by A. R. Hadley
“The loneliness in her was…” Cal began, trailing off.
Annie never took her compassionate gaze off him. She waited for him to continue. Cal held up the empty glass and signaled the bartender for another.
“Jameson neat, sir?”
“Yes, please.” Cal cleared his throat and feigned a smile, thinking of Reegan sick and possibly dying, the memory and unknown causing an unusual floundering within him.
The bartender handed Cal his fresh drink.
Annie watched him take a sip, and then she reached her palm up and touched Cal’s face, giving him her love and strength through the tips of her fingers.
The love alone beaming from her eyes — and there was a multitude of other qualities present in them — was more incredible than any love he’d ever known.
“Her loneliness was more than mine. Nothing took it from her.” Cal looked at Annie keenly while removing her hand from his cheek. “Nothing. Her husband is a—”
“I saw what he is.” She shifted her eyes to where the arrogant caveman had formerly stood. “Had you really never met him?”
“No." Cal brushed a palm over his face and released his breath. "No."
“You gave her something then.”
“Annie, don’t.”
“What?”
“Don’t be so fucking kind.” He looked away, his eyes glossing over.
Annie stood and met him eye to eye. She grabbed the sides of Cal’s shirt and pinched her fingers toward his collar. They were now standing so close together no space could be seen between their clothed bodies, between their transparent souls.
“She is lonely,” Annie said, imparting truth. It melted off her tongue to his. “She is lonely. Not you. Not anymore. And she chose to stay with that man. And I do have to be so fucking kind. His wife is sick, and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, not even someone you—”
“Annie…”
“What?” she asked, the familiar ache in her throat.
“That’s all it was.”
“No, it wasn’t, Cal.”
Feelings rushed over him as he plunged down the rest of the whiskey, resisting the emotions, fighting them and needing them.
Annie put her hand through Cal’s, kissed his cheek, then moved her lips toward his ear. “You’re not alone anymore,” she whispered. “You are loved.”
Cal captured the words off Annie’s tongue and stored them in the safety deposit box marked Annie Rebekah Prescott. The risk he’d taken not to be lonely had finally rewarded him with a wife, a son, a life, an antidote for the empty, a reason for the struggle and the fight.
Reasons to live. Not reasons to exist. Reasons to live.
He felt it.
Cal felt it.
He trusted it.
Bill approached — unaware he was blatantly interrupting — ready to whisk Cal away to talk of the merger, to talk of things no longer pressing in on Cal’s soul — necessary things, but nonessential to what Cal called life.
Annie pressed Cal.
She held her hand against his chest, her pulse ticking at an incredible rate, speaking to him without words, pressing, making sure he would still feel her long after he walked away.
Finding herself alone in a sea of unfamiliar faces and in a room full of grandiose things, Annie held her dirty martini by the stem of its glass in one hand and a bunched-up section of her full, embroidered skirt in the other, swinging the material back and forth between sips of her second drink.
Like George McFly on the dance floor when he noticed the time, Annie’s gaze came to a halt on the windows. Walls. Sheets. A fucking floor-to-ceiling view of the ocean. The Pacific.
Even though Annie lived in Seattle, she hadn't seen much of Washington's coastline, and it certainly hadn’t been the same way she’d seen the Atlantic in Miami — every single day, greeting her with a kiss and a smile, a roar and a handshake.
After moving a few feet away from the bar, she took up residence near the center of one of the floor-to-ceiling paned walls. She had a childlike urge to put her nose to the glass. And as with most times in Annie’s life, she followed her whimsy and did what made her happy without regard to who might be watching.
A palm and nose on the glass, she peered at the crowds of people gathered on the outside deck, wishing she’d brought her camera, but she’d left it at the hotel. Annie felt naked without it by her side. Hard to believe it hadn’t been that long ago since she’d drifted so far from her lovely — the camera — when now she wanted nothing more than to have it with her everywhere, in each place and space she occupied.
She eyed at least a dozen shots, framed them up in her mind’s eye — the habitual flick of the cigarette in the hand of a blonde-haired starlet; the stem of a red-pumped heel grinding its tip into a crack in the concrete; three bearded men in a circle, one of whom sported a huge, brown bowtie; a pink carnation in the pocket of an older gentleman’s jacket — but without the camera, she was forced to make an imprint on only the film of her brain.
Walter Mitty-style.
Well, her phone was, of course, in her skirt pocket, but taking a picture with it couldn’t take the place of her eye through the viewfinder, of studying a subject and framing it up, and it could never take the place of the feel of the camera in her hands as she cradled it and adjusted the shutter.
Sighing against the window — she should’ve brought the damn camera — she watched her breath fog up the glass, then watched the steam she’d made vanish.
It was Annie’s turn to vanish.
She disappeared through the wide-open door and stepped onto the deck. The ocean’s breeze sent her skirt and hair flying. The people looked like dozens and dozens of lily pads scattered about the surface of a pond, floating on a current of alcohol and talk, chatter and buzz.
As she made her way around them, she inhaled the pungent scent of the sea. Hints of salt hit her nose hard and fast like always, taking her to a place filled with fond memories as she walked across the deck at a leisurely pace.
Stopping at the far southern edge of a stone path, she looked at the oblong pool. The water cascaded over its edge, appearing to drop off into the ocean.
A hand over her eyes like a visor, she turned and squinted in the direction of the sun. It was setting against the canvas of a pink, yellow, and orange sky.
To her left, a few stone steps led to what appeared to be grass and trees and flowers. Annie skipped forward, following her chi toward the — the garden? — while glancing at the sky off and on, unable to peel her gaze from the striking hues.
She slipped off her wedge heels, left them on the slab of concrete, and stepped down into the oasis. It was a garden right in the middle of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous in Malibu. Her bare feet touched the long, soft, green blades of grass, tickling her soles as she strolled. Running her hands along the edges of the scenery, her fingertips grazed the bushes and flowers and leaves.
Everything here teemed with life, and even though Annie didn’t have her camera, she couldn’t help but eye the foliage and dirt for insects and creatures — big or small — that might be hiding or hunting or sleeping.
After exploring for a short while, she decided to sit. Legs outstretched, she wiggled her toes, pulled her skirt to her knees, and basked in the fading California sunshine, shaded by a few pale clouds floating by in no hurry.
Annie wasn’t in a hurry either.
She could’ve stayed fixed to this spot forever, soaking in the green of God’s earth. Except, she was still aware of the party. The music and idle chatter and laughter carried, but despite the noise level, she could still discern the faint sound of a … child?
Annie stood, following the voice, then peeked over the concrete ledge. Her head barely visible over the top of the slab, she smiled once she noticed the little boy clinging to the skirt of his mother.
The boy looked distracted, shy, and adorable.
Closing her eyes, Annie tried to imagine Benjamin older — running, creating, talking.
It was almost impossible for her to construct a kindergarten version of Benjamin, hard to imagine him any different from the buoyant one-year-old he was now. But she knew one day — and with each passing day — her son would grow bigger, taller, and stronger. He would soon grow into a boy like the one standing a few feet away, and then he would grow into a man.
Her eyes glossed over, almost filling with tears — almost — as she continued trying to sense what life in the future would be like. Blocked field of vision or not, she couldn't wait to experience all of it: temper tantrums, potty training, teaching him to read, taking hikes and surfing, riding without training wheels, Disney.
Annie was ecstatic she would be Ben's mom forever.
Forever existed.
It did.
Fuck depression.
Intent on fetching another martini, Annie trotted up the steps — not giving a damn that her feet were bare; this was California, after all — then came upon the young boy playing about the legs of the adults whose waists met his eyeline.
Something gave Annie pause.
Neck tingles.
The same something pulled her toward the group of strangers. A voice telling her not to pass them by without making inquiry.
The impeccably dressed little boy was swinging on the legs of his mother as if her limbs were monkey bars at the park. As Annie knelt and caught his bashful brown eyes, her white skirt fanned out across the ground. She wanted nothing more than to be eye level with the adorable, well-dressed little creature. The boy’s nutmeg hair fell across his forehead, strands pointing close to his dark, chocolate eyes.
"Hi, I'm Annie. What's your name?"
Swaying, he looked at Annie, his gaze still holding a pinch of timidity, and he hesitated to speak. His mother noticed the scene, patted her son’s shoulder, and said, "Tell her your name, sweetie. It's okay."
Annie tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear and grinned, waiting for his declaration.
"My name is Peter," the boy said, cautious but eager to share.
Annie's heart seized, literally dropped a beat and palpitated, and she had to put her palms on the ground to catch herself from falling. The gentlest of breezes could’ve knocked her back.
"Peter … huh?” She tried to recover as he stared sweetly at her. “That’s a strong name." Even though her eyes glistened, her smile still reached them. "My brother’s name is Peter." Annie glanced at the little boy’s mom. The mother smiled and continued with the adult conversation she was having with her circle of friends.
"Well, Peter,” Annie said, clearing her throat, “are you having fun at the party?"
He cocked his head to the side and touched Annie's aqua bracelet, playing with the shiny beads between his fingers.
"It's boring," he whispered through his two missing front teeth.
"Yeah." She laughed. "Grown-up parties can be boring. Hey, I found a place where lizards are hiding and butterflies are flying. If it's okay with your mom, I can show you."
Peter’s eyes lit up, and he yanked on his mother’s skirt. "Mommy," he said, but she ignored him. He turned back to Annie. "Wait, what's your name again?"
She giggled, patted his head, and repeated her name.
Peter tugged at his mother’s skirt with more force, and when he finally had her attention, he told her about the lizards and butterflies awaiting discovery. Annie pointed to the garden and offered to take him a few feet away down the path. His mother seemed happy to oblige.
Annie led Peter toward the patch teeming with life, feeling childlike and alive. And as they walked hand in hand, her memories stirred. Peter, her brother, had led her literally with his hand and figuratively with his heart everywhere — he’d shown her everything.
God, how her heart ached for him. The damn muscle pounded in her chest.
She distracted herself by watching the little boy’s focus as he searched the ground, the leaves, and the trees for any sign of tiny reptiles, and she watched his eyes sparkle like diamonds when he found them.
The boy’s delight in the simple, unnoticed, and truly vital matched her own. Nothing should’ve been easier than being in the moment with him.
As Annie continued to push the pain of having lost her brother aside, she wondered why people tried to shove their emotions away in the first place. It seemed like an exercise in futility.
Why didn't we look them straight in the eye?
We look ahead for the next thing, behind at the past, but this moment, the right now — this very second — we attempt to disregard. We imagine there is something better than what we feel, but all the while, we’re missing out on what the present can teach us. Ignoring our emotions might aid us in skewing the pain, sorrow, and hurt, but then we might also counteract happiness, joy, and clarity.
We’d miss out on love.
As Annie stared beyond the lizards, past the garden, and past the scent of superficial Hollywood moguls and hangers-on, she was hit with a barrage of emotions, the ones people might try and hide from — the ones she used to try to run and fly from.
It tripped her up.
She had nowhere to go.
Nowhere to run.
A little boy needed her.
Annie allowed the can of worms to open, and it wasn’t as ugly as she’d assumed.
Annie observed five or six-year-old Peter, remembering how she used to feel when her brother would wrap his arms around her. How he smelled like sandalwood and Celtic sea salt. Closing her eyes, she tried to hear his voice. It was faint and not nearly as loud as it had once been, but it was present. He talked via the tape recorder playing inside her head.
Always look for what other people don’t see. Find that place that makes people uncomfortable and capture it. Don’t exploit it, Annie. But harness it. You’re a natural. Your smile lights your eyes. You and me, Annie. Anybody ever tries to hurt you — you come to me.
Peter had treated her like an adult from day one. Never a child. His confidence had been infectious. God... One day, she might forget. One day, she might not feel him anymore. Or hear him.
This was too much. The feelings. The can of worms. The indescribable need to escape. But she needed to feel… Argh!
Because…
If you can’t feel … how can you heal?
Little Peter spoke and broke up her incessant thinking, and then a few minutes later, she slipped on her shoes and led him back up the path to his mother.
"Well, buddy”—she ruffled his hair and smiled—“I hope you have fun for the rest of the party."
Peter glanced at Annie as he held onto his mother’s hand. Grinning through those missing teeth, his eyes beamed. And then, just as Annie started to walk away, Peter leapt forward and wrapped his arms around her.
Annie’s eyes enlarged to the size of lollipops, and her chest inflated, making room for his affection and innocence. A solid lump of lessons learned formed in her throat. Annie was taken aback by the ease with which Peter showed what he felt — without holding anything back, not asking any questions, not overthinking it.
His uninhibited nature boosted her mood. Had her smiling through tears.
And as a result of this little boy’s gift, Peter Baxter was there with Annie now. Present in her mind and alive in her heart. In all the ways she’d ever wanted him to be. In all the ways she’d been refusing to let him be.
They could be free.
Annie rubbed the boy’s back, swallowed past the throat-scratching lump, and said, “Goodbye,” then she turned to face the sea of partygoers, readying herself to enter the world people mistook for reality.
After making her way to the outside bar — that was right, bar number two — she ordered a martini: very dirty with extra olives. However, she didn't bother with a sip of the tonic until she reached the edge of the deck.
The ocean yelled across the horizon, Annie, Annie, watch me.
Oh, how she missed the ocean and its steady, constant, pounding waves. The sure sound of its surging heartbeat. The sun was fa
ding, dripping, and melting above the water. The entire scene was a sight, a force, metaphysically lifting her entire being off the ground as Annie lifted her drink and took a generous sip of contentment and peace or some other hippie bullshit she seemed to subscribe to.
Don Draper ain’t got nothing on me, she thought as she took a swallow and suppressed a giggle.
The vodka wasted no time filling her veins — the smell of olives at her nose and salt spray on her lips divine — and she finished off the drink at the breathtaking edge of the earth and then left her empty glass on a tray without a care in the world.
Turning around, Annie put her back to the sea and rested her elbows on the ledge of the railing. Her eyes became slits against the wind as she looked out across the expanse of the patio, her gaze darting between the lily-pad people.
My God, she felt wild and free, radiant … and then she suddenly felt something familiar.
Hairs-at-attention familiar.
Goosepimple familiar.
Butter in the knees.
She scanned faces left and right and found nothing unusual. No sign of Prescott. Where could he be? While sliding five fingers through her battered hair, resisting the urge to twirl the pieces, she had an itch to look straight ahead. A few people in the crowd had parted. Heads had moved.
Mmm … and several feet away stood someone very familiar.
Cal.
Wearing that infamous dark-gray suit and a fuchsia button-down — because, fuck, it was Malibu — he owned the outside of the party. His chess pieces were in place as he attended to polite conversation. A hand in his pocket. A smirk in his eyes custom-made for Annie.
The familiar.
The force.
The megamagnetic pull.
The saying must be true: some things never do change.
Like a shy schoolgirl at a dance, Annie waited for the boy across the way to ask her to be his partner on the floor. The weight of his stare blew over her body the way the California breeze did. Enveloping her, warming her, chasing her. Calming her.
She felt the same way she had the first time Cal had seen her at Maggie’s on the staircase — a girl at a party — the first time he’d looked into her eyes, the first time he’d held her attention in the palm of his hands. The look and power his eyes carried across the deck — across the house — remained the same and different.
