Summer's End

by Sally Henson

  “I still have four or five more years of school before I graduate college.” Why am I bothering? I know that tone. He's already made up his mind. “What will the economy look like in four years, Dad?”

  He shakes his head. “It could be better, or it could be worse.”

  “So—you don't know. Brilliant.” Yikes, that's a little too sassy.

  His lips spread into a thin line. “That’s enough. You will think about other options, Regan.”

  I manage to find the strength to sit up straight again. “Come on Dad, you—”

  He silences me with the slap of his hand on the table. “I said that was enough.” He doesn't want to hear anything else from me.

  Air rushes out of my lungs and across my lips leaving me hunched over. How can he do this to me? And Mom sits there and says nothing! I'll think about my options, all right. I’ll think about how far away I can get from this place. After staring out the window, and across the lawn for a while, sulking, I take the dishes into the kitchen to wash up, and finish the laundry I started earlier. It's dusk by the time I finish, and the blue moon will be out soon.

  I pad into the living room to address my parents where they sit and read. Mom usually has Dinah Washington or Diana Krall playing in the background. “There's a blue moon tonight. I probably won't be able to see it from the patio or gazebo. Would it be alright to go to the creek?” I don't expect any pushback for wanting to be outside tonight, but want to get permission after the conversation we had earlier. One thing's for certain, I don't want to hang around here and encourage the dream-killing spree.

  “Sure, sweetie,” Mom replies. “Make sure you spray for mosquitoes.”

  Dad looks up over his cheap reading glasses. “Be careful.”

  “I will.”

  “Are you working tomorrow?” Dad reminds me. It's really a warning so I won't stay out too long.

  “Yes.” I give short answers, in order to keep my facade and get out of here faster. I walk out the door and spray down. The trees around the house keep the moon from being clearly visible, as I knew it would. After some time to myself, I gather everything I need from the house.

  10

  No. No. No. Tears start streaming down my face, as soon as I make it to the path. Stop crying! Stop being a drama queen. I've cried more in the last week than I have the last ten years. I wipe my wet face on the blanket and begin to run, sprinting to the end, hoping to leave behind my dad's words and the darkness they bring to me, to my future. My focus turns to the sound of my step, the whooshing in and out of my breath, and the faint sonata being played by nature's orchestra—anything to rid me of these thoughts, this shadow that’s trying to swallow me.

  I burst through the finish line of trees and find myself in the middle of the waterfront plain. Glistening with sweat and relief, I deliberately take in my surroundings with a three-sixty view, like a little girl showing off her new dress, twirling in circles.

  Breathtaking. Everything from the small clover blossoms to the leaves of the trees is glowing with silvery light. Light brilliant as day and soft as night. A current of air swirls and wicks away some of the salty moisture from my skin, goose bumps rise instead. A faint wow escapes my lips at the sight of the creek water. Gingerly moving closer to the water's edge and leaning over, I see a perfect reflection outstretched before me. The blue moon's silvery light has created a mirrored effect on top the water.

  For minutes on end, I stare at the mirrored surface, admiring the reflections, and mesmerized by the moon itself. The satellite's dimples and splatters, shades of darkness and light, show perceptible details of the abundant collisions it's endured from cosmic debris. I've been standing here motionless for so long a bullfrog comes out of hiding and jumps into the water, sending ripples throughout my mirror. I'd set the lantern and blanket on the bench on my way to the water. It's time to spread it out and gaze at the beauty surrounding me.

  I lie back with ankles crossed and hands clasped behind my head—eyes to the heavens. The dark cloud of my dad's words I sprinted away from has tracked me here, wrapping itself around my torso like a boa constrictor. Why is Dad jumping on this realistic career bandwagon? He doesn't normally follow the crowd. His love of nature is what spurred my exploration of marine science. On our walks in the woods as a little girl, with my brother and Mom, he was always teaching about plants and trees. I turn on my side and curl into a ball trying to hold myself together. He’s the one who taught me what plants were poisonous, which were edible, which one’s animals ate, all that stuff. He explained how the circle of life works, and that nature is God's amazingly complex, yet simple, creation. He even took notes in a journal about the changes he saw. Still, to this day, he takes water samples from the creek and sends them off for testing to check the chemicals and their concentrations.

  Dad should’ve been a biology teacher or something. Marine science isn't that different from walking through the woods, taking notes and samples in rural Stelmo, Illinois. Swap the country roads and woods for beaches and oceans, and I'm on the Gulf Coast. My body is heavy with the thought of defeat. This isn't some new career of the month. I've been talking about this since I saw an old Jacques Cousteau documentary on television when I was in seventh grade. I wrap my thumb in my shirt and wipe the tears away. In the past, Dad's always encouraged my thirst for knowledge about all science. I don't understand why he thinks it’s unrealistic. I'm just—so surprised, and hurt. It's like a slap across the face. I snuff. An actual strike across my cheek would hurt less than him turning his back on me like this. My chest feels like he's standing on it right now.

  Tears begin to well up again. No crying. I slam my palms against my lids and wipe the dampness from my lashes. I need to be strong. My eyes pop open, and I force oxygen and positive thoughts into my body. With my teeth clenched, I blow out the toxic air and negativity until my lungs squeeze every possible ounce of air out. The combination of rancid gossip mixed with the fear of not getting out of here and the wavering support from my Dad of about my future has this knot in my chest feeling extra painful. Yes, I need something beautiful in my life right now, something positive. There's beauty hanging in the sky above me. My blue moon. I know it’s not enough, but it’s all I have now.

  There's something about a full moon that seems so pure and romantic. Add a little science and it’s irresistible. In the middle of this beauty, I know the ugly shadow of pain is written all over my face. If I keep going through the science of the moon, maybe I’ll stop hurting. Scientists and astrologers often referred to the moon as feminine. The moon is well-represented in mythology, too. Selene or Artemis is the goddess of the moon for the Greeks. Roman mythology's goddess of the moon is Luna or Diana. That's why scientists also call the moon, Luna—hence the term, lunar eclipse.

  The boa constrictor has released me, and I roll on my back to see the moon again. What I like the most about the moon is that it can always be counted on showing up at its scheduled time. It’s dependable. Twenty-nine-and-a-half days from today, there will be another full moon. And on occasion, there will be two full moons in one month. That's where the term blue moon derives. The moon isn't actually blue. Tonight's silvery light, however, is exceptional.

  The sun rays bouncing off this giant rocky sphere are a filtered, dispersed, softened spotlight shining on me. It's bright enough I need to give my eyes a break, even without using binoculars or a telescope. I lower my lids shut and explore what my other senses are telling me. Inhaling deep through my nose—the rich damp earth hangs in the air tonight. I can taste it as I breathe it in, like smoke rising from the floor of the land and the creek. A bit of honeysuckle lingers, too. Honeysuckle vines grow tightly bound around a fence line across the creek, stretching toward the bridge. It’s sweet and summery and releases my clenched muscles. The scent of foliage coming from the woods reminds me of greenery from a flower shop. But the thickness of fresh-cut hay and balm of tall field corn are the most robust scents tonight.

  A current of air inter
mittently brushes my skin. The mixed grass and weeds press unevenly against my back underneath the blanket, but it’s not uncomfortable. As for the sense of sound, an owl: a Great Horned owl calls, who, who, whoooo in the distance, hunting insects and small prey that dare to venture out on this clear night. And off amongst the floor of the woods is a rustling of a tiny rodent scurrying from cover to cover. The weight I carried here is gone. I'm conscious of the trickle of the lazy flowing creek, but most prominent are the sounds of crickets and frogs of all kinds making sweet music.

  My lids open and close in a slumber. I wonder what effect a full moon has on the beaches of the Gulf of Mexico. Will the waves, rushing up on my toes embedded in the finely ground shells, hold warmth from the sunshine? Is the air ripe with salt from the ocean? Is the breeze cool or warm? Will I be able to see for miles across the water lit by the full moon? See its reflection elongated across the waves? How I long to be a part of such surroundings. Is this just a romantic dream? It seems my parents may not support my career choice after all. Can I do this without Lane or Tobi, hundreds of miles away from here? My God, I hope so.

  My mind swings back to the sandy beach at sunset. The warm, soft, white sand is still under my feet and between my toes. I sit on a beach towel, swimsuit on. My hair is over my shoulder, the way Lane swaddles it sometimes. Out in the water; skin the color of honey glistens, kissed by the melting sun. A young man with a long, lean swimmer's physique in turquoise swim shorts walks toward me. His hair, longer than a swimmer usually keeps, is dark with sun-bleached streaks through it. The orange ball of fire is in just the right position where I can't make out his face. Lane has swim shorts like that, but that isn't his body and his hair is lighter than this.

  He's getting closer. I hear his footsteps and voice. “Regan.” He knows my name. “Regan.” That voice sounds familiar. “Miss Stone.” I open my eyes, and my heart sinks. It wasn't real. I'm in Illinois, exactly where I dozed off. A moonbeam spotlight shines brightly in my eyes. I still hear footsteps, though, and quickly sit up. Radiant silvery-white light emanates from a beautiful angel gliding toward me. I'm still dreaming. My mouth opens in awe, following his stature and gait. This angelic creature produces an airy gust. Blinking, I search for his face raising my hand to block the light from my eyes. A flush of embarrassing heat runs through me, probably turning my color beet red, even in this hallowed light.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” he says so softly, still angelic with moonlight highlighting his features.

  “Lane.” I'm a little shaken. I know it's silly, but I'm having some sort of dream or out-of-body experience when he brings me out of unconsciousness. He reaches me and finds a spot on the blanket close to me. A smile slowly spreads across his parted lips. I can't help myself as my eyes take him in head to toe and back again. His eyes briefly look down at the space between us. He is so ... “handsome.” He flashes a full-fledged heart-palpitating, dimple-ridden, open-mouth smile. His chest rises as he opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He licks his lips and rubs them together. My throat thickens and I try to swallow it down.

  Lane lowers his head closer to mine. “Thank you.” His voice is a deep hum that triggers butterflies in my stomach.

  My eyes open wide. Did I say that out loud? Oh, I didn't mean to say that out loud, even though it’s more than true. This blue moon is affecting my thought processes. Heat spreads from my neck to my ears. I try to look away, but I can't tear my eyes away from him.

  The light-colored chinos he's wearing are radiant white in the silvery moonlight. The sleeves are rolled up on his off-white long-sleeved shirt. It has an embroidery-embossed, masculine design. It looks like he's shining rather than reflecting the silvery moonlight. His sandy hair is glowing. I wish I'd never allowed myself to admit I’m attracted to him. But I think it's too late. I can't help staring at him right now. He'd likely call it gazing since he's doing the same thing to me.

  His giant smile turns to something more ardent. “You're so beautiful,” he says in a tone that multiplies my butterflies. His hand reaches out to touch my cheek but stops. My gaze locks with his, then down to his hand on the blanket between us. He's never said that to me before. Does he really think that? He looks at the moon and turns enthralled and purrs, “Puteulanu Luna,” watching particles of light dance on my skin with his crystalline blues.

  “Something moon?” I hear the words come out of my mouth, but I'm transfixed by this incandescent moonbeam aura surrounding him.

  Catching my eyes with his, he breathes the words again. “Puteulanu luna. It’s Latin for blue moon.” Such beautiful words roll off his tongue. “Its light is doing amazing things. Your eyes—.”

  My lips relax with a timid smile. “You look so … angelic.” My eyes move back and forth between his. “It's like I'm seeing you for the first time.” My voice is a breathy whisper. This honesty is unnerving. I'm not even sure if I'm saying this out loud. How’d I get out of breath? My body moves, inching closer to him. Not that there was much space between us, to begin with. The atmosphere surrounding us is—wow.

  Leaning in closer still, I want to touch his lips. I stop, pull back, blinking my way back to alertness. I try taking a few deep breaths to get some oxygen to my brain without him noticing. Instead, I smell his cologne drifting my way. He smells so good. Is it getting warmer out? I lie back, blowing a puff of air out when my back hits the ground. Next thing I know he's unbuttoning his shirt. “What are you doing?” I don't think I can take his shirtlessness right now.

  Lane turns back with his half grin and secret-sharing eyes. “It's a little warm don't you think?” He continues to take it off, causing a waft of cologne to find me. Whew, he has an undershirt on. It's not much better, though, thin and skin tight. I need to change the atmosphere somehow and get rid of this fog clouding my judgment.

  I try to catch my breath and clear my throat before I speak. “How was dinner?” The words rush out in a nervous flood. He, however, takes his time, props himself on his side next to me. Saying nothing, his eyes are intent as an artist sketching his subject. And he still looks amazing.

  “Delicious.” He gives a leisurely one-word answer.

  Get a grip, Regan. I clasp my hands together in a death grip. “You look so fancy." Where’d you eat?” I admire his attire again, at least what I can see from my perspective, but try not to linger.

  He reaches for a piece of my hair that fell out of my braid, causing his cologne to swirl into my nostrils again. It has a subtle muskiness that triggers a desire to plant my face in his neck and drink in the scent. My breathing grows ragged. What is wrong with me?

  “Firefly.” He, at last, imparts another one-word answer as he pulls the rubber band out of my hair, gently unweaving my braid with his fingers, playing with it as he does sometimes. Luna's light is doing amazing things. My lids close and I try to breathe. Mmm, I've never noticed he wore cologne before. Tonight, his fragrance lingers in the air, just a hint—a trail to be followed. It's driving me insane!

  I roll on my side and reach my hand, a little unsure, to trace his brow that highlights his captivating blue eyes, to his sandy hair, and down the outline of his handsome face. He's real. This is real. I'm behaving too boldly, too reckless for my liking. I lower my hand, but Lane draws it back up, placing my palm against his mouth for a soft kiss. My heart melts and goes haywire at the same time. Drawing in a breath, he slides my hand back to caress his cheek as he presses into it. My palm must be the only part of my uncovered skin that doesn't smell like bug spray. But Lane … Lane smells only of enticement.

  “Lane,” I whisper breathlessly. My touch. His touch.

  “Hmm,” he sings back to me. He looks so vulnerable, and tender, opening his heart up to me without even speaking. His eyes, now open, usually crystalline and light, are dark and deep, highlighted in silver light and shadows. I want to kiss him, feel his lips on mine. I ache for it in my core. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. I can't let myself.

  Leaving my p
alm against him, he traces my arm with his hand sliding it over my shoulder finding my hair. I glide my hand past his cheek and through his hair, pulling us closer, and I bury my nose in his flesh just below his ear. Still fighting to breathe—fighting for control, I take in the musky virile scent swimming on his skin. We both shiver.

  I force the weak air across my vocal cords. “You smell nice.” I breathe. “I want to ….” My lips move close to his skin, unable to say more.

  He keeps his cheek against my hair. “It's okay.” It's okay echoes in the silence. We’re still—together—unmoving. When I begin to stir in his arm, he pulls away, stroking the strands of hair away from my face.

  I don’t know what Lane sees in my eyes, but he looks at me for a long time. My heart swells, not with pain, but with the realization, I have the beauty I craved earlier. Lane is that beauty, and I’m a little overwhelmed.

  “Let me hold your hand for a while.” I’m grateful and proud that he didn't try to push me to kiss him. He reaches for my hand. “I'll tell you about dinner.” I clasp my fingers in his with an excited contentment—if that's possible. He lies back, and I follow his lead. Mirrored images, free hand behind our heads, legs stretched and crossed at the ankles.

  He tells me about his awesome diner, what the restaurant looked like inside, about the wraparound dinning porch, and the pond with Koi fish among water grasses. He fills me in on his dinner conversation, and I fill him in on mine. He shares my dad's questions about the cliff pictures when he came to the house tonight. A twinge of pain grabs ahold of me. Dad doesn't believe me. We talk about getting out of here, about college.

  Puteulanu luna has reached its full height and is on the downward set.

  “I don't suppose our parents would let us stay out here all night.”

  “Doubtful. Though, my dad obviously trusts you more than he does me. I still can't believe that he thought I was lying about the pictures.” Tears well up, but I'm able to sniff them back. I can't let Stacey ruin what has ended up being an amazing night. Two more years of gossip girl, and I'm gone.