by Jude Sierra
“I don’t want you to think I’m doing the running-away thing.”
“I know you’re not.” Shelby gets up, then puts a soft, cool hand on his cheek and pulls him down to kiss the crown of his head. It’s unfamiliar comfort, like a home he never had. He feels a longing for her sometimes when they’ve not seen each other for months—the need for her affection and love he stored up during years of being too scared to let himself want. “I’ll see you in a while. Dinner?”
“I doubt I’ll take that long.” He stands and stretches.
“We’ll see.”
Milo goes upstairs to grab a light sweater. He’s not sure where he wants to go—town seems too likely to be full of people who might remember him and talk to him. The woods and the beaches feel laden with other memories, but they’re a better option. If he does go down to the beach, he’ll definitely want a scarf, with the way the wind tends to whip in over the water.
°
In the end, he drives to Pine Beach. It’s on the other side of town, a place he didn’t much frequent as a kid. Eventually he’ll have to face the memory-saturated air in other places, if he’s going to be home for any amount of time.
The wind is up, but the beach is deserted. This has always been a quieter one, thanks to a longer walk through the dunes. There are sandbars far into the water at high tide and the sand is mostly exposed at low tide. A line of pebbles sweeps in an arc above the waterline, and below it is a second arc of seaweed. The tide is mostly out. The dunes wear their usual blend of pretty purple and white flowers and sharp grasses.
Milo sits a few feet above the rock line and pulls on his sweater. The sun is blinding off the water, but he wants to be blinded, wants to be forced out of his headspace. It’s so quiet, save for the agitated water.
Legs crossed, Milo pulls himself up straight. He closes his eyes and ignores the swirling colors behind his eyelids. He counts a slow breath in, three beats, then exhales for three. Takes a three-beat pause before breathing in. He imagines his breath as a triangle and projects that shape from his body. He lets his senses take in the beach, the quiet, the water, the grit of the sand whipped up by the waves. Tension seeps out of him when he exhales. He lets it go. Nothing is taken from him, nothing is forced. He can count these breaths as he wants. He suspends himself in the pauses: pictures a white canvas, bleeding jumbled images of worry and anxiety, reds and blacks and angry oranges slowly dripping off, as if washed away by rain.
When he opens his eyes again, he’s calmer. That buzzing, anxious feeling is gone. The seaweed has been swallowed by the sea. Tide’s coming in. Milo watches it. The water begins to run in a slow progressing rivulet in a channel between the rocks. As the water creeps ever closer, it rises over uneven sandbars until it meets in the middle of that small channel, eventually overflowing and overrunning the strip of sand in the middle. Before it’s gone, Milo walks into the cold water. The rocks are rough under the soles of his feet. They’re thin-skinned against the sand; when he was a kid they’d been callused and used to beach and forest.
He searches out bigger, colorful rocks and tosses them up the beach. He finds a perfect half shell with pinks blending into white in the center. In the middle is a bright blue fleck of sand. He picks that up too.
By the path into the dunes and back toward his car is a wrecked piece of driftwood, hollow and pale from sun-bleaching. He arranges the rocks on top, makes a pattern of colors with the shell on the end, a frangible beautiful thing, and then takes a picture. His mom will like that. The memory of making art of beach flotsam with Andrew haunts him.
°
He and his mother bump around each other without addressing her illness, upcoming doctor appointments, or the logistics of keeping her business going for a few days. He helps with the housework, and they watch TV in companionable silence at night. Milo goes for walks. He walks and walks; the years of his childhood haunt him mercilessly, and it takes a lot of meditation to keep them at bay. The town has changed, but what he feels when he marks paths with his feet is the same. He explores neighborhoods south of the B&B, down to Graylock and takes in the details of the homes. Despite being the closest beach to his home, it’s the one least familiar to him. As a kid he’d spent countless hours marching down Chickopee with Andrew, darting into the woods just north of the dunes, and farther still to Andrew’s home. Now Milo walks westward along Graylock’s length, then down Pine, around the peninsula before turning back. No matter how many walks he takes, he avoids Chickopee.
Eventually, he knows, all things must come to a head. But he’s not ready.
°
“Have you called work yet?” his mom asks over breakfast on Wednesday.
“No, I was thinking I would do that today or tomorrow. I took a two-week vacation, so I don’t have to rush. Setting up something like this will take a little time and negotiation, though.”
“All right. I have an appointment on Monday, so we’ll see Dr. Schroeder and you can meet him.”
“Great. What time?”
“Ten. I’m sure you’ll have questions. You can keep me company for this round.”
“I’ll have to buy a binder,” Milo says. She laughs and taps his foot with hers under the table.
“That’s my boy. Ready to organize everything.”
Milo smirks. “Speaking of which, we should break out the books soon. Have you found help yet?”
“Yes, Kathy and Emma will be helping. They’re gonna come tomorrow and we’ll work out pay and hours and everything.”
“Then you and I should sit down tonight.”
“What’s the rush there?”
“Mom, how will you know what to pay them if you don’t look at your income? If you don’t plan ahead based on bookings?”
“God, honey.” She sips her coffee to hide a smile.
“Who are Kathy and Emma anyway? How old are they? Do we trust them?”
“Yes,” she says, outright laughter lacing her tone. “Kathleen Jones? She’s Ted’s wife.”
“Oh,” Milo says, then winces. “I forgot; crap.”
“And Emma is the Kipplings’ youngest. I don’t know if you’ve met them.”
“Doesn’t sound familiar. But we’ve established that I have a terrible town-related memory.”
She picks up his plate, and he puts a hand on her wrist, then takes the plate back. “Go rest. You look tired. I’ll do this.”
“Milo, you can’t baby me all the time.”
“Um, wrong. I think you’ll find that I can.” He puts his hand on her shoulder and gently turns her. Protest abandoned, she acquiesces, lies on the couch and smiles thanks when he brings her the book she’s been working through.
The dishes are dispatched quickly. When he comes to check on her she’s asleep, head pillowed at an angle against the arm of the couch. They’ve always been deep sleepers; he arranges her easily—she hardly weighs a thing. Over the back of the couch is a beautiful afghan she made when he was younger; it took her years of putting it aside and pulling it out to complete.
Milo sets up his computer in the kitchen after swinging the door closed, and composes a memo to one of his partners outlining his situation and potential outcomes, as well as a few contingency plans. He’ll have to propose a way he can work from home: There is plenty of work he can do remotely. He’d rather not take a sabbatical. He loves his work, loves the meticulous nature of it, the commitment to it that fills the empty spaces in his life.
There’s not much to leave behind in Denver. No pets, no current lover, no great attachment to his home. He’ll wait for the appointment with the doctor to make bigger plans, but begins to think about renting out his house. A small pain burrows in his stomach. It’s a loneliness he feels often when he’s making something complex in his state-of-the-art kitchen, when there’s only one place setting and only his thoughts to clutter it. It’s been a while since he’s had a lover or a boyfriend. He’s not great at relationships. Years of work and therapy, and he still finds himself always an
arm’s reach away, on the brink of trust that feels too big, too frightening. Trust—full trust—means giving someone the power to hurt you. He’s not good at vulnerability.
°
That night Shelby is pale and drawn. The air around her is thick with depression and weariness. Perhaps the weight of holding a secret is finally working its way out.
Milo pours over her books—mostly hand-written paperwork with little system he can discern. He resists the urge to ask how on earth she’s managed a business like this. She’s always had a survival magic he couldn’t understand.
“I’ll have to organize this before we can figure out pay,” he points out. He’s got his laptop open, QuickBooks at the ready.
“All right.” She’s breathing in the floral scent of her favorite loose leaf tea. He brought her some when he came home, knowing it wasn’t a thing she could get at Winslow’s, and that it’s an extravagance she’d never mail order for herself. With it he’d carefully packaged a new hand-painted teapot and a single-serve cup with a diffuser and a saucer. Pink-cheeked and lovely eyed, she carefully put them up on the display shelf in the kitchen where she keeps the cup and saucer sets her mother passed to her. Milo took them back down, cleaned them and set about making her a cup of tea.
“You’re too good to me,” she says, wrapping her arms around him from behind and tucking her face between his shoulders.
“I could never be good enough.” He drops the German rock sugar she loves into the cup.
“Oh, honey,” she says, voice thick with tears.
“None of that.” He turns and kisses her forehead. “Let’s watch some Bar Rescue. There’s a marathon.”
“How do you know all of my guilty pleasures?”
“Stealth,” he says and carries the tea for her.
°
Too soon Shelby loses interest in even her favorite TV show, wandering back to where Milo is still working through the books. She sets her tea down and hugs him from behind. She’s so small; Milo thinks about the care parents give their children that shifts as they grow, until it is the child’s time to care of the parent.
“Still burning the midnight oil?”
Milo laughs. “Hardly. It’s not even ten.”
She pours herself what water remains in the kettle and settles at the table across from him. “What can I do?”
“Go to sleep.” He doesn’t take his eyes off the computer screen, but can’t manage to ignore her sigh. “Seriously, Mom. I have this. In the morning we can go over it again. But you need sleep.”
“You’re babying me.”
“No,” he says, and takes her hand. “I’m loving you.”
°
Milo insists on stopping before Shelby’s appointment to buy a new binder and other organizing tools. He puts up with her teasing with smiles. “You know I can’t help it.”
“It’s adorable. Let’s buy you the four-pack of pens. You can color code your notes.”
“Shush, you,” he says, then picks up the pens with a smile. Some sides to him she’s never seen, but some she’ll always know because they’re second nature. He’s a facts-and-figures guy all the way.
Dr. Schroeder turns out to be a tiny, gray haired and naturally gentle man. Milo supposes his bedside manner is excellent comfort to his patients. It doesn’t comfort him, though. He imagines what it might take to be an oncologist, constantly delivering bad news. What’s the loss rate for an oncologist? He makes a note to look that up later, then crosses it out. Stress he has in spades at this moment. There’s no reason to add more by looking at numbers.
“I’ve checked with Nancy, and it looks like we’ll be able to do the surgery by June,” Dr. Schroeder says.
“So soon?” his mom says, paling.
“We don’t want to put this off, Shelby,” he says gently.
“I know, I know.” She puts a hand to her forehead. “It seems a lot more real when we’re talking about surgery.”
“I know.” Dr. Schroeder smiles carefully, then turns to Milo. “I see you have a notebook at the ready, young man. I’m assuming you have questions?”
“Actually, yes.” Milo flips to the list of questions he’s been making all week. His mother laughs softly.
°
They drive home in quiet. She has a classical station that she prefers on low. Milo finds it slipping through him and lulling him into an autopilot haze. The scenery blurs past him; for once he doesn’t observe it with resentment.
When they get home he makes her some tea and then laces up his shoes. “I’m going to go for a walk.”
“Good.” She’s burrowed under a blanket.
“I’ll turn down the AC,” he says when he sees her tuck it over her shoulders.
“No, don’t. I’m not cold. Just want some comfort,” she says, smiling up at him. He hesitates.
“I’ll stay home—”
“Milo, go. This is going to be hard on us both, and I know you need time to yourself. We both need to figure out ways to get through this as best we can.”
Milo pushes back the sweep of hair falling over her cheek and tucks it behind her ear.
“I’ll stop at Winslow’s on my way home. I feel like making a ‘spoil Mom’ dinner.”
“You don’t have to spoil me.”
“But I want to.” He kisses her cheek and turns toward the door.
°
The beach isn’t quite deserted. Tide is at its highest, covering the rocks and debris and a good portion of the sand where he usually sits. It’s overcast. Far down the beach a couple walks in the shallows, hands clasped.
Ted’s wife seems nice, and he’s promised to go to their house for dinner soon. They have a little boy, just over a year old. Kathy showed him pictures with that special pride only new parents have. Dylan is adorable, but in the generic way all young kids are. Milo is embarrassed to have put off reconnecting with someone he once knew very well for so long. He’s regaining his footing here, slowly, and he has faith he’ll be steady enough to renew old friendships as his new self. Ted is a new person now, too—an adult with a wife and a child and a home: all things Milo struggles to picture when the Ted he remembers was a smart-mouthed kid, a rabble rouser and their class clown.
It looks as if Milo will be home for a while, and the truth is he’s a little lonely. Back home in Denver, Milo’s begun to feel the empty spaces in his life friends can’t fill: here, he feels them in every way. Aching for something he can’t have is useless, and there’s no reason to punish himself by lingering over it. For now, a few friends while he’s here will do.
The water quiets him with its rhythmic movement. The tide starts to let out, and the sun peeks through scattering clouds. Milo is startled out of his calm when he hears a laugh peal down the beach. The couple he saw earlier is closer now, kicking water at each other in a playful game. He watches as they come closer, and as the sun makes a sudden brilliant appearance, he recognizes with a shock that he knows one of them.
Because one of them is Andrew.
chapter nine
Milo has to resist the urge to run when he sees Andrew stop stock-still in the water, not moving when his companion splashes him.
Milo closes his eyes and then pushes himself to stand. Sand clings to his pants and he takes a moment to brush it off, internally scrambling to figure out the protocol for this. Excitement mixes with panic. His heart is in his throat like an angry hummingbird, choking his breath. The seven years between them is a chasm he learned not to want to cross, much less approach, and now he’s suddenly on its edge.
“Wow,” Andrew says once they’re close enough to hear each other. His companion trails along, confusion clear on his face. Andrew has changed in the last few years, but subtly. His hair is blonder, long and deliberately tousled. He seems slightly taller, and his once long-limbed, almost too-thin frame has settled into something lithe and devoid of angles. “Um. Wow.”
Milo is equally eloquent. “You’re here?” He winces and shakes his head. “That wa
s dumb. Of course you’re here. I mean, um. Here.” He snaps his lips together. Andrew’s cheeks are a high pink.
“Same,” Andrew says.
“All right,” the man next to him kicks in. “We’ve established that we’re all here?”
“Oh, oops.” Andrew smiles at him, strained but familiar. “Um, Milo, Dex Howell. Dex, Milo.” His hand does a thing, the thing it does when he’s nervous. Milo swallows hard. It’s a gesture he saw hundreds of times growing up. For a startling moment he feels young again. He gathers himself enough to reach out a hand to shake.
“Milo, huh?” Dex says. His eyebrows lower, then he smiles. He must know who Milo is: that expression was clear. Next to each other they seem night and day; Dex is black haired and brown eyed, stockier than Andrew and shorter than them both. They shake hands, both putting a little too much strength in it. He thinks of the picture they made, silhouettes against the sun, playing on the beach. Andrew’s lover? Partner?
“I’m stuck at wow,” Andrew says then. Milo shoots him a look. This is probably the most awkward Milo has ever felt. He wonders wildly what happens now. Talking? Sitting in the sand and reminiscing? Walking away and pretending this never happened? Andrew here in Santuit was not a possibility he’d considered. His mom would have told him if she’d known, right?
“Are you visiting your mom?” Andrew says. They all squint against the sun, which bursts through the clouds again.
“Yeah.” Milo is not about to go into details. Not when the air is this thick between three people who are two-thirds strangers. Andrew’s skin is darker than Milo remembers; it’s still tan, even coming out of a long winter and late spring. He still looks younger than his age, but he’s no longer boyish.
“I thought you usually had her come out to you?” Andrew says, then looks away. The admission that he knows such a thing is startling.
“Change of pace, I guess,” Milo lies. The words stick uneasily.
