Sunrise Fires

by LaBarge, Heather

  Chapter Fifteen

  I drove away from Las Vegas and left that old life behind. As I reached the outskirts of the city, I caught a glimpse of the San Diego offices of Ryan’s package delivery company; I didn’t even flinch. A new life awaited me here, and it began at the beach. I checked in on my condo first, ensuring that closing was still on schedule for three days from now. And then I went to the beach. I did have a hotel room, but I only went there when the chilly California night air chased me from my respite on the sand in front of the ocean. The sound of the waves was cleansing and soothing. They would become the backdrop to my personal peace.

  I spent those three days on the beach under an oversized umbrella. I suppose that as I walked out onto the beach, people thought I might be lost carrying an umbrella nearly the size of the ones that go in the center of yard furniture dining tables. I’d bought it especially for the beach, though. It was colored like a traditional beach ball: red, yellow, blue, interleaved with white. It made me happy to sit under it and let the sun work its way around me while capturing and amplifying the ocean in its concave top. I arrived at the beach mid-morning each day and spread my blanket, and then set up my umbrella, arranging it for the best sun blockage. I was able to set the umbrella on the ground so that it was partially a sand blocker as well. It created a little cavern of tranquility for me to spend the day. I read books and wrote. I sat for hours and simply listened to the ocean. I’d snack on trail mix or a sandwich I’d brought, and then I’d nap—the best most decadently battery-recharging naps I could possibly envision.

  And maybe I’d wade in the wet sand, just letting the waves lap at my feet and ankles, taking in the sun and the breeze, and watching others walking or playing along the beach as well. If people were too numerous, I’d make a note to try a different beach the next time so that the ocean and I and the gulls could have some private time. Usually, though, it was a perfect mix of people, sun, sand, breeze, gulls, and waves. And by the time I was seeking solitude, people were leaving for dinner. I’d leave, too, but come back after I had eaten or maybe come straight back with dinner in hand. Then I would leave the umbrella in the car and simply walk along the beach with my windbreaker on, enjoying the sound of the ocean surging in my direction, only to lightly caress my feet.

  Sunsets were breathtaking. I’d learned to appreciate them the same way that I used to love the beach sunrises with Ryan. The hues of red and orange changed the entire beach ambiance; they indicated that the day was ending, that the sun was slowly sinking away. It was as if the colors clung to the sky, holding on for as long as possible and finally fading to twilight’s blues and purples before the sun eventually lost the fight to the night. The gulls sought silent refuge and left me alone with the waves and the sand, now quickly chilling to something far less inviting. At last I would give up, too cold to stay another minute and too tired.

  Even after I closed on my condo, I kept up the ritual when time and scheduling allowed. The beach was my best new companion. Sure, there was work and, yes, dates too, but the beach had become my muse.

  Work was a willing and insistent companion and would take all my time if I let it. The offices in San Diego were barely even rented when I arrived, so there was furniture to order and janitorial staff to hire, office supplies to purchase and signage and logos to hang. If this were to be our international corporate office, I would make sure that clients would not be disappointed when they come through these doors.

  When it came to spending time with people, I found that the good ol’ American boys whom I thought would be able to win my heart were as disappointing as the dates I’d had in Germany. Small talk was too small and empty. Intelligent conversation fizzled to talk of work and other trite topics. Awkward silences were common, and I was quick to refuse a second date. Maybe I needed time to just be by myself. Maybe I was destined to be single.

  * * *

  For the first few weeks, I lived in my condo with nothing more than an air mattress and my suitcases. It didn’t matter; I was happy there. From my parking lot, I could smell and hear the beach. And one flight of steps later, I was stepping into my flat. As the door opened, the entire place really lay out in front of me.

  From the front door, I could see directly through the living spaces and right out the balcony to the ocean. It was the selling point of this place for me. I sat on that balcony most nights and let the ocean sing my lullaby before reluctantly traipsing off to my air mattress to sleep just enough so that my work would not suffer the next day. My first purchase for the new place was actually a set of balcony chairs and a small table to set between them.

  While I was in Germany, I’d given Kelsea a short list of “mandatory amenities” to be aware of as she looked at all the listings I emailed her; one of them was a balcony with an ocean view. She had done exceptionally well in that department. And even though I purchased the place for the beach location and loved the balcony the most, the rest of the condo was truly well-appointed as well. I felt lucky to have found such a place. The kitchen, tucked in to the left by the front door, had mahogany cabinets, granite countertops, and a stainless steel sink and appliances. The sink was in a kitchen island that doubled as a breakfast bar, allowing the kitchen to be open to the remainder of the condo. And the living/dining area was carpeted in Berber and capped with crown molding. The bedroom sat off to the side through a door cut in the wall between where the dining room and living room would roughly be split. There was, of course, a guest bath and laundry, and it even had a built-in desk nook near the front.

  I shopped over the next series of weeks and bought a living room set, a dinette, and a master bedroom suite. Each set of furniture was modest and within my budget, just something to furnish the condo.

  In all, I had found my solace, my paradise at the beach.

  * * *

  When the boxes arrived from Germany a few weeks after I moved in, I was excited to give the condo a homier feel. The walls were bare and the place felt Spartan. I was ready to add signatures from my travels and make the space a reflection of myself.

  I opened the ‘functional’ boxes first: books and bathroom items, the things that I already had space set aside for. I put things away and flattened boxes as I went. I was surprised at the effect unpacking had on my mood. I was nostalgic about the time I had spent in Germany. Europe was an unforgettable place, and one that I looked forward to visiting over and over again. It was nice to revisit some of the things I had bought while I lived and touristed in that fairy tale playland. Each piece that I unpacked found a space in my new existence. They got a new start just as I was getting one. As I pulled even these basic items out of the boxes, I felt a tug at my heart pulling me back to my flat in Germany and to the memories I had made there.

  By the time the bathroom and bookshelves were stocked, I felt a sense of warmth and peace. Going to Germany was the right decision. It was a wonderful experience professionally and personally. And the part of it that Ryan owned was simply a part of life. Maybe he and I were never meant to be. Maybe we would have eventually broken up anyway. Well, maybe not.

  I giggled a little at my own self-talk and dragged another box off the stack, tearing the top open. It was from my bedroom. My heart stopped and, for a second, time stood still. My hands were suspended, gripping the edges of the box lid. And my eyes were glued to the few items at the top of the box: bedding, clothing, and my bedside lamp. Why was I instantly so close to tears? I shook my head, and then my body moved like a dog climbing out of the tub after a bath. Bah! Stop it, Jen, I chastised. It’s just stuff.

  I pulled the bedding out and looked at it. Just seeing it filled me with melancholy. I felt a deep core sadness, a desire to climb in bed, curl up, and cry. These sheets and comforter represented hours upon hours and days and days of crying, weeping, and mourning. The pillowcase was speckled from an accidental overbleaching once, and I swore that the pattern looked very much like the tear
stains from my pants that day in Venice. No, the sheets needed to go. I needed something more beachy and bright anyway. These colors were too heavy and drab. I tossed them into an empty box.

  My clothes came next. I stacked them into piles: now, for clothes I could wear any day; winter, for clothes I might wear again but not until it gets much colder; and probably never, for heavy parkas and clothes that I was no longer interested in. This last pile would go to the Goodwill early this coming week. I took the rest of the clothes and put them away in my new dresser or back into a box deep in the closet.

  I was down to the final few items in this box, the ones that dripped with bittersweet nostalgia. First was my journal at the bottom of the box, sitting alone, surrounded by writing utensils of varying types and styles. The pens and pencils lay there, aligned like a mass grave of the massacre hidden in the journal’s pages. I picked up the book, tear-stained and maltreated from countless nights of furious scribbling and crying, lamentations and rants, all bearing my pain in grueling detail. I held it in my hands, feeling the worn leather cover and binding. I thumbed through it, listening to the crackle of the tear-drenched and then dried pages. If I thumbed through fast enough, it sounded like applause coming from a distance. I didn’t care to read it; holding it was enough. The weight of it couldn’t have been more than a couple of pounds, and yet it felt so heavy that holding it made my shoulders sag and my breathing more labored. I got to my knees and grabbed all the pens and pencils in one determined fist. Moving quickly and with purpose, I took the book and the utensils that scribed it and banished them to the closet with those winter clothes.

  Returning to the box, I felt lighter somehow. I grabbed the box intending to tear it down when I felt the weight of something else shift inside. I peered inside, half afraid to see what was left: the phone. There at the bottom of that box was the old, useless, tattered, unreliable phone.

  I picked it up and held it to my mouth, thinking of Ryan. It felt smooth against my lips, the glass gliding effortlessly over my bottom lip, the metal less smooth, snagging on my upper lip where the power jack was. I stared into space, looking at nothing in particular, and reliving my five years with Ryan. It was true, we hadn’t met until after two years, but I counted those two years—they laid a foundation for what was to come. I chuckled to myself at how I used to so vehemently deny that those two years were worth anything. Amusing, I thought, how vastly different a little change in perspective can change the way you see something.

  As the phone slid over my lips, I remembered how good his lips had felt on mine—always warm and meaty. They told the story of his emotion, his drive, and his desire, and they always got me to comply, dragging me to depths of rapture that I’d not known before him nor since. Tears finally ran over my eyelash levies, and I pulled the phone away from my face, resting my head on my fisted hand. His hand used to be there, resting at my cheek, drawing me in, bringing me closer to him.

  I headed to the kitchen to get a glass of water, slurping it down without really thinking about anything in particular, except how suddenly thirsty I was.

  Setting the glass down on the counter, I looked at the phone again and stroked the glass face. How many times had I argued with this phone to stay on long enough to bring me his voice? Now, I rubbed my finger more slowly and tenderly over its surface, stroking it longingly, lovingly. I pressed the phone between my hands, like I was praying. I smiled. Turning my hands until they were parallel to the floor, I pressed on the top of the phone’s glassy surface. “I can tell how much you love me, I can feel it here…in your heart…” Tears streamed down my cheeks, and I thought about charging the phone up one last time, listening to him once more…for old time’s sake, hearing him tell me he loved me. I looked at it again, smiled, and kissed its glass face. Maybe another day.

  I put the phone in a drawer in the kitchen, rubbing the drawer face as I closed the phone inside.

  Maybe another day.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Summer turned to winter, and I was off to Naples. I spent the next six months getting Italy ready and making quick trips to London to see about the England groundbreaking scheduled for next summer. Time flew by, and my jet lag kept me sleepy or slightly tired often. I didn’t mind, it just prepared me for relaxing catnaps on the balcony, listening to the ocean heave in my direction, only to give up at the shore. I was happy. Alone but not lonely. Talia came to see me and so did Jackie. We never spoke of Ryan, though he was always in the back of my mind. I couldn’t bring myself to tell them that I had never messaged him. And neither of them ever asked.

  In the spring of the following year, I sat on the beach in Los Angeles. I never camped anymore; it’s no fun without someone to share it with. Instead, even though the beach outside my condo was amazing, I still made day trips to beaches I liked all along the coast from San Diego to the north side of LA. On this day, I had chosen Seal Beach in Los Angeles because it was quiet and somewhat secluded, which meant I could visit with the ocean and the gulls without getting smacked in the head by a Frisbee or having sand kicked up in my eyes by a wayward football catcher or kite flyer.

  I set up my blanket just after sunrise, upset that I’d forgotten my umbrella, but not dissuaded at all. I settled in to watch, feel, write, sleep, read, and accept what the universe was offering, even if it was the chattering company of the gulls demanding food I didn’t bring. I sat there feeling the ocean, smelling the salty air, smiling at and, yes, visiting with the gulls. I wrote a few inspired passages and a poem about my feelings as I sat feeling as tiny as a grain of sand compared to the size and magnitude of the ocean. The day passed as slowly as I could hope for. As the sun was high in the sky, I draped my spare T-shirt over my eyes and tried to nap a bit, the ocean singing my lullaby. Despite my sunscreen, I could feel my arms burning before the afternoon had fully blossomed, and I knew I needed to go. Besides, my lips were parched and tasted of salt, and my skin was tight and tingly, the first signs that I needed aloe immediately. I shook out my blanket, rolled it up, and bid the gulls adieu.

  When I got back to the parking lot, I saw someone leaning against my car. “Damn kids,” I muttered to myself. I expected they would move as I made it clear that I was heading for precisely that vehicle, so I pressed my key and the lights blinked. I knew this also meant that the doors had clicked unlocked, but the kid didn’t move. I adjusted my sunglasses and shielded my eyes, squinting to get a better look.

  He saw me and stood up, coming away from the car and heading in my direction. I stopped and stared, grimacing against the sun. And still he walked toward me. My breath caught in my throat. I knew the gait, I knew the frame, I knew that style of dress. I dropped my bag and keys and stood stock still, staring, tears streaming. My stomach turned to lead, my temples tingled and nervous perspiration dotted my forehead. The closer he got, the more I wanted to run. My stomach churned and roiled. My throat seized. I chewed on my lips, I rung my hands together and then tangled my fingers. I could not bend over and pick up the bag and keys. I could not run.

  I stood.

  He walked.

  I cried.

  He walked faster.

  I flinched as he got to me.

  He kissed me.

  Without a word, he kissed me full on the mouth.

  I couldn’t kiss him back through the tears. I couldn’t reach for him, couldn’t hold him. He broke away from the kiss.

  I stared at him, lips trembling, and eyes bleeding tears. “Ryan…?” I choked, my throat had my voice box in a vice grip.

  He rubbed my back. “Baby, what is it? Please, talk to me. Tell me you’re okay.” He waited. I stared. “Say something!” The tears stopped flowing; all I could do was stare. His words came to me through water, my ears hearing mostly the rush of my own blood through them. He picked up my bag and keys and led me by the elbow to my car. He fumbled through my bag, found my water bottle, and twisted off the cap. �
��Drink something, Jen. For God’s sake, drink something.”

  I took the water bottle with a trembling hand and brought it to my lips. Once the water reached my mouth, I gulped and gulped it down, swallowing mouthful after mouthful. When I had emptied the bottle, I finally looked at him again. “What are you doing here? And why are you just…here. Right here in the parking lot?” And regaining my senses a bit, I said, “And who said you could kiss me? And…” I started crying anew. My stomach continued to seize and clench. I turned away from him and promptly threw up half the water I had just downed. He reached into my bag to find something, but I snatched it from him. “I can take care of myself!” I sounded like a three-year-old in tantrums, but goddamn him for coming back after being gone so long. What was I supposed to do now? I was over him already. I had worked so hard to get past this, and here he was, staring me in the face. I wiped my mouth with my spare T-shirt and fumbled in the bag for some gum to get the taste of stomach acid out of my mouth.

  “My father died.” I looked up from my search, raising an eyebrow. “When I called you, he was ill…” Ryan’s voice was serious. Was he offering an explanation after all this time? Why didn’t he tell me that before? Things would have been so different if he would have just told me. “He was really bad…in the hospital. There was no way I could come to Germany knowing he might die.”

  “You didn’t tell me,” I suddenly felt terrible for not visiting his parents when I was home in Vegas last summer.

  “Jesus, Jen. I barely told you I wasn’t coming, and you hung up on me. You didn’t give me a chance to tell you.”

  “I dropped the phone…” I said angrily, feeling the heat of all my tied back emotions trying to spring forward. I was angry and resentful, but now I also felt guilty.