Page 91 of The Last Special Thing

“Weston?”

“Are you okay?”

“I think I’m hungry.”

“Where are you?”

She searched for a street sign and read off the name to him.

“You want me to bring you food?” he asked.

“Yes. That would be great.”

“Are you sure you're okay?”

“Yeah. I’m okay.”

“Don’t move.”

She hung up the phone and waited, her heels kicking against the rock wall. There were advantages to not knowing the time. She’d always been a late person. But if people don’t think about time, they wouldn’t ever know when she was late. They would just be happy she was there. Shouldn’t everyone be glad to be together? Why does it matter what time people arrive? Time was a social construct. She remembered hearing about it somewhere, maybe in another life.

When Weston’s hand cupped her shoulder, her heart beat quickened. It had been so long since she had seen him. He brushed off the sand on the ledge, then took a seat beside her and handed her a cranberry oatmeal muffin, her favorite. She unwrapped it and took a bite, then gazed back at the water, grateful to share the experience with someone.

“Amelia?” he asked, drawing her attention. His lips were straight, hair a bit longer than when she had seen him last. Even with sunglasses covering his eyes, something wasn’t right.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. He’d been trying to spend time together forever. He should have been as happy as she was.

“Where have you been?” His eyes fell to his shorts. “What are you doing here alone?”

He surveyed the area, as if searching for something dangerous. There was no danger. She was just a girl sitting on rocks watching a rainbow cry.

“I’m sitting at the beach.” She reached over and took off Weston’s sunglasses to confirm her suspicions. His eyes darted with panic, as she anticipated.

He pulled back, as if her gesture was too intimate.

“It’s okay,” she assured him. “I wanted to see your face. You have a beautiful face. I’m sorry if I didn’t tell you that before.”

She put the sunglasses back on, covering the eyes that she once stared into, and said, ‘I love you.’ It was a silly thing to say at the time. She meant it then, but that was in the past before she knew the love of sex on the beach, hearts drawn on the windows, surprise nachos, and watching the person you love doing what they love on stage.

Letting out a breath of air, she took another bite. She missed Art. She couldn’t help it.

“Art was here.”

“Where the fuck is Art now?” he snapped.

“I’m not too sure.” She rubbed her lips together.

He paused, really taking her in. Then asked softly, “What are you on?”

“Shrooms.” She lowered her eyes and scratched her nails along the rock.

“How long have you been like this?” His tone dipped in concern.

Perhaps in another world, it would have also made her sad –to be disappointing him at every turn. But in this world, it was hysterical. Mr. Put Together with her while she was on drugs and unhinged.

“What a question! I have no idea!” She cackled.

People acting crazy at this beach town were not uncommon. Weston shifted. While other people may not have been troubled by a druggie laughing on the beach, she figured that it concerned him that she was the druggie at the beach.