Contradictions
Here’s the thing about the beach.
I love it. And I fucking hate it. It’s always too hot in the sun but too cold when a breeze blows through. I hate being too close to the water but I can’t deny its call when I'm far. I love tanning but hate sunscreen. I think the beach is for narcissists but I’m never able to prove that theory correct because it’s always moony-eyed coupled or screaming children and never brooding, washed-up authors. Excluding moi.
It’s contradictions only. It’s the perfect place to write but my hangover makes it impossible to think in a straight line. I rub my temple and blink at the empty pages on my lap.
I threw a massive party last night. I don’t remember every detail, but that’s the point. I just know that Jamie was there and he kept on talking and talking and asking me questions about Windthrow Point and Bram and my writing, and it had been driving me insane. I didn’t have any answers, so I kept drinking and encouraged him to do the same. He gave up hanging out with me eventually, but reappeared later right when I thought I was going to go home with a guy that smelled like cinnamon. I’d been pissed that Jamie had dragged me away, but maybe he was right to do it. I still can’t decide. Memories of throwing up on my porch and screaming something foul at Jamie resurface, and I let out a breath slowly.
I stare at the beach. Dazzlingly hot sand and sun, cool air, reflections flickering in the water. Seagulls calling. Boys holding rocks and shouting at their dad. It’s fucking boring and gorgeous all at once. What did I do to deserve looking at any of it?
The hangover headache hits me again, and I give up, pushing to my feet and chucking my notebook into my purse, digging around for my phone. My hands brush over an unfamiliar item, and last night rushes back.
“What’s your name?” he asks. Hate it when people ask that. Irrelevant question when we’re feeling each other in the dark.
Someone opens the pantry door, light from the party spills in, ruining the moment anyway. They leave with an armful of tortilla chips and the dubstep is rattling the shelves.
“Does it matter?” I have an arm around his shoulder, keeping him close. He smells like cinnamon.
Rough laugh. I interrupt him with another kiss. He breaks it. “You live here?”
I pull away. Trip. Hold onto the condiment shelf. Feel around until I find an unopened wine. Exclaim, “Drink!”
We drink. We talk about books, it’s blurry now. He whispers things into my ear that make me go red. Pretty soon I’m stumbling out of my house, down the driveway and towards his car. Pretty soon Jamie grabs my arm and yanks me back up the drive. But not before Cinnamon Boy presses a small novel into my hands.
“You should read it,” he says, features indistinguishable in the 2 AM light. The dark tastes like smoke, and Jamie’s hand on my forearm is stronger than my will to move my feet. I sway and nod. He leaves.
I pull the book out of my purse. I don’t remember putting it there, but sure enough, it feels the same as it did last night. One of those small novels with tiny text and little to no space between lines. It’s worn, the cover curling and the spine marked with white lines that show all the places the book was held open too long.
Quiet Before Summer is the title, written in large, no-nonsense, sans-serif font. The cover art doesn’t give anything away, it’s just a tiny fishing boat and the outline of trees. When’s the last time I read a book?
My phone interrupts my thoughts, and I shove the book back into my purse and answer the call.
“I would wait until you apologized, but it’s Friday.” Jamie’s voice is a mixture of irritation and unbridled excitement.
“Friday…” I repeat slowly. It is, but that fact doesn’t seem particularly relevant at the moment. I squint out at the water again, watch the waves lap at the shore. The boys that had been running around are shouting that they found a crab.
“Has Small Town Life made you forget what day it is?” There’s some scratching noise on the other line, then he’s back. “It’s Friday. Eve’s birthday.”
Eve. A girl that likes to call me her friend even though I only see her once a year. Once a year on her birthday. We used to be closer, back when we lived in the same dorm our freshman year of college, but I barely think about her anymore.
“I thought you came back for this, at least in part. She’d kill you if you missed. It’s her thirtieth!”
I still feel like I’m lagging behind in this conversation, and I sit back down and dust the sand off my toes. “You didn’t think to mention this to me yesterday? How am I supposed to keep track?” This is the last thing I want to do with my day.
“It’s the same day every year, Masie. And I did mention it. Multiple times. You were too busy chasing after that Tall-Dark-And-Handsome type.” That guy must’ve been actually handsome, because Jamie doesn’t sound disapproving.
It is true that I had been intentionally not listening to Jamie last night, so I believe him. “Right. Where is it this time?”
“Castle of Stuff.” He manages to say it without chortling. Which is big for Jamie.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I groan. One of the boys on the beach has face-planted in the sand, and I feel the same.
I can hear Jamie’s cat-like smile. “See you at six.”
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pt 22: https://www.theprose.com/post/822343/carcass-of-a-tigress
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