Pocketful of Sand
Page 21
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I know his loss is something I can’t even fathom, but I am more curious than ever as to why he so regularly, so dogmatically erects these castles. Rain or shine, warm or cold, it seems he makes his monument no matter what.
Before I can stop her, Emmy is darting off down the beach toward him. He’s not as far away this time, so she reaches him before I can stop her.
His back is to us again, so he doesn’t see her standing behind him. He probably didn’t hear her either, the crashing waves coupled with the howling wind nearly deafening. I approach her and take her hand, holding my finger to my lips when she looks up at me. Not that she would say anything, but I want her to know that I’m being quiet, too. I feel like our presence encroaches on something deeply personal and intensely special, and I don’t want to intrude upon that.
The castle appears to be complete. It has six spires and turrets again, a hillside full of snowy trees and a mote protecting it all. There must’ve been some debris that had washed up because this one even has a drawbridge. I can’t imagine what time he must’ve come out here to finish it by lunch.
Before I can turn away, I see Cole stand. I stop, not wanting to be rude, but he still doesn’t see us. With Emmy’s hand in mine, we start to back away. That’s when I see Cole bend down and swipe up a handful of sand. He stares at it for a few seconds and then gently dumps the granules into his pants pocket, patting it afterward. Almost as though he’s reassuring himself that it’s there.
Part of me wants to scramble away. I feel as though I’m witnessing something that no one should witness, something that is so private that seeing it steals away the soul of it. But another part of me can’t move. I’m so utterly broken for him, I feel like I lost something as well. I want nothing more than to go to him and wrap my arms around his big, strong shoulders and take some of the load from them. I know without knowing that they bear too much.
Before I can decide whether to run or stay, Cole turns and catches sight of Emmy’s pink suit. He goes completely still, looking at her as though he’s seen a ghost rather than the little girl he’s seen several times before. His face is as pale as the snow around him under his two-day scruff and wind-kissed cheeks.
I mouth the words I’m sorry and I scoop Emmy up into my arms and go back the way we came. I carry her past the place where we entered the beach and we play there for nearly two hours. I don’t see Cole again. Even though I look for him almost as often as I breathe.
Emmy and I are debating what to have for supper–she wants Spaghettios and I want her to have something healthy–when the knock sounds at the door. The wings of a thousand butterflies beat the walls of my stomach when I think about what happened the last time there was a knock at the door. I can almost taste the minty sweetness of Cole’s tongue in my mouth. Heat and want and anticipation pour through me, and my hands shake all the way to the door.
I don’t look out the glass; I simply make an assumption.
And it’s the wrong one.
Jason is smiling down at me when I open the door. I have to work hard to keep the disappointment from showing on my face or registering in my voice.
“Jason! What brings you out in this weather?”
He holds up a white paper bag that looks heavy. “I brought soup. Thought you might like a little chowder for dinner. It’s perfect on a snowy night.”
Shit.
I plaster on a smile. “Oh, well…how thoughtful. Thank you.” I start to take the bag from him, but he holds it aloft.
“Let me fix it. You have to layer it with crackers juuust right or it ruins the flavor.”
Soup that has to be layered? Is he really using that as an excuse to come and eat dinner with me?
“Well, uh, Emmy and I were just getting ready to…” What? Eat? Yes, we were. And now he’s here with food. That’s not a good excuse. And I’m a terrible liar. So I just give up. Seems like I’m stuck for the moment. “We were just deciding on what to eat, so your timing is perfect. Come in,” I say mildly, standing back so he can enter.
From the back of the couch, her favorite perch, Emmy eyes Jason suspiciously. Her thumb isn’t in her mouth. Yet.
“Hiya, sweetie,” he says amicably enough. He doesn’t try too hard to get her to talk or to get close to her, which I appreciate. I’d have no choice but to get stern with him–and fast–if he did that.
Jason walks into the kitchen like he’s been here a thousand times. He slips off his coat and tosses it over a chair at the table and then takes bowls from the cabinet, bowls which have probably been in the same spot for years. He whistles as he spoons out soup into each bowl, covers it with toppings from the bag, and then more soup on top. “Gotta let them sit for a few minutes. Why don’t you fix us something to drink?”
“Oh, sorry.” The whole situation makes me slightly uncomfortable, like being in the kitchen with a boy who’s too touchy.
I squeeze past Jason to reach for glasses. He doesn’t bother moving to give me room, but rather leans back just enough to brush up against me as I stretch, ribbing me with his elbow. “This is nice, right?”
I smile, but say nothing, already thinking to myself that I’ll have to curtail this situation, even if it makes him mad. I’d really rather not do that, but…he’s leaving me no choice.
“I have milk or sweet tea. Or water,” I announce.
“Sweet tea? You are from the south.” I don’t answer, just keep smiling. That’s my plan for the night–just keep smiling until this is over. Then I can figure out how to avoid him in the future. “I’ll have milk.”
Before I can stop her, Emmy is darting off down the beach toward him. He’s not as far away this time, so she reaches him before I can stop her.
His back is to us again, so he doesn’t see her standing behind him. He probably didn’t hear her either, the crashing waves coupled with the howling wind nearly deafening. I approach her and take her hand, holding my finger to my lips when she looks up at me. Not that she would say anything, but I want her to know that I’m being quiet, too. I feel like our presence encroaches on something deeply personal and intensely special, and I don’t want to intrude upon that.
The castle appears to be complete. It has six spires and turrets again, a hillside full of snowy trees and a mote protecting it all. There must’ve been some debris that had washed up because this one even has a drawbridge. I can’t imagine what time he must’ve come out here to finish it by lunch.
Before I can turn away, I see Cole stand. I stop, not wanting to be rude, but he still doesn’t see us. With Emmy’s hand in mine, we start to back away. That’s when I see Cole bend down and swipe up a handful of sand. He stares at it for a few seconds and then gently dumps the granules into his pants pocket, patting it afterward. Almost as though he’s reassuring himself that it’s there.
Part of me wants to scramble away. I feel as though I’m witnessing something that no one should witness, something that is so private that seeing it steals away the soul of it. But another part of me can’t move. I’m so utterly broken for him, I feel like I lost something as well. I want nothing more than to go to him and wrap my arms around his big, strong shoulders and take some of the load from them. I know without knowing that they bear too much.
Before I can decide whether to run or stay, Cole turns and catches sight of Emmy’s pink suit. He goes completely still, looking at her as though he’s seen a ghost rather than the little girl he’s seen several times before. His face is as pale as the snow around him under his two-day scruff and wind-kissed cheeks.
I mouth the words I’m sorry and I scoop Emmy up into my arms and go back the way we came. I carry her past the place where we entered the beach and we play there for nearly two hours. I don’t see Cole again. Even though I look for him almost as often as I breathe.
Emmy and I are debating what to have for supper–she wants Spaghettios and I want her to have something healthy–when the knock sounds at the door. The wings of a thousand butterflies beat the walls of my stomach when I think about what happened the last time there was a knock at the door. I can almost taste the minty sweetness of Cole’s tongue in my mouth. Heat and want and anticipation pour through me, and my hands shake all the way to the door.
I don’t look out the glass; I simply make an assumption.
And it’s the wrong one.
Jason is smiling down at me when I open the door. I have to work hard to keep the disappointment from showing on my face or registering in my voice.
“Jason! What brings you out in this weather?”
He holds up a white paper bag that looks heavy. “I brought soup. Thought you might like a little chowder for dinner. It’s perfect on a snowy night.”
Shit.
I plaster on a smile. “Oh, well…how thoughtful. Thank you.” I start to take the bag from him, but he holds it aloft.
“Let me fix it. You have to layer it with crackers juuust right or it ruins the flavor.”
Soup that has to be layered? Is he really using that as an excuse to come and eat dinner with me?
“Well, uh, Emmy and I were just getting ready to…” What? Eat? Yes, we were. And now he’s here with food. That’s not a good excuse. And I’m a terrible liar. So I just give up. Seems like I’m stuck for the moment. “We were just deciding on what to eat, so your timing is perfect. Come in,” I say mildly, standing back so he can enter.
From the back of the couch, her favorite perch, Emmy eyes Jason suspiciously. Her thumb isn’t in her mouth. Yet.
“Hiya, sweetie,” he says amicably enough. He doesn’t try too hard to get her to talk or to get close to her, which I appreciate. I’d have no choice but to get stern with him–and fast–if he did that.
Jason walks into the kitchen like he’s been here a thousand times. He slips off his coat and tosses it over a chair at the table and then takes bowls from the cabinet, bowls which have probably been in the same spot for years. He whistles as he spoons out soup into each bowl, covers it with toppings from the bag, and then more soup on top. “Gotta let them sit for a few minutes. Why don’t you fix us something to drink?”
“Oh, sorry.” The whole situation makes me slightly uncomfortable, like being in the kitchen with a boy who’s too touchy.
I squeeze past Jason to reach for glasses. He doesn’t bother moving to give me room, but rather leans back just enough to brush up against me as I stretch, ribbing me with his elbow. “This is nice, right?”
I smile, but say nothing, already thinking to myself that I’ll have to curtail this situation, even if it makes him mad. I’d really rather not do that, but…he’s leaving me no choice.
“I have milk or sweet tea. Or water,” I announce.
“Sweet tea? You are from the south.” I don’t answer, just keep smiling. That’s my plan for the night–just keep smiling until this is over. Then I can figure out how to avoid him in the future. “I’ll have milk.”
