2
Julia
The air blows in sweet through the rolled down windows of my Jeep as I head back down the mountain toward El Lugar. The wind cools my heated skin despite it being midsummer in Southern California. Tendrils of hair whip my face and tangle but I keep my arm out the window, my hand riding the waves of air like a surfer.
The farther I drive, the more despondent I feel, despite my attempts to buoy myself. After moving more often than the average person actually flosses, I long to stay in El Lugar. I let out a defeated sigh and swear Grandma Sue side-eyes me from her picture.
If she were here she would remind me of the dangers of staying in one place too long. She and Grandpa passed away before I ever learned to have control. They are the reason I stay on course. I had tried to get them to stay and ended up hurting someone I cared about. After that, they warned me of the dangers of making attachments. The closer I get to someone, the greater the risk of hurting them becomes.
I shoot Ferngully a weary look. “Just you and me, my friend.”
I pass the exit for the El Lugar National Labs but don’t take it like I would when going to work. The labs were built next to the abandoned mines in the mountainside. Better for secret tests, or so I’ve heard. The mines are shut down now and anybody caught trespassing is fined because of the danger of collapses. It was a perfect place for me to go … take care of myself. I will have to find another safe zone in whatever town I escape to next.
I doubt any new place can compare to the town I’ve called my home the last two years. I like that there are no chain restaurants. I love that there’s a hot spring in the middle of town that makes it smells like boiled eggs if the wind blows westerly. The labs attract some of the best minds from all around the world, which makes for a lot of character.
I let out a long sigh. I love it here. It takes an oddball to love an oddball place.
A giant ugly billboard smacks me in the face as I enter El Lugar city limits. One of many, these billboards are the only thing that doesn’t jive with the quirkiness of this little haven. It advertises Moore Investments Inc., the company that owns more than half the businesses in town and even some contractors on base. William Moore, with his big cheesy grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, fills the ten-foot-high sign along with the slogan WHERE THERE’S A WILL THERE’S A WAY! His dark brown hair is slicked with so much gel that it looks like it might make a sound if you flick it. I avoid looking at him whenever I pass one. He gives me the heebie-jeebies despite him being a decently attractive, older white guy.
I pull up to my rental—a small house that came furnished. The labs are the primary employer for El Lugar. These houses are perfect for contractors like me who are just passing through.
A lovely voice reaches my ears as I put my Jeep in park and get out. My neighbor is working in her garden and singing Billie Holiday to her tomatoes.
Why can’t I just be normal like her?
“The garden giving you trouble, Mrs. Davies?” I call over the short fence that separates her home from my rental.
Even though it’s dark, her outside lights illuminate her garden and I catch sight of her shimmying by the patch of vegetables next to the sunflowers. She spins to look at me, thick twists of hair highlighting a face shiny with exertion. Mrs. Davies works at the national labs as an electrical engineer. I’ve never met anybody smarter; if she says singing to the plants works, I’m inclined to believe her. “You know how the cucumbers get jealous.”
“You’re saying they’re green with envy?” I snort a little laugh at my own bad joke.
She blinks blankly at me.
“Good one, Julia,” Mr. Davies yells to me as he brings a tray of mojitos out. He bends to kiss his wife’s forehead. He’s wearing his usual jaunty hat over his bald head. His trimmed white beard is shaved with sharp edges against his dark brown skin. Mrs. Davies is still processing my attempt at humor as she reaches for her drink.
“You guys are up late tonight,” I say.
“Friday night happy hour had to wait,” he explains. “Mrs. D said the plants were feeling neglected.” He shrugged and looked at his wife with that glow that only comes with knowing somebody better than yourself. It’s the same look Grandpa would give Grandma Sue whenever she broke out in dance in the middle of a grocery store.
“Off on another adventure tonight?” Mr. Davies asks me.
“Something like that,” I say, trying and failing to hide the dead plant in my arms from Mrs. D. She shoots me a quick frown.
I stare enviously at the massive patch of life in their front yard. I watch how Mr. Davies hugs his wife close so their hips move in tandem before Mrs. Davies twirls back out, crooning to her carrots. One day I will have a garden. I’m not naive enough to hope for the rest: the loving husband, the secure home in the same place for thirty-plus years. But a garden would be nice. I can hope for that much at least. And yet, despite my brain’s warnings, my heart still yearns for that closeness. I want someone to hold me at night and make my coffee in the morning. I want someone to share everything with.
And then I’m right back at the beginning. Getting close to people means touching them, a luxury I can’t afford.
“Your lease is just about up, right?” Mr. D asks me, shaking me from my thoughts. “Have you decided if El Lugar isthe placefor you?”
I smile at the old familiar joke. El Lugar is Spanish for “the place,” a pun that has been made at least twenty times a day by its residents.
I actually have six weeks before my next contract starts and have tentative plans to travel the country, maybe even see my best friend Angel (though I haven’t breeched the topic with her yet, and it would be a big step in our online friendship considering we haven’t even done a video call). I keep all this to myself. As I’ve always kept to myself.
“My contract ends this week, I’m afraid,” I say.
“We’ll miss you. You’re the best kind of neighbor,” he says and settles onto the porch swing.
Having absolutely no social life makes for a quiet neighbor. “I’ll miss the singing,” I say as I nod toward to Mrs. Davies belting it out. “You guys enjoy your date night.”
I wave goodbye to the Davies as I unlock the door and step into my house. I assure Ginger, my fish, that I’ll be feeding her soon before placing Ferngully on the shelf next to her sisters. The sight of pot after pot of lifeless plants grips me with guilt. If I can’t keep a plant alive, what hope do I have for a relationship?
A sharp pain lances my side. It’s not the physical ache caused by my illness but the emotional reminder that I’m destined to be alone.
Time to pack, little jewel.
