3
I’m tired when we come back from the commotion of town, and Jack wants to read. Jack and I read a lot. He picks the books, literary fiction mostly, though I have veto power. We read a lot about historical figures, fictionalized to include children and relationships they never had. There are ghosts sometimes, and chapter to chapter, I have a hard time knowing who’s talking, but by the time I’ve finished I feel like I’ve accomplished something.
Sometimes we buy two copies and read the same book at the same time. It’s a particular level of intimacy, reading a book with another person. Today we are reading Wetlands of Westerleigh, and I’m forty-three pages behind where Jack is. We sit, feet up, on the back porch with our books and iced teas. I pretend to read.
The beach has its own symphony—waves breaking, children playing, gulls squawking. These sounds roll over me, and I remember why I only come back here once a year. Coming home feels like tiptoeing through a minefield, like I could happen upon one particularly compelling shell and all of my hard-earned defenses will be gone. Before yesterday, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d thought about Wyatt in more than a passing way.
Sometimes I hear that song and think of him, but that can’t be helped. As time goes by, it’s on the radio less and less, and I steer clear of stations that are playing anything that’s not brand-new.
The ocean is reaching out to me and I’m afraid it’s going to crack me right open, and there I’ll be like a Russian doll, with layers falling off until I’m so small that a seagull could just pluck me out of the sand and swallow me. I remember my body in the ocean, unburdened and strong. I remember the feel of Wyatt’s skin on mine for the first time, just where the waves
break. I remember standing under the linden tree and willing my hands not to touch his stomach. I haven’t thought about that in a long time and the memory of it makes me smile. I close my eyes and remember the kiss that came next. I can feel the breeze off the ocean, I can hear Wyatt’s guitar.
“That guy’s literally playing the same part over and over. Are we allowed to make requests?” Jack’s talking.
I open my eyes and realize it’s actually Wyatt’s guitar that I’m hearing.
“Is that coming from the treehouse?” I ask.
“Sounds like.”
I turn to face him. “Do you care that he’s here? My old boyfriend? I guess he’s here to break into the music business, but I’m sorry it’s this weekend.”
“Well, it turns up the drama a bit, doesn’t it?” Jack laughs a little.
“I know. But you don’t mind, do you?” And I realize that I want him to mind. I want Jack to fully understand the seismic impact of that breakup on my life. It’s like when you’ve been covering up an ugly scar but also sort of want to show it to people so they know what you’ve been through.
“Don’t be silly. Why would I care? You were kids.” Jack goes back to his book.
