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15
EMPTY DOCKS AND CRUDE CARVINGS
CASSIE
Three more days I spend the exact same way, except these three days I take a book with me. Something to occupy my mind while I wait. Or at least to pretend my mind is occupied. Every single day is gloomy. Why can’t the sun come out and shine? A ray of sunshine would be like a ray of hope. But I guess three days later, it’s too much to wish for hope. He’s not coming. I wonder if he’s in town and not coming out here or if he’s not even in town at all.
I slam the book shut, get off my numb butt—numb because concrete isn’t comfortable, and I keep forgetting to bring a cushion.
I can’t do this. I feel like I’m going a little crazy—or maybe a lot—while looking for him. I haven’t been able to eat. I can’t focus on anything. Every time I hear a car go over the bridge, I listen to see if it sounds like it’s slowing down. I’m seriously making myself nuts.
I decide to take a drive to the beach. We used to go hang out there once in a while. We’d sneak away. I’d tell my mom I was going to study with a friend, and I’d meet him at the first picnic table on the south side of Orchid Beach.
The drive there’s lonely. No one else out here. Christmas is tomorrow. It’s flippin’ Christmas Eve. That hits me hard. I didn’t even think about that. And my parents are at home with each other, probably wondering where I am.
But do I turn around? Hell no. I keep heading toward the beach. It’s empty-almost—there’s an old couple, and they’re holding hands, strolling along the crushed oyster shell and trucked-in sand.
Seeing them is hard. It’s just another reminder—a reminder I don’t need. When I get to the picnic table, a quick glance verifies that the parking lot is empty, all the picnic tables that overlook the crashing surf are empty, and my heart’s pretty damned empty too.
I turn the car around, not difficult to do on the unpaved, extra wide road that opens up toward the beach, and I head toward my parent’s house.
Except when I almost get to their house, instead of turning down the road that leads to the driveway, I head toward town, taking the road that goes on the outskirts of town, making a big L-shaped path that stops right in front of the docks. It’s like I’m a glutton for punishment. Like I’m driving to the docks where his dad kept their shrimp boats.
Am I hoping to see Josh there, or am I going to rub salt in the wound that’s already cratering my heart?
That’s the last place I need to go. I pass the sloping driveway that leads to the docks, going by slowly, looking at the boats. I can’t see the spot where Josh’s dad used to keep his vessels. I can’t see if they’re still there. If I want to know I’ll have to drive up.Ugh.
I keep the car moving forward, still debating pulling into the docks, even though I’ve passed them by. And then I realize where I’m at, and where I’m close to. And I’m powerless to resist the urge to turn right. That’s exactly what I do. I turn right into the neighborhood where Josh’s dad’s house is—was. He’s gone now, passed away, so is this where Josh stayed when he was here for Thanksgiving?
I shouldn’t do this. It qualifies as stalking, I’m sure. And yet I’m powerless, still. I have no will to stop myself from pulling down Marten Drive, where his dad’s house was. 110 Marten Drive. The same house Josh lived in when we dated. Josh, his dad, and his brother Isaiah.
There it is. I pump the brakes, slowing to a crawl. What the hell am I doing? If he wanted to see me, really wanted to, he would have. He knows how to find me. And yet, I turn my head and look at the house. The grass is short. Someone’s caring for it. It doesn’t look like it’s abandoned. Did Josh or his brother sell it? Did they lease it out? I don’t see anyone. Oh, there’s a car in the driveway, pulled way up, by the back door. The door Josh used to sneak me in during some of our forbidden nights. Way back when.
The car’s a VW Beetle. In a red color. That doesnotlook like it would be Josh’s car. And it doesn’t look like it would be his brother’s car.That’s a girl’s car, a jealous voice says, in the recesses of my mind.
I slow my car to a stop, studying the car, the kept-up yard, the well-maintained older house. It’s small, as I recall, with only three small bedrooms. One that Josh had, one his brother had, and one their father’s. The front door opens. And it’s too late for me to slink low enough to not be caught. God, I hope it’s not Josh, because this is embarrassing. Though a part of me hopes more than anything, that it’s him.
Why don’t I pull away? I’m like a stupid little mouse, staring at a boa constrictor, knowing that big-assed snake doesn’t mean it well, and yet I can’t move. That’s what I am. Crazy, silly, sitting still, waiting for the heartbreak to constrict my heart the way a boa would constrict and break that little mouse.
A silhouette is just inside the door, hard to make it out, though it doesn’t look like it’s as tall or as wide as Josh is. Unless he’s standing partially behind the door? I squint.
Shit.
Damn.
Fuck.
Perspiration appears on my forehead, as if summoned by some magical force. Guess that’s what dread is—a magical force.
It’s the girl from the grocery store. The happy blonde that called Josh’s name. Bile rises in my stomach, traveling up to my throat. Yeah, I want to vomit. God, I’m such a dumbass.
I want to peel out, to burn rubber getting the hell out of there. But I don’t. I take my foot off the brake and let the car begin its journey down the road, away from Josh’s house and the blonde that’s clearly staying there.
In my rearview mirror, I can see that she’s not even aware of my existence. She’s digging something out of the trunk of that little red car. The car, it turns out, definitely is a girl’s car.Thatgirl’s car. My stomach churns. Roils. Wants to hurl.
I’m driving by the docks again, the sweat that broke out on my forehead when I saw her is starting to dry.
Twice in one day, I do something stupid. And I don’t even know why I do it. And again, I can’t stop myself. I’m tormented, haunted by my thoughts of Josh.
