Page 15 of Crazy In Love
Instead, I stop in the middle of the yard and tilt my head back, closing my eyes and hugging my coffee between both hands. And I take this moment to simply…be. To breathe. To remember and bathe in the knowledge that I’m with my family again for the first time in way too long, so close I could sprint inside and jump in their bed and steal a hug that won’t ever be denied.
When Alana and Franky left New York, they took my heart and a chunk of my soul with them.
I would never tell them their absence haunts me or that the loneliness I feel now is akin to abandonment. They’re entitled to their happiness just asmuch as anyone else. More, really. But that doesn’t mean I’m spared from the consequences of their move. It doesn’t mean that pain isn’t a beating drum, day after day, while the cruel, dark side of my subconscious reminds me that I wasn’t good enough for them to stay.
There’s what I know to be true, and of course, their move wasn’t aboutleavingme, so much as it was aboutmoving towardsomething else. But then there’s that childhood trauma I keep tucked away, rearing its ugly head and stomping on me during my darker, achier days.
But those are problems for New York Fox Tatum. For this moment, I choose appreciation andbeing. I choose the outdoors, solitude, and silence. And when I can’t stand the darkness any longer, I open my eyes and take in the beauty of this paradise my best friend has stumbled upon.
It’s all so pretty.
So clean.
So tranquil, as frogs croak and crickets chirp. Strolling toward the dock, I take in the lake that may actually be a river… a stream of some sort, considering the slow-moving water. Grass grows all the way to the edge, and flowers spring up in every available patch of dirt, so what isn’t green, is yellow and pink and blue and white.
The morning fog rolls ominously across the water’s surface, thinning with every inch of sunlight that spills over the mountains surrounding this town.
This house is nice, certainly. The land is lovely and sprawling.
But the water is otherworldly, so mesmerizing, I wonder how many mornings Alana and Tommy have snuck out to snuggle in each other’s arms and revisit the love they had pre-Franky’s conception. The relationship they have now is beautiful, but the love between teenagers, before they knew true heartache… that’s something else entirely.
I slowly wander the grass, in no rush to arrive anywhere, and scrunch my toes in the thicker patches of the lawn until dew sneaks between each one. Moisture soaks into the bottoms of my pants, darkening against the gray fabric until I’m tempted to fold the hems up.
But I don’t.
I don’t truly mind.
I sip my coffee instead and move from grass to dirt, then dirt to rocks, and when I’m close enough, I skip from rocks to the dock, all so I can stroll amongst the fog.
This is where magic happens. It’s where the world holds no pain, hearts never break, and the vulnerable are simply… okay.
It’s where everything is perfect.
I walk on my toes and look everywhere at once, fearful that I might miss something beautiful. I hold my coffee in one hand and raise the other above my head, stretching my arm, my shoulder, my back. My shirt rides up, revealing my stomach. But that, too, is okay. Because I’m the only person who exists right now, and modesty is hardly a necessity when I’m the only person alive.
I tuck loose tendrils of hair behind my ear, only for the soft breeze to knock them loose again, and when I try a second time—and lose—I leave the locks on my face and meander to the very end of the dock until I’m gifted with a view more perfect than any painting could try to imitate.
Not even the most talented artist could capture this with tools as ordinary as a canvas and paints.
I draw a deep breath, sucking air into my lungs until I taste the dew in my throat and feel the cold inside my belly, and exhaling again, I turn and lean against the railing someone—perhaps Tommy, or maybe whoever owned this land before him—built to make the dock safer. I tilt my head back and smile, though I have no clue why,exactly, I do, and I search my five senses, since the literature says to do that.
Ismellthe water, and Ifeelthe rough wood under my feet.
Ihearthe birds, and Itastemy coffee.
Then Isee… I see Chris Watkins sprint across his front yard.
Dammit.
Just like that, my delicate glass pane of peace shatters, replaced immediately with worry. Because he runs toward Tommy’s house. Toward Alana.Is she okay? Is there an emergency? Straight away, I push off the railing and prepare to run, too, but before he crosses yard boundaries, he skids to a stop, touches the ground, and turns again. He pumps his arms, head down, powerful legs carrying him faster than five o’clock in the morning should allow. Until he reaches another invisible boundary, touches the grass, and spins back again.
Exercise. Shuttle runs.
Not an emergency.
Exhaling, I rest against the railing and explore my senses again. I still feel the wood and smell the water. I hear the birds and taste my coffee, but my eyes take in more than all the others combined. Chris’ black shorts, sitting low on his hips and the ends touching his knees.
No shoes.
