Restless Waters: A Left Drowning Novel (Left Drowning #2) Page 6

  “Anyhow, yeah, I really like this job. You gotta see the ocean here. I know you’re on the coast right now, too, but the West Coast isn’t like the Maine waters. Just a different feeling and flavor. Pearce’s property is huge, and it feels like I’m in the middle of nowhere because there are trees all around. His house is buried far back from where I am. We’re not that far north of downtown San Diego, really, and I don’t mind the drive.”

  “That’s great, Sabe. So, if you’re going out with friends and being all Sabinish, why aren’t you meeting girls? You were stuck in boring Bar Harbor with us for so long. I thought you’d get to the big city and go wild.”

  He laughs a little. “Yeah, I dunno. I’m out of practice.”

  “Aw, you need a little lovin’, huh?”

  “Maybe. We’ll see.”

  I roll onto my side and stare at the empty fireplace. There’s a stack of wood next to it that we never use. “Sabin?”

  “Yeah?”

  “How come you kept bringing in new firewood when you were here?”

  Sabin routinely chopped logs and replaced those stacked by the fireplace with new ones. We never burned them because I still can’t tolerate the sight of flames.

  “Did it bother you?”

  “No. I liked it for some reason. But why did you do it?”

  I can tell he’s a bit uncomfortable with my questions.

  “Oh, I’m not sure. It’s nice to be prepared. Maybe, one day, you’ll be ready. You go through the motions, keep stacking the firewood, and maybe things get easier.”

  “I miss having you do that.” I didn’t realize it until now, but I do. The same firewood has been here since he left.

  There’s another long silence.

  “I’m sure Chris will do it for you.”

  “I want you to do it.” Suddenly, while I’m staring at the empty fireplace that might never light, my heart absolutely aches for Sabin to be next to me. “I wish you were here. Tomorrow won’t be the same without you.”

  “You don’t need me crashing your party.”

  “You can crash my party anytime, dummy.”

  “Hey, that’s Luke Bryan’s line.”

  I hear his guitar through the phone, and he sings a few lines of “Crash My Party,” which cracks me up.

  “You have a song for everything,” I point out.

  “I’m playing at a few open mic nights, did I tell you? And a few paying gigs.”

  “What? No. Why…Sabe, why don’t I know this shit?” I’m so frustrated now. “This long distance–friendship thing sucks.”

  Music keeps coming through my earpiece because neither of us knows what to say. So, I just listen while he sings to me. When he’s done, we stay on the line without talking. I don’t know why this isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s not.

  Finally, he says, “Kiddo, I gotta go. You’re right that I need to bring some fucking side dish tomorrow, so I have to hit the store. I’m thinking something involving green beans and marshmallow goop or sweet potatoes and a can of onion rings.”

  “Ew, no! First of all, you’ve mixed up two dishes, but neither is good anyway. Make something nice, like scalloped potatoes with heavy cream and lots of cheese. Crusty top and whatnot.”

  “Oh. That actually sounds good. How do I do that?”

  “I’ll text you a link to the recipe. We’re having that tomorrow, too. Do you have a mandoline?”

  “Hello? I have a guitar.”

  I laugh. “The other kind of mandoline, the one that slices.”

  “The one that gourmet cooks use and the one that, more often than not, removes fingers? No, I do not have a fucking mandoline.”

  “Okay, just use a knife and thinly slice the potatoes.”

  “I’ll give it a go.”

  “And if it doesn’t turn out right, then we can make it together when you’re here for Christmas and perfect your cooking.”

  “So, listen…I don’t know how to tell you this—”

  I sit up sharply. There’s already an apologetic tone from him that I strongly dislike. “No, don’t you say what I think you’re going to say.”

  “I just can’t take a month off from work. Or even more than a few days. Chris has a slow season, and you both can telecommute. By the way, is that not the most obnoxious word ever? Telecommute. Ugh. Makes me sick to say it. So pretentious and smug. Let’s just say work from home. How’s the magazine writing going anyway?”

  “What? Fine. Who cares? What are you saying? That you’re not coming home for Christmas? We have all these plans. I wanted to do a huge tree in the living room, and I ordered new stockings for everyone. And…snowball fights and big dinners and horrible carols.”

  “I just…can’t. I’m really sorry. I feel awful about this. There’s no way that I can take off enough time for such a long trip. I’d fly in and have to leave practically the next day.”

  “Okay.” I’m trying with all I have to conceal my absolute misery over this.

  I get it though. Sabin has a new job that he’s committed to, and I have to be supportive. On a practical level, I understand all the reasons he won’t be with us for the holidays, but that doesn’t change the fact that my heart feels as though it’s been sliced out of my chest.

  It didn’t occur to me that this move to California might permanently separate us, that we might never live ten feet from each other again. Of course that sounds idiotic, but I don’t care. Sabin has every right to go off and have a life of his own. I just didn’t realize how much I felt that part of his life belonged with me. I’m embarrassed at the wave of devastation running through me.

  I can’t do this now. The only right thing to do is rally and let him know that I support him. It’s just that finding the right words seems impossible.

  “Sabe, I love you, and I want you to do whatever it is that you need to do. I’ll send you a crazy huge care package.”

  His voice has more rasp than usual. “Will there be a forty-pound fruit cake in it?”

  “Yes. Also, fruit cake angels and fruit cake reindeer.” I listen to him breathe for a few moments. “It’s okay. They’re just stupid holidays.”

  “They’re not stupid holidays. You love them,” he says.

  “I love you more.”

  “More than snowmen?”

  “They are cold and have stick limbs. Also, notoriously shitty attitudes about US foreign policy. Yes, I love you more than snowmen.”

  His gravelly laugh echoes into my ear. “But you’ll build one for me anyway?” he asks.

  “With three noses. And I’ll put that disgusting parka that you shipped here on it.”

  “What kind of fucking creepy snowman are you making? And that parka is super gangsta, I’ll have you know.”

  “Just for that, I’m adding on a hat with a veil.”

  Sabe laughs. “God, I miss you. You always make me feel better. It doesn’t make any sense because…” He trails off.

  “Because why? We’re best friends. We should make each other feel better.”

  “Yeah. It’s just…it seems like that should be true for…I mean…” He pauses. “It’s just, usually guys have a guy best friend, and girls have a girl best friend.”

  I think for a minute. “And we have us. We don’t follow rules.”

  “No, I guess not.” He strums his guitar, and then I hear him slap his hand over the strings to stop the music. “I gotta run to the market. You talked me into making this potato nonsense. Send me the recipe as soon as you hang up, okay?”

  “Okay. Happy Thanksgiving. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “I’ll try to pick up. Busy day with the potato eaters here.”

  “I imagine so.”

  “Have fun with Chris,” he says. “But don’t go traying.”

  “Not without you.”

  I hang up and stare into the unlit fireplace. Fuck. Fuck!

  I sit numbly for twenty minutes and only shake off my daze when Sabin texts me and points out that, while we are very emotionally
connected, he is not actually telepathic and cannot envision the recipe without text message dialogue. I text back the link and try to talk myself out of sulking.

  I’ve been gone so long that Chris eventually sticks his head into the living room. “Hey, did you abandon me?”

  “No, no. Of course not,” I say rather flatly. “It’s just…” I aimlessly wave a hand around.

  Chris throws a dish towel over his shoulder and comes to sit next to me on the couch. “What’s wrong? Is Sabin all right? Did he fall out of a tree house? Big blow to the head?”

  I try to smile, but it’s not working.

  “Blythe, you’re starting to freak me out. What’s going on?”

  “Sorry, everything is fine. Really.” I lean against him. “Sabin isn’t coming here for the holidays. He says he has to work.”

  Christopher runs a hand through my hair and wraps a long curl over his finger. “I was worried about that,” he says, “which is why—”

  “I mean, what the hell?” I yell out. “We’re all supposed to be together! This isn’t right. Everyone was broken and fucked up and all that, and then we sort of pieced ourselves back together, and…and…and we have to be together. All of us. I know he has a new job and real life, but…it’s starting, isn’t it? Eventually, everyone will start making their own plans. Holidays, summers…everything is going to change. We’re fragmenting.”

  Chris puts a hand under my chin and makes me look at him. “Stop spazzing,” he says with amusement, “and let me finish what I started to tell you.”

  I nod.

  “We are not fragmenting,” he states assuredly. “I was worried Sabin wouldn’t be able to take off any time, which is why we’re going to San Diego for three weeks.”

  I sit up straight. “What?”

  “All of us—Estelle, Eric, James, you, and me. Then, Zach is going to come in right after Christmas.” He kisses my cheek. “We’re not fragmenting.”

  I throw my arms around his neck. “God, you’re fucking amazing.”

  “Wait until you see the house I rented. That’s fucking amazing. I was waiting to tell you and everyone else until the house was confirmed. Just got an email five minutes ago.”

  “Christopher…” I hardly know what to say, but then I remember one thing. “What about—”

  “Jonah? Kevin from work is going to take him, if that’s okay with you. He has a puppy, and I think he’s hoping Jonah will tire him out.”

  “You think of everything, don’t you? Now, I have even more to be grateful for this Thanksgiving.” I lift my body and straddle him on the couch.

  “And I,” he starts, “also have so, so much to be grateful for.” He looks at me with mischief and flirtation as he runs the back of his hand over the front of my shirt.

  “Do you now?” I ask. “Whatever could you be talking about?”

  “I’d be happy to give you a walk-through,” he offers. His mouth is hot when he kisses my neck so softly and so teasingly that I already want to scream. “I’m grateful for you and for the way you inhale sharply when my tongue hits your skin.”

  “I do that?”

  “You do.” His mouth begins to trail over to my shoulders, and his hands go under the front of my shirt. “And how you still shiver when I first touch your breasts, as though you’re still not used to me, even after all this time.” His touch goes over my bra.

  He’s right. I do shiver.

  “I’m grateful for this gorgeous body,” he continues, “for the way you taste and move and sound when we fuck.”

  I lift my shirt over my head and toss it to the floor. “What else?”

  “I’m grateful that there are so many ways to make you come and that you always seem to want me as much as I want you. I don’t know how I got so damn fortunate.” Chris smiles at me. “Most importantly, I’m grateful for the way you let me love you and the way you love me. I’m grateful that I’ll never get enough of you.”

  I smile back at him. “We have similar lists.”

  “Yeah?”

  “We do.”

  When I kiss him, I think of what I thought the first time we kissed. He tastes like eternity and healing and completion.

  Because of this, I cannot imagine ever kissing anyone else.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve been on an airplane or in a big city with crowds and noise and traffic.

  I am more than slightly uncomfortable when Chris and I land at the San Diego Airport. It’s taken us hours and hours to get here from Maine, and we’re both exhausted. Unfortunately, I don’t seem to be so exhausted that I’m free from feeling overwhelmed. Bangor International Airport wasn’t a big deal, and then we had to run to catch our flight to Chicago, so I didn’t have time to freak, but now that we’re here, I’m getting wobbly.

  “You okay?” Chris asks while we wait at baggage claim.

  “Yeah. Just tired.” I try to look relaxed and not focused on the hundreds of people gathered around the baggage carousel.

  He takes my hand. “We’re out in the real world, I know.”

  Chris gets it. I nod and step in closer to him.

  Months in the safety of our Maine house have left me embarrassingly out of practice for life outside the cocoon. It’s ridiculous. Apparently, I’ve developed some kind of agoraphobia, but there was a reason that we retreated to coastal Maine. We like the serenity.

  I tell Chris that I have to use the restroom and dart off before he can worry about me too much. The ladies’ room is inconveniently located by the massive security line, and I feel sick by the time I hide out in a stall. Of course, the restroom stinks like chemical cleaners, and there are lines and women crowded around mirrors and babies pooping and…

  I lean against the stall door and try not to touch anything with my hands. Jesus, I’m sweating, and the phone shakes when I make a call.

  “Is this the sexy escort I ordered?” Sabin asks immediately. “I don’t want to hear any bitching about the tree-house situation, okay? It’s very trendy right now. And you’d better be bringing the mermaid outfit I requested, or this whole thing is off. Also, I’ll be paying you from my jar of pennies.”

  Sabin’s voice cuts through my panic, and I let out a laugh of relief. “A mermaid outfit? Really?”

  “Oh. Blythe,” he says with mock disappointment. “Thought you were someone else. And don’t question the mermaid outfit. I would look fucking amazing in it. Er, I mean, she would. Right. It’s not for me. That would be weird.” He pauses. “Or would it?”

  “Sabin?”

  “Yes, Blythe?”

  “We’re in San Diego.”

  “And you sound so…overjoyed about it. What’s going on?”

  “It’s stupid. It’s just that…there are a lot of people and noises and shit, and I’m sort of not doing well.”

  “It’s December nineteenth. Of course it’s a fucking mob scene everywhere. It’s going to get better when you get away from the airport and downtown traffic.”

  The red light above the toilet is irritating me. It’s as though it’s waiting for me to sit on that germy seat, and that’s not going to happen. I frown at the toilet, and then I lift my foot and push the flush button. It just turns red again.

  “Oh my God, are you taking a piss while you’re talking to me?” Sabin yells.

  “No, I’m just hiding out for a minute.”

  “I wasn’t mad. I was just concerned that I was missing out because I was going to go pee, too. I thought maybe that was a thing we were doing—peeing while we talk.”

  “That’s not a thing we do.” I nervously tap my feet.

  “And what’s that noise?” he asks.

  “I’m tapping my feet.”

  “Stop that immediately. The lady in the stall next to you might think you’re signaling her for sex, like you’re a closeted senator or whatnot lookin’ for action. I mean, unless that’s what you’re after, have at it, Senator.”

  “Sabin! I am doing no such thing! Besides, I think that signal is only f
or men’s rooms.” But I still stop tapping.

  “B?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Get the fuck out of the restroom, get your bags, and go find some sunshine. It’s gorgeous out. Better than your Maine winter.”

  “Okay,” I say without conviction.

  “Sweetness,” Sabin says, “get the fucking fuck out of the restroom, and come get some Sabin love!”

  I yank the phone away from my ear and giggle. “Okay, okay!”

  “I’ll meet you at the house in a bit, silly girl.”

  I hang up and knock my head on the door while I try to collect myself. This is humiliating, and I don’t want Chris to see me like this, not that he’d care. He’s seen me in much worse states. But he went to so much trouble to arrange this incredible trip and to get us out here, and here I am, being all bananas.

  My phone sounds with a text.

  Sabin: Get the fuck out of the restroom. I love you—you and mermaids.

  By the time I get to baggage claim, I’m half human.

  When we’re at long last in the huge rental SUV, heading away from the airport, I actually feel elated. It’s impossible to ignore the spectacular bay scene. It’s only mid afternoon here, and even though we’ve been up since three in the morning, East Coast time, I am suddenly energized. We really have left behind the bitter New England temperatures, and as I roll down the window, I do not for one second miss the wind chill that comes off the Atlantic all winter.

  “It must be almost seventy degrees here!” I say with delight as the wind blows my hair across my face.

  Chris points to the dashboard. “Seventy-one. Not bad, huh? That’s warm for this time of year here, and we’ve got a great forecast ahead.”

  I put on my sunglasses and take in the view—sun smattering across the water, cruise ships loaded with passengers, smaller boats zipping by. I get that summer feeling back. Sunshine, I realize, will do me some good.

  “It’s going to be strange, not having snow for Christmas. I’ve never been anywhere warm over the holidays,” I say.

  “No? I guess it will be a little weird, but you’ll love it. Not a traditional New England holiday, but we’ll make it fun.”

  “Of course we will.” I put my arm over his shoulder, and my fingers tickle the back of his neck.