t really read the news, do you?”
“Is that why you’ve been looking at me like I’m crazy?” I step into the water, refreshed as it engulfs my ankles and my toes sink into the sand.
“No. Not like you’re crazy. I just realized that you probably don’t read the news.”
I shake my head, thinking of the newspapers at the bookstore. I don’t usually shelve them; my boss does. “Should I? I don’t watch the news either.” My stomach drops, an intense sensation of discomfort washing through me. “Oh, no. What happened?” I stop short, and some kid throws a soccer ball past us. It bounces, and Wes swipes a foot out to kick it, but misses. I can’t see his eyes through his dark lenses, but I wish I could. He turns toward the ocean, his brow crinkling.
