Lighthouse on Rocky Coastline at Sunset (Credit: welshrocker on DeviantArt)
A quick chat before leaving for the day turned into several hours catching up with Allison, Kat, and Andrea. Allison told me how she left for Seattle and went to University of Washington. Tried out for the cheerleading squad and got laughed out of the room. Started hiking and got into some light witchy things. Bounced between Seattle and Portland to see live music. Spent a night in jail because she fought this douche who harassed her roommate at a bar while he landed in the hospital with two cracked ribs, a broken nose, and scratches on his face. And passed many lonely days staring out at the Puget Sound.
She said she loved Seattle, but it never felt like she belonged. It’ll always be a place she lived, but it’s nothing quite like home.
I updated her on everything that happened in the last five years. Martin and I both went to college at Bishop, I worked at the bakery for a summer before getting hired at the radio station, and quickly ascended the ranks due to my competence and knowledge of the area. I spearheaded our internet streaming efforts, and it exploded our listenership, while keeping up with my own music career of being a college bar cover band.
Somewhere in the middle of the conversation, we decided to extend our morning catch up into a picnic since so much of the conversation got dragged into Kat Barton: The High School Years and the impending college selection.
“If you two are going to go for a picnic, you better leave before the weather turns!” Andrea finally ushers us out the door.
“Ma’am yes ma’am!” I reply and snap off a comedic salute. Allison and I cannot help but laugh as Kat literally pushes out the door and slams it shut on us, picnic basket in hand. The smell of rain hangs in the air, but it’s drying rapidly as the sun has cracked through the clouds.
It feels strange leaving her porch and walking back to my house. Next house over, she’s literally been the girl next door for my whole life, but it’s been so long since I’ve had this shot of normalcy that I’m enamored by the strangeness of it all.
I drive a Chevy Silverado from 1989, a metallic bronze in the middle, and black on top and bottom. It used to be my grandfather’s, but he gave it to me when I turned sixteen like he promised when I was a kid. I try not to drive as much as I can, walking’s better for your health and all that, but it’s good to have when I’m heading outside town. Or when I’m helping Martin haul parts for yet another of his damn project cars.
Allison and I climb into my truck the way we did when we were seventeen. Tan cloth seats have fuzzballs from the years, and more than a couple stains from a runaway coffee cup or ill-advised takeout on a cold, late, winter’s night. Thing’s over thirty years old, and it’s a miracle it still runs. But the reliable dials flick up and then settle into their proper readings as the engine coughs to life once more. The transistor-script displays pop up, with a clock that runs four minutes fast and an odometer with a lot of digits. My trusty slightly rusty steel steed creaks into gear, and we’re rolling.
“What are you going to do when this thing finally dies?” she asks me as I back it down the driveway and onto the street.
“Hopefully get a car that doesn’t make me look like I have a Confederate flag hung up on my wall at home,” I answer, pausing before adding, “And that has airbags.”
“How have you failed to mention that fact to me?” She asks, turning to face me, “What happens if we get hit?”
I’m pretty sure this thing is on its last leg and I only now just mention to her that it doesn’t have airbags. And that it also probably has given us cancer by now. “I guess I just need to make sure we don’t find out.”
Since taking possession of the truck, I have upgraded the sound system with Martin’s help. Currently, the massive collection of music downloaded to my phone plays “Strange Magic” by Electric Light Orchestra. I choose to ignore the implications and focus on the song. The opening guitar riff fills the air, and I am compelled to sneak a peek at Allison.
The sparkle of her eyes entrances me, the dance of the sunlight off her hair is alluring, the freckles lit up by the glow of the sun, the smell of the rain still present in the air. We share a glance, resulting in my smiling and her laughing. That melodic, sweet laugh that’s a far cry from anything I’ve heard with frequency these last several years.
I turn my attention back to the road as the song continues on. Damnit Adams, focus on driving. We go for a ways longer, the sweet and melancholic tune closing out, reflecting the way the light refracts off every droplet of water covering the land. Jeff Buckley comes up next, with “Mojo Pin.”
Buckley’s a tricky bastard to play, and I have a hard time singing like he does. He lifts you up and burrows his way into your heart at the same time. It’s incredible to listen to, and a pain to replicate. The sense of beautiful anguish that permeates his music is the best descriptor for the little sticks poking at wounds which still quite haven’t healed. This morning brought back a rush of old feelings. Amidst the effervescent joy of having my old friend back in my life and sharing what we got up to in the years we were apart, there’s a resentment lurking underneath the surface. Why did she decide to come back now? Why after I started to pick myself back up? I could feel all the questions, but it’s shaping up to be a nice day and I don’t want to ruin it. We’ll have plenty of time to fight later.
Our destination is Sentinel’s Point, an ocean overlook which sits outside of town. It’s an occasional party spot for high schoolers, but they prefer Orion’s Bluff which is closer and overlooks the town. There isn’t a whole lot to look at in the ocean at night if it’s overcast or the moon isn’t particularly bright, so the town is a better spot for all of them. I always preferred the ocean. Could be because I’m too close to much of the town, so the ocean is freer, with greater depth, and provides better inspiration. I’ve sat here on many a lazy summer afternoon with a guitar trying to write songs which never came.
Sentinel’s Point gets its name from the lighthouse which rises above to warn ships of the rocks below and help guide them into harbor in town. Its sister sits outside of town on the other side, but the terrain is less impressive. Both of these magnificent, towering obelisks are just that: dimmed reminders of days gone by. Their beacons no longer guide the seafarers on stormy days and the dark of night. Ships have GPS now. Still, the lighthouses becoming inert museums is a metaphor which rings true.
“Here looks good,” I state as I pull off the main road and out to the overlook itself. The roar of the ocean dashing itself against the rocks below is dulled by the distance. The smell of salt in the sea spray is carried up to us by stronger winds today, no doubt the remnants of the storm. The lighthouse stands in the middle distance, a white and red tower watching over us. As it has for generations. I’ve spent hours upon hours in its shadow, many of them with Allison.
After a bit of banter regarding the sandwiches she made, we dig in. Today has been a whirlwind of reconnection and remembrance. It all felt good, until she asked about my mom. I was reluctant to say anything last night, but I guess now is as good as any time to let her know the truth.
“So you know how I was evasive about my parents last night?”
She nods in between bites of her sandwich.
“Mom disappeared a few months after you left.”
Allison drops her sandwich in shock. Or at least, the facial expressions she’s making are the hallmarks of someone pretending to process a major shock in real time. Someone who didn’t know her usual reaction would be to ask a few questions instead of staying silent would probably buy it. She knew somehow. I won’t press the issue for now.
“What happened?”
“A few months after you moved out to Seattle, mom vanished. In the middle of the night, she was just gone. She left a note, but it was vague. Basically, she promised that she’d always love dad, Reilly, and me until the end of time, and walking away was the hardest thing she’d ever do but she did it for us. I know she’s still out there because she occasionally sends postcards or letters to my grandparents in Philadelphia. Never a return address.”
I take another bite of my sandwich while Allison processes all of it. She’s gotten very good at hiding her emotions, but I know her tells. The slight curl of a scowl on the edge of her lips telegraphs disapproval, the minute narrowing of her eyes means skepticism, and the way she balls her fist by flexing her fingers and then pulling them in like flowing water is anger. They’re far less intense than they used to be, and she immediately breaks them and resets her face and body language. Most people don’t know her well enough to understand. But I do.
“How can she be so fucking heartless?” Allison almost throws her sandwich to the ocean as some sort of spiteful offering to Poseidon in hopes it would annoy him into bringing my mother back. I can’t help but crack a tired smile at how some parts of Allison Graves have remained the same. It’s a well of warmth I haven’t felt inside me in a long, long time. This time, I know her reaction is genuine, so she must not have known everything.
“I made my peace with it long ago,” I assure her, while staring out at the ocean. I can’t trust the chance she remembers my tells too. “Come on, let’s not let old ghosts ruin a nice day. This is about us today.”
“All right, all right, just for you.” She agrees to drop the fury for the moment and polishes off her would-be offering to the ruler of the ocean, deciding the sandwich would be better spent on her than pointless prayers to a silent god. “C’mon, let’s go check if that blackberry patch is still around.”
She runs into the grass as I hum along to U2’s “Wild Honey” coming from my truck speakers. The sun breaking the clouds, bouncing off the Atlantic, and warming the air makes me feel what I should feel for the first time in a while. Allison’s laugh, her rage left by the wayside, overpowers the wind and the sea and the thoughts in my head to let me get lost in the feeling of being alive. All that matters is my old friend, the music, and blackberries.
The blackberry patch in question is one we used to go to when we were in high school. Once we could drive, this place became a favored picnic ground, and eating fresh blackberries right off the bush was a summertime delight back in the day. Today is an exercise in acting like Gatsby and reliving the past.
“Casey,” she gets my attention. The way she says my name. It isn’t screeching, demanding, possessive, or biting and acidic the way so many people say it. I feel lightning when she calls my name in this warm, wanting, inviting way. It is a call that strikes me deeper than any words anyone has ever muttered. It’s mournful and hopeful, in that beautifully paradoxical way humans feel.
“Yeah,” I reply and join her. I shake my head. Tapping too much into old nostalgia right now, and that leads to a dark path. The clouds threatening to form over my head are dispelled as I move closer to stand near her. She crouches down and gestures to her find.
“Look,” she says, “They still grow here.”
I let the metaphor for our friendship slide without verbal recognition. Subtext works just fine in conversations with us. I can tell by the sly smile she shoots me that she’s thinking the same thing. I crouch down to aid in the picking. A few moments go by of smiley silence in the warm autumn wind as the last of the summer blackberries collect in our hands. She eats one, closes her eyes, and smiles.
“Mmmm, it’s really sweet.”
I pop one in my mouth and bite. Immediately my face puckers up hard, and my eyes are shut in disgust. I’m stuck like that for several seconds. Allison laughs hysterically at me. The moment is ruined, as are my tastebuds for the next few minutes. And I left my water in the car.
“Fuck me, that was sour,” I comment in between clicking my tongue a few times to try and reset the involuntary response to the really sour blackberry. She laughs again, and I give her a look at appears to be one of annoyance, but it’s a playful annoyance. The type of annoyed expression that I can’t quite hold because my eyes are too soft and my smile keeps threatening to break through.
We diligently trod back up to my truck with our haul, careful not to lose a single berry. It’s an impressive feat on the deceptively uneven ground without being able to move our arms around to balance ourselves. The picnic basket has an empty container we fill with our findings. Mission accomplished.
“I think mom will love the berries,” Allison says.
“Think it’s enough for one of her famous blackberry pies?” I prod. Andrea is probably the only baker in town who could give my dad a run for his money. In another life, perhaps something would have happened there. But I don’t know if my dad has so much as spoken to Andrea since Allison left town, and I’m not suffering under any delusions that he’ll move on from mom any time soon. The past seems to have its tendrils around him and is too stubborn to let go. I don’t think he fights them as much as he should either. Like father, like son, I guess.
“Duh, why else would I insist on the last of the summer blackberries?” Her lips are slightly stained from the juice. The image of her with black lipstick in the pulsing lights of a concert in a dingy Seattle venue crosses my mind for a brief moment. A reminder that no matter how much it feels like settling back into old times, she’s changed. We’ve both changed.
Jack Johnson’s “Belle” starts playing, and I get an idea. I’m planning on showing off that I found my sense of rhythm in college. Spurred by some compulsion to impress her. I put on a jokingly posh voice and adopt a mockingly stiff posture. “Allison Graves, may I have this dance?”
“Casey Adams can dance, I’m intrigued,” she responds in a light, airy voice before she takes my hands. We flit around the outside of my truck, the song seemingly lifting us to the clouds. I smile with contentment. This is happiness. This is feeling alive. We’re both grinning from ear to ear as we swirl, step, and move around. Together. My heart races when she comes closer, I see constellations in the freckles on her face.
“Thank you for the dance,” I whisper once the song ends. My voice refuses to speak any louder. Concern over my increasing lack of control over myself when she’s around crosses my mind at supersonic speed, just as quickly replaced with curiosity at whatever is behind her hesitant gaze affixed to my face.
“Can I tell you something?”
My heart races to my throat so fast that it slams into my jaw. I nod, unable to speak. I’m still holding her close after the dance ended, and neither of us are in a hurry to break it.
Her dart to a few different spots before settling on my eyes as well. “I haven’t had a day this nice since the weekend after graduation. When we all stayed over at your house after that party, and you brought your guitar out to the ocean when we had that fire.”
“That was a good night,” I agree simply, cracking up, “Remember when those football meatheads came up, and the quarterback tried to pick a fight with Martin, and I laid him out?”
“Ugh, you looked so manly that night,” she says, teasingly. As if she finds it very attractive. Complete with gently running her hand down my chest, and the spark that leaps out of my heart so fast I’m surprised there isn’t a crack of thunder makes me question if she’s just joking. She has to be.
I let her go and step back so I have enough room to mockingly blow the smoke off my fists like old west gunslingers do in the movies. “Yeah, that was a George Foreman uppercut if I ever saw one,” I punctuate my quip with an awkward chuckle. Cool water is flowing back into my brain since separating from her. Why did I want to dance with her?
“Well, I wanted you to kiss me that night.”
There’s the real George Foreman uppercut.
In high school, had a girl said that to me, I would have closed the distance between us, swept her up into a kiss, and not given a damn about anything else. My legs and arms had already started to move before self-control kicked in, and my heartrate spikes to the point where I imagine this is what I’d feel if I were in downtown Baghdad circa 2003. Not that I’ve ever experienced anything close to that.
“Why the hell didn’t you say something back then?” I try to play it cool, but the question burrows into my mind and darkens my mood. She left me for five years, barely any attempts to reach out, and the first day back she’s admitting to a massive crush on me from back in the day. Without any regard for the life I’ve had to build in her absence. I mean, what the fuck?
I repeat the question with more of an accusatory tone.
She shifts her weight back and crosses her arms. The slight scowl comes back, and she doesn’t shove it down this time. She plants her feet and stares me down. “I was going away, assumedly for the rest of my life. I didn’t think it was fair to drop that on you before I left!”
I glower at her in return. “So you drop back into my life without so much as a courtesy call before coming back to town, and drag up old ghosts and ‘I wish I would haves’ from days gone by without a regard for what I’ve had to do in the interim?”
“You never spoke to me like this before,” she seems genuinely shocked in both tone and wide eyes.
“This was before you left me.”
That was a cheap shot, and I realize it as soon as I turn around to get in the truck. I gesture for her to do the same. I’m pissed as hell but I’m not leaving her out here. She climbs in with the picnic basket between us, and the engine rumbles to life. I fumble with my phone and turn off Do Not Disturb as I switch playlists. Pink Floyd’s, “Keep Talking” off The Division Bell finds its way through the speakers. The words bite into my already troubled mind. I’m white knuckled on the steering wheel, but I don’t say anything. Neither does Allison.
Then the phone rings.
“Yeah.” I’m curt and dismissive when I pick up.
“DUDE!” It’s my sister. “WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN!?”
“Well, Allison came back into town, and we decided to hang today. Relive the glory days.” Reilly doesn’t need to know we’ve been fighting. Allison shoots me a thankful glance at keeping our current conundrum covert, though her body language tells me the gratitude is still tinged with frustration.
“That’s perfect! Hi Allison!”
“Hey Reilly,” Allison’s response lacks enthusiasm, but Reilly has enough for both of them.
“Anyways, good that you guys are together. Justin and I are engaged!”
HOLY. SHIT.
“Oh my God, that’s fantastic!” I shout, way louder than I anticipated. I hope Reilly’s too excited to put together that I’m obviously overcompensating. This is an absolutely amazing occurrence, and I will have to properly contemplate and get excited about it when I have the emotional bandwidth.
“Yeah, dad is inviting all the family over for dinner tonight so we can tell everyone! I figured you’d get the news then since you’ve been ducking my calls all day!”
“Yeah yeah, haven’t I talked to you enough over the years?” I shoot back playfully.
“Asshole. You better be there. And Allison needs to come too.”
I wince, seeing as the fact I’m driving is the only reason Allison and I aren’t ripping into each other right now.
“I’ll make sure she’s there.” I didn’t mean to say that. Allison looks at me in anger and disbelief. She punches my arm, hard. I wave at her to cut it out while keeping my eyes on the road. I then gesture for her to respond in some fashion to Reilly’s invite. My sister’s excitedly distracted, not hopelessly clueless.
“Totally, Reilly!” Allison’s voice cracks hard but I don’t think my sister notices. Fills me with a slight spot of relief.
“Awesome, see you guys tonight!” My sister hangs up.
I am so fucking fucked.
Ark of the Lost Angels 
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