by Lindy Zart
Tears pool in the corners of my eyes and slide down my face. I brush them away, but more quickly replace the hastily removed ones. My throat is tight and I can’t see around the blur of tears, but I don’t need to see to know where I’m going. My feet know the way.
Small pebbles graze the soles of my bare feet as I cross the street and turn a corner, stopping to gaze at the empty park. It looks dull and plain, but that is a misconception. I’ve found the most extraordinary things are found where you least think they will be. Like this love I cannot be released from—it started with a smile between two young children—so simple, so insignificant, and yet the start of something incredible.
The merry-go-round calls to me. It’s uneven and rickety and feels like home as I sit down on the cold metal, Mia’s borrowed dress hiking up my thighs. The playground equipment slowly spins; the trees and structures around it turning into one long stream of substance. I let my head fall back, closing my eyes, and recline on my elbows. Grayson and I used to play here, taking turns pushing each other on the merry-go-round, seeing who could make the other one feel sick first. I’ve never been able to replicate the innocent fun of my childhood, nor the carefreeness. I know it isn’t just because I was so young, but also because I was with Grayson.
I smile as I remember the time he pushed me too hard and I wasn’t holding on tight enough. I flew off, landing on my back in the grass. The air was knocked from my lungs, but I was otherwise unhurt. Still, I was scared, so of course I cried. He hugged me, apologizing repeatedly. That was kind of how it always went with us—if one of us was sad or upset, the other felt it just as intensely and wanted to take it away. Tears slide down the sides of my face, but they aren’t all sad.
“What are you thinking about?”
I go still, the smile sliding from my face. The voice is soft, male, and deep—deeper than I recall. It stirs something profound inside me, something that has been asleep for far too long, evoking the remembered feel of whispered words on my skin and gifted lips claiming mine. Goosebumps form on my flesh and a longing so deep that I have a hard time breathing overtakes me. I had to have imagined that voice, and yet the racing of my pulse is proof I did not. I am almost too afraid to open my eyes, but curiosity forces me to.
I sit up and my gaze collides with Grayson’s, my eyes drifting up. “You got your eyebrow pierced,” I blurt, this the first intelligible thought I have, which is a big fail.
“I did.”
He’s standing near the merry-go-round, his head cocked to the side, the moon reflecting in the lenses of his glasses and hiding his eyes from me. The need to touch him is too much and I dig my fingers into the palms of my hands to keep from doing so. It’s hard to accept that he is actually in front of me, watching me in that intense way of his.
My eyes start at the tips of his artfully messy hair, trail down his prominent eyebrows and firm nose, past his chiseled lips and square jaw, and end on his dark eyes. I want to kiss him. Yearning to do so tingles my lips. I ache for him to crush me in his embrace and hold me and never stop holding me.
“I—” I stop, swallow, and bite my lip. I don’t know what to say to him. This boy I grew up with is a stranger. And he’s not even a boy anymore. I feel like crying and I don’t entirely know why. Is it because I miss him or because I’m happy to see him? Or do I feel like crying because I can never have him again? My chest is squeezing just from looking at him and I can’t stop looking at him.
“Must have been something good.”
“What?” I whisper, having no idea what he’s talking about. What did he say to me?
Shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans, he says, “Whatever you were thinking about when I showed up. It must have been good. And I doubt it was about the sexy barbell in my eyebrow. Although, I'm sure masses of women have devoted substantial amounts of time daydreaming about it.”
Trying to wrap my mind around this moment, the insignificant words we’re having like we talk every day, and that he is near me as he so often used to be, is proving difficult. I scoot to the edge of the playground equipment and stand on shaky legs. The distance between us is mere inches and yet it seems so much greater, like the span of regret and heartache has forged an unapproachable and unsafe bridge dividing us.
You can do this. Relax. Act natural.
“Nothing like a metal rod jabbed through your skin to give women fantasies,” is the best I can come up with.
A small smile flashes across his mouth as he responds, “You'd be surprised by how little it takes.”
I don't think I would be, actually. I raise a hand to brush a stray hair from my face and it is captured in his. I look at him studying our joined hands with his head bowed, his hand so much larger than mine. His hand is warm, rough, and familiar. A brief squeeze is all he allows us before letting it go. I unconsciously bring my arm to my midsection, cocooning the linger of his touch within my other hand.
“How’ve you been, Lily?” he asks in a low voice.
The intense heat of his eyes scorches me, pulls me to him, tells me I am a fool for ever thinking, even for one moment, that I would ever get over him.
“Good,” I rasp, clearing my throat.
I’ve been wonderful, ecstatic, never better—dreaming of you, longing for you, thinking of you every single day, missing you, hating you, loving you, regretting everything I did and everything I didn’t do.
Watching you from afar, wanting to be with you at the same time wishing I’d never met you—wondering if you’d moved on, if you loved another, and if so, did they deserve your love? Did they treat you well? Did you think of me?
When you kiss them, am I there too? Or am I nothing, gone, a memory, and one you wish you no longer had?
Do you ever miss me?
Do you love me still?
“Good,” I repeat in a stronger voice.
Half his mouth tips up. “Really? You look ill. Kind of pale, with this ghastly, sick expression on your face.”
He’s joking with me. We haven’t spoken in two years and he’s joking with me? I stare at him, feeling my heart crack, surprised to find there is any whole part left to splinter. I am unbelievably saddened by this. If he’s joking with me, like we’re buddies, like nothing other than friendship ever happened between us, it means he really has moved on.
Some part—some tiny, stupid part—of me hoped he still cared for me, that maybe he wasn’t over me like I can’t get over him. I can't think this way, not about any of it. I need to stay in control. I need to act like he is. Maybe if I pretend long enough that I am all right, I will start to believe it.
“Well, you know, ghosts from the past and all that.”
“Huh,” he grunts.
“What are you doing here?” I ask as I reach down for my heels.
“Nice shoes.” Again there is the half-smile—just a flash of it, just enough to draw my attention to his mouth. “Would you believe me if I said, I don’t know?”
I straighten. “You don’t know why you’re in Fennimore or you don’t know why you’re at the park?”
He removes his glasses and rubs an arm across his forehead, a totally Grayson move that makes my stomach swoop, before resituating his glasses on his face. “Megan set it up for Thrush to play here. I had no idea until a few days ago. As far as the park…” He turns his gaze to me. “The band is taking a twenty minute break. I needed to leave the concert and my feet led me here.”
I want to ask who Megan is. I want to ask if he knew I was here, if he saw me leave the concert, or if he followed me. Maybe he just knew I would be here. Maybe I’m romanticizing a meeting that is perfectly coincidental. Instead of mentioning any of the things I really am thinking, I say a soft farewell as I begin to walk away. Because, really? What is there to say?
“Nice to see you too!” he shouts after me, his tone mocking, angry.
“Why are you yelling at me?” I demand, swinging around to confront him.
“Because you're just...walking away.”
/>
“What else am I supposed to do?”
Confusion has claimed his features. Grayson sighs. “I don't know.”
“Okay then. Good night.” I turn to leave once more.
“I’ve been great,” he calls after me. “Thanks for asking. Haven’t missed you a single minute of any day! Haven’t even thought of you. What was your name again? I completely forgot!” His voice is farther away, but no less rough with emotion.
I am to the sidewalk now, just beyond the park. In my mind, I see us as a braided circle with an interlaced pain that binds us and neither of us is able to break it. That’s the thing with Grayson and me—we tend to eradicate all that should hold us together, and yet we can never really be free of one another. I should just keep walking. I don't know what he expects from me and I am not allowed to expect anything from him.
“Lily.” That one word is soft, beseeching, and wracked with anguish. It has the power to make me yield. I stand still, waiting with tense shoulders—for what, I don’t know. The air behind me warms, thickens, and I know Grayson is close, just inches from me. “I didn’t mean any of that.”
I face him, exasperation clear in my voice as I tell him, “I realize that. You tend to say things you don't mean when you're upset.”
He blinks at me.
I shrug. “Just keeping it real. But I don't understand why you would be upset.”
“You just...you were going to leave without even really talking to me and that hurt, I guess.”
“Well, you were joking around with me like we're buddies when we haven't talked for two years. What was I supposed to think about that?”
We stare at each other. I am trying to get my fill of a limitless need to look at him.
“I don't know,” he finally answers.
“Clear and concise. I like it.”
He snorts, but makes no comment.
The ensuing silence is broken when he asks, “How are you, really?”
We are standing under a streetlamp and I catch the mesmerizing glow of his brilliantly blue eyes. I’ve missed looking into his eyes. Hunger for his sweet face has me captivated and I cannot tear my eyes away.
“I’m okay, Grayson.”
He nods his head, glancing down before meeting my gaze once more. “Going to school?”
“Yeah. I’m on summer break now.” This inane conversation seems so wrong, though the awkwardness between us is undeniable.
“I heard. Dental assistant?” His tone is even, but I catch something just below the pleasantness of it. Disapproval maybe.
“No. Administrative assistant. I just help out with assisting sometimes,” I reply shortly. “I need to get home. I’m tired. It was good seeing you.” No it wasn’t. It was painful. I almost wish he had stayed away, never returning to Fennimore, never reappearing before me.
“Maybe we can get coffee or something sometime while I'm here? Catch up?”
“Maybe.” I don't think it will happen. It would be hard to be near him with the barrier of the past between us.
This time when I try to leave, he is silent, letting me go.
SUNDAY I FIND MYSELF SITTING on the porch of the red two-story house I grew up in, coffee mug in hand, eyes locked on the house across the street. I don’t know what I’m doing. Well, I kind of do. I know I have done nothing but think of Grayson for the last few days, thinking of different scenarios that could have made up our reunion and did not, wishing I could see him again, and fearing I will. So there’s that. But I don’t know why I’m putting myself in close proximity to his old house. It has no purpose.
Sometimes the things we do, feel, and even think, aren’t all that logical—like Grayson and me. Separately we are okay, but together we are a mess. And yet we don’t manage all that well on our own either. It is madness. Maybe that’s what love is—a little touch of insanity that makes us do and say things we otherwise wouldn’t.
Henry Jacobs, or Dad as I call him, quietly sits beside me in an adjoining white wicker chair, comforting me with his presence, which is all I need and he knows it. My dad doesn’t talk unless he has to. It’s kind of nice—peaceful. Only I know he feels like he has to talk, and so when he speaks I manage to keep the sigh inside.
“What are you doing here, Lily?”
“Drinking your coffee.” I lift the cup to my lips and sip the strong brew.
“You don’t have coffee at your apartment?”
I glance at my dad. He’s about five feet six of wiry muscle and hard features, his hair dark like mine, his eyes an indefinable shade between blue and gray, also like mine. He looks back, eyebrows raised as he waits.
“Maybe I want to enjoy your company.”
“You can enjoy my company any Sunday of the month, and yet, you don’t.”
“Hey.” I bump my shoulder to his. “Sure I do.”
His smile is thin and says he’s on to me and my ulterior ways. “It has nothing to do with Grayson being home?”
I bolt upright, sloshing coffee on my pale blue top. “He’s still here? Is he staying at his dad’s? Have you seen him?” I ask hurriedly, chewing on the inside of my lip the moment the words leave my mouth. Slowly sitting back, I avoid the burn of my father’s shrewd gaze as he gleans more about my current feelings than I want him to.
“Charlie stopped over yesterday, mentioned he performed at the firemen’s fundraiser Friday night. That’s the only thing I know about any of it. But you obviously know more. Did something happen?”
“No,” I say quickly, shooting to my feet when a black and blue motorcycle roars down the street and parks before the house on the other side of the road.
The body hugging the bike is tall, lean, and clothed in faded dark jeans and a thin black leather jacket. A boot kicks the stand down and the motorcycle leans slightly to the left. I am to the railing and clutching it between my hands without realizing it, watching with bated breath as hands reach up and remove the gleaming black helmet. A small sound leaves me as Grayson’s profile is revealed. Every time I see him it’s like my soul is reawakening from a deep, undisturbed slumber.
I note the missing glasses. Those glasses add a sexy smartness to him, but without them, his handsome face is striking. Certain faces have the ability to make you crave the sight of them—Grayson’s is one of those faces. The way his eyebrows slant, the blueness of his eyes and the thick eyelashes, the straightness of his nose, and the fullness of his lips—everything angled and constructed just right with his sharp cheekbones and square jaw. There is loveliness in the way all of his features mesh together.
This is a whole new side of him. He looks harder, wilder, and my body tightens with longing as I drink the sight of him in. There is something about the thinly veiled recklessness thrumming just beneath the surface of his composure that has always drawn me to him. Even when he was close to losing control of his emotions, I was pulled to him. I wanted that volatile heat and fire turned on me. I wanted it to burn me and consume me with its intensity. And it did…for a moment.
Grayson always reminded me of a predator pretending to be docile, or trying to change into something it wasn’t, hoping it could cage the beast inside, change its outside and have its inside follow. He never thought he was good enough the way he was. He always thought he needed to be better. Now, staring at him, I can see the animal craving to take over, to be unrestricted.
I could tell just by looking at him the other night that there is so much he still keeps locked up inside him. It is there; in the way he stiffly holds his body, in the smile that doesn’t quite touch his eyes. He should never be ashamed of who and what he is. He has always been endearingly, perfectly flawed. Even in his darkest moments he was beautiful.
He glances my way as he gets off the bike, pausing. The sun masks his expression, but it doesn’t matter because almost immediately he is turning away from me and toward an approaching car. It’s dark blue, sleek, and expensive-looking. I don’t know what kind of car it is. I’ve never paid attention or cared about stuff like that
.
But I do care about the person that gets out of it. I do pay attention to her glossy auburn hair that waves down her back, the short black dress that skims her tanned and toned thighs, and the way Grayson wraps his arms around her like she is someone significant to him, someone he cares for greatly. Even with the distance between us I can see they are smiling, locked in one another’s arms like they are meant to be. I feel like an inconsequential interloper witnessing something meant to be private.
Turning my back to the painful scene, I catch my father’s knowing eyes. “You have coffee on your shirt. You should probably get that washed out before it stains.”
I redirect my gaze from his as I nod. At the door I look back once more, though I tell myself not to. He is gone. My chest squeezes, the ache of being nothing to someone you used to be everything to wiping away any semblance of peace. It was all a mirage anyway.
My mom forces eggs and toast on me the second I appear in the country-themed kitchen with wheat-colored walls and rooster decorations. “You look thin. Aren’t you eating enough?”
Georgia Jacobs is taller than me, which isn’t saying much, and plump. Her hair is light brown and short; the eyes currently trained on me a darker shade of brown than her hair. Her teeth are blindingly white from the at-home whitening kits she gets from the dental office we both work at. Scott takes after her in coloring, but luckily he didn't take after either parent in the height department. I got that.
“You say that every time you see me. I eat all the time, Mom, which you know,” I say with an inward eye roll.
“Ever since you moved out you haven’t looked right. I don’t think you’re getting enough vegetables. Maybe you should move back home.”
I pause with the plate full of food in hand. “I don’t eat vegetables, unless they are fried, or in a drink, like tomato juice. You know that. I’ve been out of the house for almost a year. You need to adapt. I’m not moving back home, which you also know. I think you should get a hobby. Maybe knitting?”
