Restless Waters Page 3

  “Just to sleep. Please stay with me.”

  When he pauses, I try to figure out how to go back down the stairs without them hearing me.

  “I want to spend the night with you and keep you in my arms. I want to feel when you roll into me and listen to you snore and talk in your sleep. I even miss when you clock me in the face by mistake.”

  She laughs.

  “And I want to hold you when you have bad dreams, when you shake and sweat and run from things.”

  I drop my head. Chris isn’t the only one.

  “Please, Estelle. Do you want to? Do you miss me the way I miss you?”

  There’s another pause. I shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but I can’t get myself to leave now because I’m desperate to know what she’ll say.

  Finally, I hear her say, “How are you this sweet?”

  “Because I love you.”

  “James…”

  “I do love you, Estelle. You don’t have to say anything. Just let me love you, okay?”

  I think I might scream if she doesn’t answer him. I count to eighteen before she does.

  “Okay. God, you’re such a fucking asshole. But okay.”

  I know she’s smiling.

  When I’m pretty sure that there’s kissing and whatever else is going on that I don’t want to imagine my brother doing—and when I’m also sure that they wouldn’t hear me if I banged symbols outside the room—I slip back down the stairs.

  Eric is on the phone, presumably talking to Zach, when he passes me on the landing where he touches my shoulder before mouthing, Good night.

  It is getting late, and the van that will shuttle them to the Bangor Airport will be here at six forty-five tomorrow morning.

  It seems rather over-the-top that they’re getting picked up, but that’s pretty much how Chris does things. He remains a minimalist when it comes to his own needs, but he routinely spends money on everyone else. He has the same truck he had in college, but he insisted that I needed a new SUV to navigate the Maine winter terrain. The money the Shepherds inherited when their father died is substantial, and as the executor of the trust, Chris makes sure that everyone around him is more than taken care of.

  At my insistence, I use my own inheritance and the insurance money that James and I got from the fire that killed our parents to pay for James’s college expenses and most of the repairs and remodeling this old house needs. It’s hard to stop Christopher from jumping in to do everything.

  From the writing I do for a New England–based magazine, I don’t make nearly as much as he does. His job with Acadia National Park has expanded, and he’s become deeply involved in his position as the head information management specialist. There’s lots of talk about computers, networks, and such that I don’t always follow, but he loves his work.

  I stop in the living room when Chris comes out. He nods toward the deck, and I listen. Sabin is playing his guitar, slow notes trickling out here and there, wafting a melancholy tune our way. Chris takes my hand, and we walk out to join Sabin.

  When he sees us, he picks up his strumming and stomps his feet. “Hello, young lovers!”

  Sabin has on his cowboy hat, and I’m reminded of the first time we met in the student union at Matthews College.

  In between chords, he taps the brim up a bit and winks at me.

  Chris and I curl up on the extra-wide wicker lounge chair. Sitting between his legs, I lazily rest my head on his chest while we listen to Sabin play.

  When the last note plays out, he sets down the guitar and holds out a hand. “Tips are appreciated. You know how it is for us starving artists.”

  “You had two lobsters and a flat-iron steak for dinner. You’re hardly starving,” Chris points out.

  Sabin fake-pouts. “Allow me my artistic angst.”

  “Speaking of artistic,” I say, “I saw in the paper that auditions for the playhouse in Bangor are coming up. They’re doing Othello. Or Hamlet. Or some other one word–titled play I can’t remember. You should try out. Don’t you miss acting? It’s been so long since you were in anything.”

  He leans back in his chair. “Well, here’s the thing, kids—”

  “Or,” Chris cuts him off, “you could take the job I’m about to offer you.”

  Sabin wrinkles his forehead. “What job?”

  “Come work with me at the park. They need someone to help out in building maintenance.”

  “Oh God, you’re fucking kidding, right? I’d rather get chewed up by a local grizzly than clean toilets.”

  Chris sighs. “It’s not cleaning toilets, Sabin. You know, you’ve been doing all sorts of work on this house, and you’d be great at overseeing park properties. It’s a job, and it pays. I thought maybe you’d be ready for that. You know, have some structure to your day.”

  “Well, here’s the thing,” Sabin says with a smile. “First off, I’d like to congratulate you both on your attempt at acting like parents. Really, nicely done. But the good thing here is that none of us have parents, right? They’re all dead and gone, so we have no one to answer to. So, you know, yay for us.”

  I can feel Chris tensing behind me.

  “What the fuck, Sabin?” he says.

  “Well, it’s true, right? It’s not exactly a secret. I’m not trying to be an asshole, but let’s call a spade a spade. You don’t have to feel any obligation to watch over me. I’m twenty-three, so I’m a big boy now. Really.” His face softens, and he looks apologetically at both of us. “Okay, sorry, sorry. That was shitty of me. I’m…okay, I’m going to tell you something, and I don’t want you to freak out or make a big deal of it. I actually wasn’t going to tell you until tomorrow.”

  My stomach tightens because he’s acting strange, and I don’t think he’s about to deliver whoppingly wonderful news.

  He rubs his legs and looks to the side.

  “Sabe, what is it?” I ask.

  Sabin stands up and looks out at the moonlit water. I slide my hands into Christopher’s as we wait.

  Eventually, Sabin turns around and flashes us his best smile. “I’m going to San Diego tomorrow,” he announces with contained excitement.

  “Okay…” I start. “For a trip? A vacation?”

  He shakes his head, and his eyes crinkle sweetly when he looks at me. “No, love.”

  I freeze and continue to stare at him with confusion. My heart sinks as I begin to understand. “You’re moving there?”

  He nods.

  “Why…across the country? I mean…” I don’t know what to say to him.

  Chris squeezes my hands. “When did you decide this?”

  “A while ago. Earlier this summer.” He paces, seemingly energized by having finally told us. “You guys! California! Sunshine and beaches! Look, I can’t stay in this tiny Maine town. You know how it’ll be in the winter—cold, miserable, no hot tourists. San Diego is going to be amazing!” He does some kind of crazy spin and cannot stop smiling.

  “Do you have a place to live? A job? This doesn’t make any sense.” I’m not happy in the least.

  “Ah, B, where’s your sense of adventure? I don’t want plans. I’m going to set off and see what happens. I always land on my feet. Don’t you know that? I’ll find an awesome apartment, maybe on the beach. I’ll get a job collecting seashells or something.”

  “That’s not a job,” I say with more annoyance than I intended.

  He faces us and tries to look reassuring. “I’m not really going to collect seashells. I will get a real job. It’s a great big city full of opportunities for a creative soul like me.” Sabin throws his arms out and beams. “I could go windsurfing! Or become a chef! Or discover a new fish! Or…anything! Right? Come on, please be on board with this. Oh! Boards. I could get a surfboard, dude! I don’t belong in Maine. You know that.”

  I’m about to explode with a list of reasons this is an idiotic, half-assed idea, but Chris begins softly moving his hands up and down my arms, soothing me and letting me know that exploding is not a good i
dea. He’s right, I know that, and Sabin has quite clearly made up his mind.

  “If this is what you want,” Chris says, “if this makes you happy, then I’m really glad. You do know that you can stay with us for as long as you want though, right? This is your home, too.”

  He dismissively waves a hand. “Look, you guys have been great, but it’s time. I gotta go.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us earlier?” There is panic in my voice. “You’re just taking off tomorrow with no warning?”

  Now, he kneels down next to the lounge chair. “If I’d told you, you would have thrown some outrageous going-away party with strippers and a live band and a pig roast. I know how you are.” He throws a hand to his chest and speaks with such animation that I can’t help but crack a smile, “I couldn’t let you nutjobs make such a fuss over little ole me, now could I? And there would have been endless days of clutching and sobbing and prolonged pleading. It would have ruined the summer.”

  Chris laughs. “Man, we’re going to miss you, but this could actually be a really cool idea. Fresh start, a chance to sort of carve your own path.” I feel him shrug. “I think it’s brave.”

  “Thanks, man. Since you’re being all awesome about this, how about you fish out a few more suitcases from the attic for me? Sabin doesn’t do spiderwebs and bats.” He shivers and pretends to brush off cobwebs from his face.

  “You got it. I’ll toss them in your room.” Chris kisses me on the cheek and maneuvers out from behind me. “I’m going to hop in the shower. I’ll see you upstairs later.” He knows I’m shell-shocked and that I need a few minutes alone with Sabin.

  Before Chris is even halfway into the house, Sabin stands and begins talking at top speed about the cool restaurant scene in San Diego, the endless perfect weather, the many hot beach babes. “Picture me, surrounded by bikini-clad lovelies, strutting over the hot sand toward a soon-to-be-purchased Jeep Wrangler parked where it’s overlooking the ocean.”

  “Sabin—”

  “Late nights cavorting around town, dropping into trendy establishments, eating…well, whatever it is San Diegans eat. Is that what they’re called? What I’ll be called? Or maybe just Sandies? How’s that? Cute, right? I’m a Sandy now. Check me out, being a sexy Sandy and shit.” He puts his hands on the back of his head and stretches. “Cool beans, I say.”

  “Cool beans?” I’m too dumbstruck to respond to anything else.

  “Cool beans,” he says, nodding. “I’m bringing it back.”

  “Fine. You and your cool fucking beans can just take off tomorrow like it’s no big deal.”

  “Fucking beans? Is that like jumping beans?”

  I snarl at him.

  He throws himself into his chair and grabs his guitar before scooting closer to me. “Are you sulking, Lady Blythe McGuire?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I suppose I kinda like that. It means you’re going to miss me.”

  He grins and tousles my hair until it’s all in my face, and I can’t see.

  I push him away. “Knock it off.”

  “Blythe—”

  “What?” I snap.

  “Please be happy for me.”

  “I am.”

  “Please be sincerely happy for me.”

  I inhale and exhale deeply a few times, and while I can feel my body relaxing, I can also feel the grip beginning to take hold on my throat and the tears threatening to fill my eyes. “I am. But you’re going so far away.”

  “And I’ll constantly call you. And we’ll text. And do creepy little video chat thingies and all that newfangled shit you kids are into.”

  I manage to smile again. “Play me a song.”

  “Whatever you like, my fairest princess of duchesses of the queendom.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Have we met?”

  I cannot believe he’s leaving tomorrow. It’s too much to process. I like him here, where I know that he’s safe and loved. Of course he’s tough as shit, but he’s equally fragile. We’re all fragile. But I can’t force him to stay. And maybe he’s right that it’s time for him to go. Maybe that’s what will make him less fragile.

  “Play me a song,” I say again.

  So, he takes his guitar and straddles the footrest end of my lounge chair, facing me, as he randomly plucks the chords and expectantly looks at me. “Whatcha wanna hear?”

  “The song you were playing earlier, before Chris and I came out.”

  “Ah, that one. Well, okay, I guess. It’s just something I’ve been working on.”

  He looks down at his fingers even though I know he doesn’t need to. He doesn’t want to see how sad I’m going to look when I study his face, his movements, listen to the sound of his raspy voice.

  “It goes a little somethin’ like this…” Sabin makes a little smile for my benefit.

  AGED LIKE WINE, YOU OWN MY TIME.

  HEY, YOU SORTED OUT MY OWN HEAD.

  YOU CALLED IT TIME FOR A WOMAN.

  YOU STARTED TO KNOW, KNOW ME.

  I STARTED TO

  KNOW YOU, KNOW YOU.

  YOU SHUDDERED MY BONES,

  HOLDING ON TO MY HAND.

  HERE WE GO AGAIN. I’M NOT THE LUCKY ONE YOU NEED.

  HERE WE GO AGAIN, LOVE.

  HERE WE GO AGAIN, NOT THE LUCKY ONE YOU NEED.

  HERE WE GO AGAIN, LOVE.

  WAS IT ALL IN MY HEAD?

  YOU FELL INTO MY CELL PHONE AND MY BED.

  MY THOUGHTS ARE STILL SILENT WITH MY HEAD ON LOCK.

  I WANNA FOLLOW YOU AND SEW MY TEARS.

  FELL INTO MY HEAD, GIRL, MY MIND.

  I WANNA FIND A LOVE THAT’S ALL MINE.

  SO, SO…

  Something in me aches, so deeply and so profoundly. Sabin’s voice has always been able to reach into my gut and destroy me in the most utterly beautiful way. Tonight, this moment, feels like a painful transition for both of us. It must be one that he needs.

  HERE WE GO AGAIN, NOT THE LUCKY ONE YOU NEED.

  HERE WE GO AGAIN, LOVE.

  HERE WE GO AGAIN, NOT THE LUCKY ONE YOU NEED.

  HERE WE GO AGAIN, LOVE.

  AND WE LET IT FALL,

  AND WE LET IT FALL.

  AND WE LET IT BURN,

  AND WE LET IT BURN.

  YOU WILL LOVE ME ALL,

  OR YOU WON’T LOVE ME AT ALL.

  I WILL NOT BE PIECES OF YOUR FAVORITE SONG.

  HERE WE GO AGAIN, NOT THE LUCKY ONE YOU NEED.

  HERE WE GO AGAIN, LOVE.

  HERE WE GO AGAIN, NOT THE LUCKY ONE YOU NEED.

  HERE WE GO AGAIN, LOVE.

  Even when the lyrics end, Sabin keeps playing, as if stopping would mean a larger end. But I let him delay because it’s giving me time to think.

  I shiver from the chill of the night, possibly more.

  “Cold?” he asks over his strumming.

  I nod.

  He moves to get up and sit next to me, but I stop him. “Sabin?”

  “Yeah, love?”

  “You didn’t plan this San Diego move weeks ago, did you?”

  “Of course I did! I can keep a secret. Didn’t know that about me, did ya?” He continues playing the guitar, the same song that I’m finding so beautiful yet so hauntingly sad.

  “No, you didn’t. Three days ago, you told me that you’d take my car into town for an oil change. And, yesterday, you ordered a down parka with a hideous zebra-print lining for the winter. You said that, while I might find it grotesque, chicks dig zebra print, and you were going to make it ferociously chic.”

  “All part of my plan,” he says, tapping the side of his head in between notes.

  “You told Estelle, Eric, and James that you’d take nighttime pictures of the boats in the harbor on Labor Day when the fireworks were exploding over them and lighting up the sky because I’d told you how awesome it was. You were looking forward to going to that street festival with Chris and me. So, I think that you just decided to leave—maybe today, maybe y
esterday. But this was not some long-term plan that you just dropped on us tonight.”

  Because he won’t look at me, because he starts singing again, I know I’m right. “Did something happen?”

  I wait him out. I wait until he’s ready.

  Eventually, his music slows bit by bit, finally coming to a stop. He blows out a breath and puts down the guitar. “What I said before is true. It’s just time. It became very clear to me that I needed to find something of my own and quit leeching off of you and Chris.” He stops me before I can protest. “I am. I know you guys love me and shit, but it’s too hard for me to stay.”

  He’s just making me more lost and confused.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t have to. You just have to trust that I know what I want and”—he tips his head to the side and lifts my chin with his strong hand—“what’s best for me. For us.”

  “What do you mean, for us?”

  “Look, you have a life here with Chris. You guys are practically married, and you don’t need me interrupting what you have.”

  “Fuck you for saying that. You’re not interrupting anything. We’re not married, and we’re not getting married. That’s not how we work. We both have more than enough room for you, and I don’t mean because this house has a million bedrooms.”

  “I’m not explaining this well.” He blows out a breath in frustration. “I know you want me here. I really do.”

  I stare at him for a minute. “But you don’t want to be here.”

  He takes my hands in his. “Not right now, no.”

  “Why? What’s changed?”

  “Blythe…” Sabin is clearly struggling with how to answer this. He starts and stops a few times before he just shakes his head.

  “You just need me to accept that this is what’s happening. That moving to the fabulous city of San Diego and breaking my heart in the process is the perfect thing for you to do.”

  He lifts my hand and makes me wipe the tear washing down my cheek. “Yes.”

  “Okay.”

  “Thank you. Thank you for pretending to understand.” He smiles. “It’s late. You should get some sleep. You have to get up early to say good-bye.”

  “I don’t want to.”