The Counting-Downers

by A. J. Compton

  I clear my throat to try to break the tension with noise. “We should probably…” I say, swinging my arm in the direction of my car.

  “Yes. Sounds good.”

  We climb from the shrubbery and walk across the lot in silence with our heads down and cheeks reddened.

  “So…” I say once we’re both seated and belted. “Where to?”

  “Um… the beach?”

  “Perfect. Good thinking, Goldilocks. We haven’t been there in a while.” Sarcasm drips through my voice, knowing we were there just yesterday but trying to regain our equilibrium after the awkwardness.

  I don’t think it works but he does recognize my attempt for what it is and tries to help me along. “I know. I’ve almost forgotten what our spot looks like.”

  Our spot.

  I love that he calls it ‘our spot.’

  I love that we have something that’s ours.

  I love that we’re an ‘us.’

  Not officially, but in all the ways that count.

  Linking my iPod up to the car stereo, I press play as I pull out of the lot.

  To say my taste in music is eclectic, would be a huge understatement. Someone once told me that they couldn’t stand people who answered ‘a little bit of everything’ when asked about their tastes in music. Well, I can’t stand people who become annoyed when people refuse to fit into neat boxes.

  Why should I limit myself to one kind of music to please someone else? So often Tchaikovsky will spill into the Rolling Stones before shuffling into The Avett Brothers. And I love it.

  In my opinion, those who love music, love life. Like all artists, musicians are magicians. Magic and metaphors exist in music superior to any other art form. An exquisite alchemy is involved in mixing pieces of your self and soul into the perfect blend of harmonies, melodies, and lyrics that strike a chord.

  I smile as ‘Here Comes the Sun’ by The Beatles comes on straight after ‘Blue Skies’ by Noah and the Whale. I know the order the songs play is nothing more than chance, a random coincidence that occurs in the absence of intent, but sometimes it appears as if someone somewhere is trying to send me a message.

  Or maybe it’s both of us they’re trying to send the message to.

  We are an almost-us, after all.

  Tristan’s laugh is throaty as I hum along to the lullaby tones of Paul McCartney, and after much pleading, I persuade him to sing along with me. As we go further into our soft duet, the song takes on an increasing amount of meaning as I sing to him about how I can see the ice steadily melting and he sings to me about how lonely winter has been.

  By the end of the song, we’re both smiling with that particular blend of sadness and hope that we only experience around each other.

  With our connection restored, we talk with excitement about the tree planting we’re going to do this weekend. The idea is to plant two trees in Tristan’s forest, and two in my meadow, which will remain long after we’re gone for future generations to enjoy.

  We’re going to the garden center tomorrow to pick out our trees and learn about the ones that will thrive best in their respective environments. I can’t wait. As much as I adore flowers, trees are just so majestic. Planting something that will last for centuries is the ultimate legacy.

  I often wonder about all the stories trees could tell. How many first kisses, heated arguments, and plotted plans they must have witnessed over the years. Few things better signify the passage of time than trees.

  They are the masters at having their feet on the ground while their heads are high in the clouds. We could learn a lot from them if only we cared to look and listen.

  Tristan’s even more excited than I am. He’s just started volunteering at his local wildlife conservation center, so he can’t wait to create a new habitat for woodland creatures. I need to pick a cause to volunteer for as part of my legacy list.

  The problem is there are just so many which are close to my heart. I care too much about too much. Or maybe it’s not that I care too much, it’s that time is too little. I don’t know whether to spend a small amount of time helping several causes, or donate all of my spare time to one cause.

  At the moment, I’m leaning toward spending a few hours a week at the nearest animal shelter, but I’m also interested in conservation, children, and bereavement charities. Maybe I’ll talk to Tristan or my mom about the best thing to do.

  After twenty minutes, we pull up to the beach, relieved that ‘our spot’ hasn’t been taken. Since Tristan has become such an important part of my days, I haven’t spent any time here alone with my dad, which makes me sadness and guilt wash over me.

  As much as I love spending time with Tristan here, it’s important that I still have that daddy/daughter time. Thinking about it now, I realize just how much I’ve missed it. I make a plan to come back here later after I’ve said goodbye to Tristan.

  I loop my arm through Tristan’s as we walk away from the car toward the beach. As we near the bench, I spot a couple nearby taking photos on the beach. I nudge Tristan, pointing my head in their direction. It takes him a moment to understand what I’m trying to say before his face fills with amusement.

  We haven’t had any opportunities to photobomb over the past week. It’s always the case that when you aren’t looking for something, you see it everywhere, but the second you search for it, it’s nowhere to be seen.

  “You game?”

  “You’re like the little devil sitting on my shoulder. Okay. Let’s do it.”

  “Excuse me! I’ll have you know that my mommy says I’m an angel.”

  “Has she said that recently? Like in the last ten years?”

  “Fair point.”

  “Thank you. So what’s our strategy, Diablo?”

  “You can’t call me Diablo,” I say through my laughter. “Two nicknames are enough.”

  “You sure? I think we can find room for one more.”

  “I’m positive. Diablo is not going to happen.”

  “Well, I think you’d look good in a devil costume.”

  “I bet you do. Pervert.”

  He gives a wolfish smile, which makes me giggle like Little Red Riding Hood skipping through the forest toward her demise. I’d be happy to go if I knew Tristan would be with me at the end of my story. Every time.

  “Okay, so the plan. I think we should just do the casual walk through and be captured mid-step, what do you think?”

  “No! That’s boring. We at least need a full-frontal shot.”

  “Full frontal?” He snickers, receiving a backhanded slap to his stomach of stone, which hurts me more than it does him. He laughs as I shake out my injured hand.

  “You know what I mean. I think we at least need our faces in there. Maybe we should create a points system, extra-points for funny faces.”

  “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, for someone who hates rules and formality, you take these sort of things way too seriously.”

  “Whatever. The idea of points is genius. It will become the stuff of legends. One point for profile, two for head on, three for a funny face. Deal?”

  “Deal.” He shakes on it and entwines my fingers with his instead of letting my hand go.

  “So are we doing this together or separately?” I lean into him. I don’t just gravitate to him anymore; he is my gravity. He grounds and centers me in a way I don’t quite understand but don’t mind enough to question. I look to him for answers; he looks to me for questions.

  “Ordinarily, let’s do it as individuals, but to mark the first official photobomb, let’s do it together.”

  “Perfect.” I switch our holding hands to make it more comfortable as we walk along the beach toward the pair with the camera.

  “I say we just pretend to be a couple holding hands and talking in the background and then at the last minute, turn and face the camera with a stupid expression.”

  “Yes! I love it.”

  “Okay, cool.” Trying to be subtle, we position ourselves in the direc
t line of the camera behind the young Asian-American woman who is having her photo taken by what looks to be her boyfriend.

  “Ready, baby?” her boyfriend shouts as she poses. I hear him counting down from three in the distance, but I’m too busy being held captive by Tristan’s eyes.

  When the reaches one, Tristan squeezes my hands, which pulls me out of my trance just in time to turn to the camera and stick my tongue out. I look up and laugh when I see Tristan looking goofy and cross-eyed.

  Just as fast as our expressions came, we remove them, making our faces neutral before the boyfriend lowers the camera. The pair seems oblivious to our photobombing, which makes it even more hilarious as they’ll discover it later, or maybe not at all. How many of us look that closely at the people in the background of our photographs?

  But we’ll know. And that’s all that matters. Childish? Yes. But then most fun things always are. Why should kids have all the fun?

  Even though no one is chasing us, we run away like thieves from the scene of the crime, only we’ve stolen a moment instead of anything material.

  Once we’re in the familiar safety of ‘our spot,’ I give Tristan a high five.

  “We have to do that again.”

  “Agreed.”

  We’re both still recovering our breath and maturity.

  Watching some small children play further down the beach, an idea comes to me.

  “Hey, let’s make sand angels!”

  “Sand angels?”

  “Yes, you know. Like snow angels, except with sand.”

  “And except for finding sand in places it should never be, the point of that is what exactly?”

  “It’s fun! Sometimes things don’t have to have a point. A special kind of beauty and freedom lives in the just because. We should do it just because.”

  “But just because, what?”

  “Just because! Just because we’re young. Just because the sun is shining. Just because it’s Tuesday. Just because we can. Why do we need a reason? The best things in life don’t make sense.”

  “Is it weird that your explanation just made sense?”

  “No. It makes perfect sense. Now let’s change and make some sand angels.”

  “What should I wear to make sand angels?” He glances down at his dark grey board shorts and white t-shirt.

  “Just take your top off.” My voice is a lot huskier than I intended, causing Tristan’s head to zoom up as he looks at me with an expression I can’t quite read.

  “And what about you?” he asks, sounding like gravel under car tires.

  “I…um…I have a swimsuit underneath this dress.”

  He nods and swallows, but doesn’t say anything.

  “So, you up for making sand angels?”

  “I’d do anything you asked, Tilda. In fact, you never have to ask.”

  The look in his eyes strikes something deep inside me.

  “Likewise,” is all I’m able to mumble.

  “So we’re doing this?” He reaches for the bottom of his t-shirt before bringing it over his head and leaving me speechless. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen Tristan in swimwear, but this time is different somehow from all the ones that have gone before. My mouth is drier and my pulse quicker. Much quicker.

  And I’m staring.

  Why am I staring?

  Look away, Matilda. Before it gets awkward again. Oh. Too late.

  He just raises an amused eyebrow at me in response. My hand makes a surreptitious swipe across my mouth to check that I’m not drooling. Satisfied that I’ve not embarrassed myself more than usual, I lower the straps of my baby blue summer dress to reveal my white floral swimsuit underneath.

  Now it’s Tristan’s turn to stare, which fills me with unashamed feminine satisfaction. I avoid his eyes as I bring the dress down I wriggle out of it. The stopwatch slams against my skin as I bend forward, reminding me of its presence. I straighten and remove it before placing it into my dress pocket. I’d be devastated if anything happened to it.

  “I have towels in the car. I’ll be back,” I tell him before I run to the car with our removed clothing. I lock them in the vehicle before I return to Tristan. Laying the towels over my right arm, I turn to face him. He hasn’t moved from the spot I left him in and is still staring at me.

  “Ready?” I try to tame the twitch in my lips that wants to break out into a smile at his strange expression.

  This seems to bring him back from wherever it is that he’s gone.

  “Sure, lead the way.”

  Hesitating, I take his hand and walk down the crowded beach, trying to find a space on the sand that’s just for us.

  “Here’s perfect. Lie down.” I instruct as I relax onto my back, the sand scrubbing against my skin.

  “So bossy. You know, there are easier ways to get me horizontal, Baby Bear,” he says as he follows suit.

  I think he’s teasing. His smile gives nothing away.

  We’re the perfect distance apart. Far away enough to leave space for the angel wings, but as close as we can be.

  “Okay, so you know how to make a snow angel, right?”

  “Yep. I used to make them with my parents back in Michigan in the winter.”

  He smiles without sadness at the memory and I’m pleased that this moment might connect him to his parents.

  “Okay, so it’s essentially the same thing. Press your head into the sand and spread out your limbs like you’re flying.” I demonstrate and he copies, both of us laughing at the strange sensation. The coarse golden grains scratch my skin as I stare up into the cerulean sky.

  We don’t say much as we sink further into the sand, both lost in our thoughts and the authenticity of the moment. On occasion, the silence is broken with our laughter, or the laughter of passers-by who are watching our antics with amusement.

  Nothing much is happening, but I’m having a great time.

  I think we’re all so caught up in the big, social-network worthy moments that we let small things and simple pleasures like these slip by.

  Spreading my wings in the sand in the company of my almost-mine, making angels while I gaze up unseeing at the ones looking over me, I let the sunshine infuse my bloodstream and bask in gratitude for being alive.

  After what could be minutes or hours but was definitely a moment, Tristan and I stand up and survey our masterpieces.

  They look nothing like angels, but they’re ours so I love them. Like I love him.

  We choke on tears of laughter over our not-quite angels and the fact that sand has reached places it shouldn’t have ever been.

  “You want to go for a dip in the water and wash it all away?”

  “Sounds perfect. Race you there,” I say before sprinting away from him and splashing into the sea.

  Less than five seconds later, he catches up, his laughter booming around me as I immerse myself in the waves. He tugs my ankle before I spin and escape his grasp like a mermaid eluding a fisherman. We both emerge from the water, laughing and gasping for air.

  Pushing the water away from our faces, we smile and stare into each other eyes. As if on autopilot, Tristan’s hands slide around my waist.

  For a moment, we’re talking without words, feeling without actions.

  Then all of a sudden, we’re kissing.

  And sparks don’t fly, violins don’t play, and the molten earth beneath the sea stands still.

  But my heart doesn’t. My heart speeds up, and my pulse races, and my lips move in perfect synchronicity with his.

  Like they were made to fit together. Like we were made to fit together.

  Because we were.

  And at once, I realize that all those books and movies had gotten it wrong.

  When you find your soul’s reflection in another, you shouldn’t be aware of anything other than their body, yours, and the space between.

  You shouldn’t be looking for someone whose kiss causes you to escape reality by transporting you to another time and place. Look for the person wh
ose kiss grounds you firmly in the moment, whose arms hold you safely in the now.

  When your lips lock with your destiny, you should be aware of every prickle on your skin which rises to greet them, every strand of their hair where it caresses your fingers, every gasp of air that reaches your ears.

  Most of us kiss with our eyes closed. But that’s not always a good thing. It depends why they’re shut.

  If you asked most people to imagine themselves in a situation, the first thing they would do is close their eyes.

  You should kiss with your eyes closed to heighten your other senses and block out everything but the now, not to escape to somewhere else. Reality should be better than your imagination.

  Because when it’s right, like this is right, you won’t have to use your imagination at all.

  In Tristan’s arms, with my legs around his waist, as we breathe in the salty air and the cool water laps against our lust-heated skin, I know I couldn’t have dreamed this moment better.

  Each moan he makes reverberates through my bones until I can’t distinguish which one of us is making the sound.

  With every press of his lips, every touch of his tongue, every stroke of his fingers, he is becoming an intrinsic part of me as I do the same to him. Our molecules melt together until they are one.

  Behind us on the beach, people continue with their days and lives as if the world has not just been altered in a fundamental way.

  Their world may be the same, but mine never will be. And neither will his.

  We are forever changed, forever united. From almost-us to always us.

  We kiss with our eyes closed but our senses open, infusing the spaces between with the elements of the other.

  “HI, DADDY, LONG time no speak.”

  A breath of wind blows a strand of my still-damp hair away from my face and I’d like to think that it’s my dad replying to my words.

  Maybe I’m just so desperate for a sign that I imagine ones where none exist, but I often believe that my father is the wind, invisible but powerful, always with me, the constant force surrounding me, and pushing me forward whenever I’m standing too still.

  As in life, so in death.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t visited for a while. It sounds like a terrible excuse, but I’ve been so busy lately. Not too busy to forget you, but too busy to come here alone.”