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Going around the column, I take a seat on cool concrete, leaning my back against the solid post. Time stands still out here. I’m instantly taken back three-plus years.
My being here isn’t an accident. This was where Josh and I used to come to hang out. Not just here. We’d huddle right under the bridge, at the top, of the incline, where it makes a cave-like area, that’s where we spent most of our time. In Houston and Austin, that’s where the homeless hang out, in that little area under the bridge. But this isn’t Houston or Austin. No one was ever there, especially not when we were.
Josh and I used to spend our time talking about life and things. And that’s where we shared our first kiss. After that kiss, that cave-like area became our spot.
I lean forward, looking at it, over the water and shoreline. I couldn’t go up there today, not to that precise spot under the bridge. It would bring out way too many memories, more than I could handle, so instead, I look at it from a few yards away.
I let the sound of water lull me, even the occasional whoosh of passing cars above. I wonder how Josh has been, who the blond woman was and where he met her, how long they’ve been together, if he loves her.
Jesus. I torment myself more than I need to. I zone out, lost in memories. Finally, done with this torture and this place, I stand up, legs cramping from being crossed under me, ass numb from the concrete.
The tide’s moved in. I’ll have to leap over a longer stretch of water now to make it to shore without landing in the thick, muddy bayou. At least if I do strike water, it won’t be the deep part, like it would have been when I jumped onto the concrete base.
I take a breath, close my eyes, concentrate, then open them and leap. I’m almost over dry land when I see him.
Josh.
Damn.
OL' BLUE ISN'T QUITE BLUE
JOSH
Seeing Cassie has left me with a heartache that feels like that vital organ has been split in two. I have to escape Billie and her constant nagging and how she's going to name the baby after mine and my brother's father. She prattles endlessly, and I'm beyond frustrated that I had to drive her down here. I wish she'd caught a ride with Isaiah, but my brother's not coming for another day.
I escape, take my old pickup—I've got a new one on order because this one's about to kick the bucket—and peel out of the driveway on Marten Drive. I need a break from Billie. I need a break from life. It's not that Billie's not a nice girl. She is. And the fact she and Isaiah are having a baby, that's fine too. I look forward to spoiling the little one, but I can't lie and say that it doesn't remind me of something I don't need to be reminded of. Something I shouldn't even know about, but that I do.
So I take Ol' Blue—yeah, I named my truck, so what?—which is really red. That's the funny part. Not that I named my truck, but that a red pickup is named Ol' Blue. Not sure what I was thinking, but then again, I was super young when I got her. So, I'm driving down County Road 338 and then going down the state highway that leads toward Orchid Beach. I'm well on the way when I realize that Ol' Blue is taking me to a place I know all too well. The bridge overlooking Orchid Bay.
I heave a sorrow-laden sigh and pull in, almost like letting Ol' Blue decide where to take me, though I know damned well that it's not the truck providing the navigation.
Of course, the boat ramp's damned near empty. Everyone is probably stuffing themselves at the Thanksgiving table or they're already in a food coma or tuned into the TV, catching the game.
I get out of Ol' Blue, don't bother locking her because, hey it's Boar Creek, there's not much in terms of shenanigans that happen around here, and I’d bet they won't happen on Thanksgiving Day. Even a petty criminal's gotta take a break, I figure. I walk down the path toward the spot I know I won't go to. That spot. The spot that meant so much to Cassie and me. I sit at the edge of the bridge, high up, in a new place I've claimed for my own. A place from which I can study the spot where Cass and I used to hang out, under the bridge, as high up as we could go, where it was almost like being in a cave.
An occasional car whizzes by, and I wonder where the people are going. Coming from Thanksgiving Dinner with family? Going back home from visiting family? The sound of an engine approaching makes me sink back into my hiding place while I wait to see who is approaching. The vehicle is coming from the backside, and it sounds like an 8-cylinder. Soon enough, I see a GMC pickup I know all too well. It belongs to Cassie's father. Except he's not behind the wheel.
Cassie's driving.
The very woman haunting my thoughts now appears before me. She gets out of the truck and tucks her hair behind her ears, a pensive look on her face. She studies the surroundings, but her eyes gloss over the area I'm in, partially hidden by concrete and reeds.
Moments later, she's leaping from column base to column base until she's on the furthest one, and then she takes a seat, leaning back against the concrete.
I can't tear my eyes from her, just like I can't keep down the tent I'm pitching in my pants. As angry as I am with her, I can't let go of what she does to me. To every single part of me.
We sit there, separately, for a long time. No clue how long. I can't leave while she's there, and I know why she's not leaving. Every now and then, she glances atour spot. Finally, she rises to her feet and stretches. She rubs what must be a numbness from her ass and legs and then begins the process of jumping from column base to column base to reach the shore.
Since the tide change, her leap from the last column to shore will be longer. She closes her eyes. Her chest expands as she takes a breath. I know what she's doing. She's preparing herself for the jump. How many times have I seen her do this very thing before? Countless.
I don't realize that my concern for her has made me stand up until her eyes open and she locks gazes with me. Unfortunately, she's already mid-jump. Even more unfortunately, her arms windmill and—
Not good.
SILT AND SORROW
CASSIE
And just like that, everything goes downhill.
