These Dreams Which Cannot Last

by Matt Flickinger

  “Zain?”

  “Sorry. I had to close the door.” He sounds as worried as she feels.

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  More shuffling. He must be getting back into bed. She wants to see his room, wants to lie next to him on his bed, rest her head on his shoulder with her eyes open. Let the silence of his room calm them both. “Not really,” he says.

  “What’s up?”

  The line goes quiet. She looks at her phone screen, he hasn’t hung up. When he speaks again, his voice is shaking. She can’t tell if he is crying. “I talked to my mother.”

  “Oh. Okay.” She doesn’t know what to say. Zain talked to his mother, whatever that means, she thinks. Then little bits and details start to come back to her. This is the mother he wouldn’t call on their first night, even though he might have been concussed. The mother he sneaked away from to see Charlotte rather than asking for a night away from the house. Sneaked away multiple times, probably again tonight to come apologize, she thinks. The mother he only mentions when asked directly about her. And, even then, not in a very nice way. “How was that?” Charlotte asks.

  “Not so good,” he says. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Hold on.” A scratchy sound, then more silence. Finally, he’s back on again, “I think she’s going back to bed. Can you meet me? At the park? Cloudbank Park?”

  “Maybe. It’s pretty late…or early.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t want to just talk now?”

  “It would be better in person. I would really like to see you,” he says. “To try again.”

  And she can definitely afford him that. It is what she has been wanting all night, a do over. “Sure,” she says. “An hour?”

  “Yes!” he whispers. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll see you there,” she says, but the line is already quiet.

  36

  Full Circle

  Zain’s legs are shaky on the jog up Rio Verde hill. Lack of sleep and too many emotions will do that, he thinks. Not to mention this is his third run in the last 20 hours. He could keep running if he needed to, though, he knows it. But if there is ever a time that he needs to think, it is now. The park is close and he can’t show up without the right thing to say, so he walks. Even if he can never figure out the right words, or forgets them in the moment, he has to try. How do you tell your first ever real girlfriend that you are leaving? Especially when, he thinks, he doesn’t want it to be over. Over. Leaving, left, gone. He hates these words. The very ones he has tried to ignore, but lived with in the back of his mind for the last eight months. These most hated words that he will have to use now. He considers leaving out the whole moving part altogether. He could just tell Charlotte he had a fight with his mom about not talking, about her silence. That silence Charlotte already knows well, feels in her own house. He could paint himself the brave hero of his own life. He found his mother in the kitchen and decided it was time to lay it all out there. His mother never says a word, he needed her and she wasn’t there. Wasn’t ever there, even before. So he told her it wasn’t okay and things have to change. But he can’t do that. Can’t lie to Charlotte. He’s not good at it and she doesn’t deserve it.

  He has to tell her. Even if she is mad, gets those cold eyes from earlier that make her look like a different girl. Even if that happens, he has to tell her. Even if she breaks up with him (boyfriend, girlfriend, whatever they are) and walks away and he has to run back home. He will, he thinks, if that is what happens. What else can he do? Maybe she will tell him they will write, call, text, that she will borrow her parents’ car and drive to see him. They can be apart just long enough until they can be together, really be together. An hour and a half of paved road is all that separates them. But Zain knows even that is too long. It has something to do with time, but he can’t quite figure out what. Time only goes forward, he thinks, that could be it. Towards the park, after the park, after the move, through the tenth grade, and her twelfth, after she has graduated, and everything else, apart from each other. Everything is before and after and in-between and he has to think. He walks a little slower.

  The swings pinch at her hips as she rocks back and forth on the toes of her new running shoes. Charlotte sweats keep riding up on her ankles, making a rim of cold around her shins. Otherwise, she feels pretty good. The shoes were waiting in her room when she and Chloe came back from the party. How her sister kept them a secret all night, Charlotte doesn’t know. They are not exactly the ones she would’ve picked for herself. They’re black, which she likes, but they also have a big pink swoosh on the sides. It was nice of Chloe, though. She has to admit they do help, too. Her feet feel a bit stiff, but not like someone has been beating on them like before. The sun isn’t up yet, but the sky has started to brighten along the horizon. Charlotte wonders how long it has been since she’s seen the sunrise. Summer, probably, and it was not from this side. Not from the already slept (even just a few hours) side. And never from the already run side. Even though it is cold, she is sweating from the run. She would never meet up all sweaty with any other boy, and definitely not in sweats. But with Zain, it’s okay. She looks forward to seeing him, talking. His whispered voice on the phone was worried (kind of sexy, too) and that made her worried. But sitting here now, all sweaty and warm in the cool breeze, she is sure they can figure it out, whatever it is that has him so worried. They can figure it out together. Charlotte doesn’t remember the last time she felt so optimistic.

  She looks back at the quiet street again. He’ll come over the hill soon, running, and they’ll hug and have the talk they should have had earlier. She’ll tell him she missed him too, but he can’t just not text because that is not what people do when they care about each other (not what boyfriends do). Then they’ll sit on the swings and work through whatever it is he’s so scared about.

  A cold wind rattles the chains of the other swing. Charlotte bends over, tugs her sweats down to the tops of her shoes, and sits up to rub her thighs. The wind feels almost like winter. She looks back again as a body crests the hill, head down. Charlotte grabs the swing chains, digging her feet into the wood chips. The skinny form comes closer. It is him, she knows. Only Zain moves like that, but he isn’t running. He leaves the sidewalk, crossing the dead grass of the park in a slow walk. Only a few yards away, he finally raises his head, so she can see his face. Of all his faces, the unconscious, the frightened, the concentrated, the all-too-rare smile, and the thrilled and unsure look as they kiss (of course she looked), this is her least favorite. He looks defeated. Charlotte stands and wraps her arms around Zain’s neck. He is shaking. His face is warm on her shoulder as he breathes, harder in than out.

  Zain rocks quietly on the swing next to her. She wonders how long they will sit in silence, if she should start in with her what a boyfriend should do talk, but that seems dumb now. Things have not gone according to plan. It has definitely gotten colder, too. Coldest before the dawn, she thinks, isn’t that the expression? Any minute now the sun will peek up over the ridge of desert mountains in the distance. The horizon is so bright. Surely the dawn will come soon. Zain kicks at the wood chips.

  “You’re kind of freaking me out, Zain,” Charlotte says.

  He stops kicking and looks over, his mouth tightening into a half smile. “I don’t know how to start. I’m sorry. I never really know how to start.”

  “Start wherever you want,” Charlotte says. “What happened?”

  “I just don’t want to say the wrong thing. I always say the wrong thing because I never…” his voice fades before he finishes the thought.

  “It’s okay,” Charlotte says. “You can say whatever you want. There isn’t a right thing, Zain. We just say shit and then work through it. We can work through it.” Zain nods, but not like it helped. It was a cheesy thing to say, she thinks. He does give her a smile, though, like he appreciates the attempt.

&nb
sp; “I don’t ever see things coming, you know?” he says. Charlotte nods and Zain looks out at the horizon like a gladiator waiting for the gates to open. “Like none of it. I can’t anticipate. I don’t see things coming.” The sadness in his face turns to anger, “none of it.” He grips the chains of his swing, knuckles whitening. Charlotte waits while he calms down. “I like your shoes,” he says, finally.

  Charlotte sniffs and wipes the cold from her nose. “Thanks, my sister got them for me. Better for running.”

  Zain nods, “I didn’t even ask you about your night. How was the party?”

  “It was okay.”

  “Oh. Good.”

  “Awful, actually.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I wasn’t feeling it. Same old. Toni making out with some random. My sister just disappeared. The whole day just kind of sucked.”

  “That sucks,” he says. “I talked with your sister.”

  “You did?”

  “She let me in when I came over. We hung out for a while. She is really nice.”

  “She didn’t tell me. Just said someone was waiting for me in the living room. I thought maybe you just got there.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay, not your fault.”

  “No,” he says, scratching the back of his head. “I’m sorry for the rest of it. I should have texted. Should have called.”

  “Ya. It’s okay though. I mean, it’s not. But, I’m over it. I just want to know—”

  “I wanted to, but I didn’t know what to say.” Zain wipes an arm across his nose, his leg bouncing, “I never know what to do.” He shakes his head and wipes his hand over his face. “This whole year has been like that. Like things happen that I haven’t planned for. Even when I try to, it all just happens before I know what to say,” he says, stopping again, shaking his head. “So much. Too much.” Charlotte doesn’t know what to say. “Like school,” he continues, “everyone moves so fast and in these groups, like they all know where they’re going or, even when everyone has nowhere to be, you still need to be out of their way. Before, I used to know where to go, but now I don’t. And my friend Jackson just kind of left.” He pauses, looking off, his chin shaking. “He drifted away into a group and I should’ve seen it coming. I should have seen it, but I didn’t think about it. None of it.” He just keeps saying that, Charlotte thinks, ‘none of it.’

  “He just got absorbed,” Zain continues, “but some people didn’t like him just because he was him. And, when I saw him in trouble, I jumped in and I fought for him. But maybe I was fighting for something else—”

  “Wait,” Charlotte says, “you got in a fight?”

  “I didn’t even think,” he says, “I just ran and jumped in. Because they were hurting him. I just jumped in. I didn’t see the punch coming until it hit, any of it until it hit.”

  “Oh my god. Zain—”

  “There were so many of them. They were kicking us.” He is crying now. “I did my best and it didn’t matter.”

  “Zain,” she says, kneeling in front of him. He looks past her, face shining and pained. “It didn’t matter. He just moved on,” he says. Charlotte stands and grabs him, bending awkwardly to hug his shoulders, their bodies easing into one another. He only cries for a minute, though, then he is taking her shoulders in his hands, moving her away gently as he stands.

  “And the whole thing is so perfect.” He looks at her briefly as he says it, spitting the word like a bitter drink of poison. This new angry face Charlotte likes even less than the defeated. Worse because it has defeated wrapped up in it. “Right?” he says, crossing his arms, moving away, looking out over the horizon. “An analogy. That’s what it is. Like I fought and got bloody and then things just kept on going. Without me. Just standing there like some punch-drunk dopey fool, with blood on my face while everything else is just spinning away.”

  It is the most Charlotte has ever heard Zain speak at one time. Before she can think where to begin, he’s off again, more quietly now, “Before, before he was gone, I knew. I knew where I was going. I think I knew where I was going. If I didn’t, I didn’t have to think about it so much…”

  And Charlotte knows Zain isn’t talking about this Jackson kid anymore. What can you say to that? Just listen, she thinks. A perfect sun peeks over the horizon, no cracks, just a flawless half yellow orb, rising on the way to complete circle. Charlotte stands behind Zain, waiting for him to finish.

  None of what he shared has come out like he wanted, but it is out there now. He hasn’t even gotten to the main point, just so much else he didn’t plan to say, ever. Somewhere behind him in the wake of his tsunami confession, the girl he will say goodbye to soon stands, waiting for the second wave. For all the rest that he will finish because he can’t stop.

  “I didn’t. I didn’t know that I would be left alone. And that sucks.” Left, leaving. He hears Charlotte’s feet move over the scattered wood chips behind him. She stops beside him, her shoulder at his elbow. “She wasn’t ever there. Because he was,” he says, “and it didn’t matter until…” He won’t cry again. Not now, not for her. “Until my dad was gone.”

  Charlotte’s palm moves over his arm, soft fingers gripping his wrist, pulling his arms uncrossed. Zain lets his hand drop, weaving his fingers in hers. They stand together, quiet tears falling, watching the sun rising to a full circle.

  37

  Cloudbank Park

  Charlotte hoped the rising sun would bring some warmth, but it hasn’t. Only light. Their shadows stretch out behind them, long and thin and ugly. None of this has gone how she wanted. Worse than she expected and there is more to come, she can feel it. Zain stands beside her, eyes closed against the sun.

  “It’s not all bad,” he says, finally. “I thought that when I saw your text tonight. ‘It’s not all bad.’ For just a second. One fucking second,” he says, opening his eyes. It’s strange hearing Zain curse, Charlotte thinks. He’s usually so proper, oddly proper, actually. He continues, “While I was in the hallway, for just a second…I read your text and I thought ‘for all I haven’t considered, didn’t figure out, there is this.’” He looks over, smiling sadly, “there’s you. A bright and beautiful…I never saw you coming. ”

  It is the sweetest, saddest thing anyone has ever said to her. She squeezes his hand and he looks away. “But then I went into the kitchen.”

  Oh no, she thinks.

  “My mom was sitting at the table with all these papers in front of her. I’ve been picking up the mail for months and didn’t put it together. Months,” he says, shaking his head. He lets go of her hand and walks back to the swings, falling into the cracked seat. “All those bills and I still didn’t get it until she told me.”

  Charlotte sits in the empty swing next to him, “so it’s money problems?”

  Zain sniffs and coughs out something like a laugh, shaking his head at the sky. Something worse, she thinks. Worse than a distant mother, than no father, and fist fights, and being broke.

  Zain sighs and grips the chains, pulling himself up, “I’m moving.”

  “You’re moving?”

  “Christmas break,” he says, “I’m moving to El Paso.”

  “Oh,” she says. It is not the most eloquent response, but it’s all she has. She feels like she’s been slapped or punched in the stomach. Of everything she considered, cancer diagnosis, abuse, whatever, she didn’t think of this. Maybe because she didn’t want to, even if it makes sense now. Zain’s home is so broken, she thinks, and he has family there. Charlotte can feel Zain looking at her. She doesn’t know what to say, what to tell him to make it better. Sneak away, that was her plan, show up to apologize and listen and offer advice about whatever was the matter. But this is different. It is not just making him feel better. He is moving, will be gone. Mind searching, she finally finds words. Not a solution, but a date. “Two and a half weeks,” she says.

  “What?”

  “That’s two
and a half weeks.”

  “Ya.”

  She tries, but can’t help sounding sad when she says it, “but we just started.”

  Charlotte has been quiet for a while. Zain doesn’t risk saying anything else, not that it matters. It’s coming, he thinks, the end. Any minute now she’ll tell him good luck, or just stand up and walk away. Over the dead grass, onto the sidewalk, on to the rest of her life, a memory of some freshman she kind of dated for a while fading with every step. And then? Will he just sit here, he thinks, as the park fills with Sunday families? The little kids could play ring around the staring sucker on the swings while Zain looks into the sun until his eyes go black.

  “That was a really nice thing you said,” Charlotte says, “about not seeing me coming.”

  “I meant it. You’ve been so nice to me.”

  Charlotte laughs. It is the best sound he’s heard in days and he can’t help smiling, even if it is confusing to smile when he feels so sad. “You’re kind of understated, you know?” she says. “‘You’ve been so nice to me?’” She laughs again when he looks over at her. “You look so freaked out.”

  “I am freaked out,” Zain says. “I’m moving.”

  “Ya,” she says, “that sucks.”

  “It most definitely does.”

  Again with the laughs.

  “What?” Zain says, getting a bit frustrated.

  “You’re kind of a weird guy, Zain.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The night we met you said like eight words. I didn’t know what to say, what I was supposed to do with you. This skinny dude shows up in my yard, concussed, and then won’t talk to me.” Zain’s frustration subsides a bit. The way she says ‘dude’ is adorable, enunciating the u like the word is embarrassing but important. “And even when you’re freaked out,” Charlotte says, “you’re so proper. Why are you like that?”