1
I’m Born to Run
[Thea]
The ocean breeze ran cool against my skin, as Florida’s Venice white sands ran beneath me—and for a moment I could almost forget surrounding snowbirds, tourists, and the tinderbox of trouble on its way to smoke me out. It felt good to run, to let it all go. And I’d needed this. You’d think someone on the run would despise the act itself, but that couldn’t be further from the truth.
I used to run every morning—some would say religiously—though admittedly, the scenery was different. This was a far cry from the hustle and bustle of D.C., but it helped me clear my head all the same—even if sand kept entering my shoes.
My breath ran short, my heart burned in my chest, but I was determined to keep going. If I stopped now, I knew what would come next. Gone would be the music of waves against the shore, the singular-minded bliss of the task that lay before me, and the momentary reprieve from the sensation of crumbling like the very sand I was running on. Just keep moving forward. As long as I didn’t stop, that was all there was to do. There would be no worrying or second-guessing. No anguish or regret. No loss or heartbreak. Too bad the world doesn’t work like that.
“A little help?” called a timbery voice, when an out-of-bounds serve rolled a volleyball before me. I served it back toward the lumbering boy with chiseled cheekbones and a well-crafted smile who’d spoken—a boy I’d never laid eyes on before, but who looked like someone I once thought I knew—someone I was trying to forget. His suit, meant for bathing, was far from business formal, but his blue eyes evoked embers akin to an old flame—and I was still attracted to the burn.
“Name’s Bryson,” he said, holding out his hand. Even his name was too close for comfort. “Care to join?”
It was a dangerous distraction—but a distraction all the same, and would help pass the time before it was time to move on. A growl in my stomach predicted food in my future, but my past was already en route—and bringing the government with him. From the moment I could walk, I knew I wanted to run—so I suppose it’s a good thing I was born to.
2
Ordinary
[Adam]
“If our food is cold because you took twenty minutes to pick the right yard to fertilize, I’m going to remember this.” Kenna lowered her eyes toward her paws, and gave a dramatic whimper, as if to say her world was over. “You can go ahead and stop now. Even Tommy Wiseau could give a more compelling performance than you.”
My not-so-little disaster artist got up on all fours and started licking the side of my face. “Agh! Stop it! Sheesh! I’m driving here! If you stop now, I promise I’ll share a bite.” A low and frustrated growl escaped her next. “Okay, two bites.”
By the look on her face, I could see these negotiations were going nowhere. “Fine! You get half. But the fries are mine.” Kenna proudly stood up in the passenger seat, wearing the biggest shit-eating grin she could muster. “Yeah, yeah, love you too...dumb-ass.”
We’d passed over the Circus Bridge ten minutes prior and were now pulling into our destination. The door creaked mildly as I stepped out of the cab and took in the familiar but breathtaking view, as several sails meandered along the Venice Island shoreline. I’d been coming to The Island’s South Jetty all my life, but the way the light hit the water could still leave me dumbstruck. I next reached under my seat for a thin plastic bag and prepared to be on my way.
“Now, I’ll only be gone a minute, but I’m leaving the AC on and a window cracked. If you’re good, I’ll give you a fry or two.” Kenna lifted her leg and pawed at the air as if to confirm her agreement. “That’s a good girl.”
The Crow’s Nest was a local favorite, and as safe a landing space as any through my formative years. This was in large part due to its most current member of management, who’d always made the restaurant feel like home—or at the very least, like a secondary one. A fresh coat of paint even made the tavern look new, but the familiar faces inside, dispelled any such notion.
Audrey was annoyedly wiping down tables because she preferred playing the role of hostess, while Brenda did her best to hold her tongue as an elderly patron disparaged their plate. Apparently, the blackened chicken before them tasted more like a dark shade of gray. And then there was Grace, who’d clocked my arrival before I was through the front door. She stood behind the bar of the tavern she now managed, wearing a warm smile, as she always did when I came to see her.
“Adam! I thought I heard your truck outside. Where have you been? It’s been almost a week!” She said it as if I’d committed a crime. From her perspective, I’m sure that I had. We had a standing ritual on Tuesdays in which I’d stop by with Kenna for lunch. But we usually checked in more than that, just so she could see I was alive and well.
“Yeah...sorry!” I smiled, genuinely happy to see her, before scratching the back of my neck a bit sheepishly. “I’ve been working long hours and started rereading an old favorite.”
Grace nodded in forgiving acknowledgement, but her words told a different story. “Don’t let it happen again, or you won’t live to see twenty-eight.”
I grinned at the half-hearted threat she had made. Grace was nothing if not forgiving. Still, it was best to move the conversation along lest I incur her maternal wrath.
“So, how are things? How’s Lucy?”
Grace inhaled deeply before exhaling an exasperated sigh. “As if managing this place isn’t enough. That girl is becoming a full-time job lately. She’s still getting her letters mixed up, and her teacher says she needs to know this stuff before next year because they only spend the first three months of Kindergarten reviewing letter sounds and recognition. I work, and I work, and I work with her. But that girl won’t sit still unless I ask her to draw a picture for Papi.”
A quick eye roll, followed by an undercut smile, told you everything you needed to know about Grace’s feelings on Lucy being so close to her father, and she visibly let her frustrations go, calming herself into her usual cheery disposition. Grace loved her husband and children, but Lucy, at nearly four and a half years old, did tend to have her father wrapped around her little finger more than most. It could certainly prove challenging at times.
“What does Bert think?” Grace inhaled once more, and I could see that I should have left well enough alone.
“I told Humberto that I think she might have dyslexia. And if she does, that’s fine. But we should find out so we can handle the situation head-on. Then he said the only thing wrong with her is she’s got my father’s ears. Can you believe that cabrón? If anyone has my father’s ears, it’s her Tía Sandra. And my father had beautiful ears! And did I tell you that—”
“That Abuela Lucero is staying for three weeks in December?” Sometimes it was best to jump into the conversation with a quick interjection, if only to give Grace a moment to breathe and collect herself. Most times, that worked. Most times.
“Yes! And can you believe that Humberto wants me to learn to make his mother’s tamales? What’s wrong with my tamales?”
“Absolutely nothing. You make the best tamales. I could live off your tamales. Tamales aside, though...is there any chance my order is ready?” That seemed to do the trick. If all else fails, compliment and distract.
“Oh yeah, it’ll be ready in a minute. But let me help the young lady behind you first. Her order is ready.”
Grace’s eyes lowered a moment, attempting to catch mine, before glancing over my shoulder. “Miss! Your chicken wrap is ready. Sorry for the wait!”
I turned my head to see a girl sitting at the booth behind me—a young woman, really. She wore an amused smile, like she’d been trying painstakingly not to laugh at the production she’d witnessed. I’d never seen her before, and so it surprised me entirely when my heart skipped a beat, as if it’d been impatiently awaiting her arrival.
I found her mesmerizing, in a catch-your-breath sort of way. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed her till now. And as she got up, I could have sworn I saw her bite the inside of her cheek, as if to suppress lingering amusement.
She stood about three to four inches taller than I’d have guessed, with limber, athletic legs rising high to meet denim shorts. Her shoes appeared new, with crisp, clean laces, though they were acquiring plenty of scuff marks already. She was a runner, even if she walked in slow motion—and I found myself glad she was walking toward me.
Her blouse, made of white cotton, hung from thin lines in contrast to her sun-kissed shoulders, with a mostly modest neckline that was just high enough to hide what lay adorned by the chain around her neck. Her hair fell inches from her shoulders in slight meticulous waves, and her dark eyes shone as they silently said hello.
She walked up to the counter with tentative confidence, dropping three five-dollar bills and an errant one, as I tried my best to act casual and not let on my every intention of continuing my gaze from the voyeuristic corner of my eye. I was, of course, doing a lackluster job. The art of cool was never a talent of mine, nor art itself, for that matter.
“You said fifteen and change, right? That ought to cover it.”
Grace immediately looked apologetic. “Oh, I’m sorry! I meant fifteen for the meal, but the meal doesn’t include the drink.”
The girl’s confidence noticeably wavered. “Shoot...I think I might have some change in here somewhere...”
She rummaged in the backpack she’d set on the floor, which I’d hardly noticed till now. Maybe she was a student. There were some colleges nearby, and she was about the right age.
“Hold on, I’m sure I have it in here somewhere...”
It was becoming clear that there were no spare coins lingering at the bottom of her bag. Or, if there were, they wouldn’t be enough. That’s when I noticed Grace’s head twitching rather vehemently toward the splayed money on the counter as she locked eyes with mine.
“Grace, is something the matter with your neck?”
The girl looked up momentarily from her searching to see Grace, not-so-subtly, grab the back of her aforementioned neck and say, “You know, I think there is. I keep telling my chiropractor that my neck is still bothering me, but he just...won’t...take...the hint.”
The girl continued to rummage around in her bag, but this time her slight smile had returned, just as the two remaining brain cells I had left flickered long enough for me to get out the words, “You know what, Grace, just add the drink to my tab.”
Grace cleared her throat with a not-so-subtle cough. “I mean the meal! Add the meal to my tab.” Grace smiled again, not-so-subtly. Grace was not a very subtle person.
“Oh, Adam, how generous of you!” Grace chimed, and the girl stood again in one fluid motion, setting her bag on the counter, making every effort to hold back her laughter.
“Adam is such a good guy, isn’t he?” Grace continued.
Proverbial red reached my ears as laughter finally broke—it might’ve been suppressed and muffled, but it was laughter all the same—and I was entirely mortified. The girl composed herself anew, grabbing her food and wadded bills, and then nimbly slung her bag across her shoulder. And I noticed, for a moment, an afterglow of flush—equal to my own—dissipating from her cheeks, but quickly chalked it up to the way one’s face “reddens” after continued laughter.
She then graciously nodded my way in a gesture of thanks and readied to start toward the exit, but not before saying, “I think you dropped something.” Juggling the contents of her arms, she reached for the fallen item, then set it down on the counter’s edge. I could scarcely tell you what it was, though, as my eyes never managed to leave hers.
“Thanks, Adam.”
A slight, uncontrollable shiver quickened the beat of my heart as I processed the recognition of my name from her lips. She smiled as she continued on her way out the door, and just as quickly, right out of my life. I’m pretty sure that by the time my neck stopped its craning to see her walk fully out of sight, I was easily wearing the biggest idiot grin in all of Sarasota County. That is, until I turned around to see Grace with one eyebrow raised, her arms folded firmly across her chest.
“What are you still smiling about? You didn’t even get her name.”
Shit! She was right. Grace must have thought that the change of expression on my face was pretty comical. She began laughing herself into hysterics, along with Audrey and Brenda, who apparently had been watching the whole time. That’s when insult was added to injury, and I realized that what the girl had set on the counter was a hardcover edition of a children’s book—the same book that had been in the thin plastic bag I’d been holding when I first walked in.
The flimsy plastic casing lay shorn upon the ground, tucked halfway beneath my left shoe. The handles I’d been holding had invariably ripped, and I’d utterly failed to notice. Grace was now laughing uncontrollably, a bit short of breath.
“Is this the old favorite you’ve been reading all week?” Audrey exclaimed, joining in on the fray.
“The one he couldn’t put down!” Brenda laughed in chorus.
I couldn’t help but wonder if the girl with the backpack had drawn the same embarrassing conclusion. My face grew warm in detriment, till it matched the maraschino cherries which sat behind the bar—or at least that’s what I assumed.
“Oh, Adam, what am I going to do with you?” Grace said, in a dissipating chuckle, with her laughter finally subsiding. “Is this for Lucy?”
She turned the book to face her, viewing the cover’s colorful illustrations before reading the title aloud. “The Day the Crayons Quit.”
Lucy loved exploring with color. Her nails alone were a constant cacophony of grays every time I saw her. Grace peered with a tightened smile and a mother’s concern in her eyes. I lowered my eyes ever the slightest to avoid her gaze.
“I thought she’d like the pictures.”
“Thank you, Adam,” Grace said firmly, as she reached across the counter to give my hand the slightest squeeze, before just as quickly letting go—as if to end the conversation and, simultaneously, say, ‘I’m here if you need me.’
I cleared my throat indicatively before speaking again, ready for a shift in conversation. My inability to see color in the chromatic way most others could was not a focal point I liked to rest on. My world was gray enough as it was. Grace smiled in knowing acquiescence, acknowledging my request.
“So, is the food ready?”
“Oh, honey, it was ready when you got here.” She handed me a bag from behind the counter, and I gave her some cash from the worn leather wallet in my back pocket.
“Keep the change.” I started walking, then paused for a moment. “Actually, could you get me another side of fries?”
Grace smiled again, tender this time. “Already in the bag, honey. And say hi to Kenna for me!”
I let out a deep sigh and smiled with warmth. “You’re much too good to me.”
“Yes, I am, Adam James. Yes, I am.”
I turned and began my walk toward the door, with pearls of wisdom trailing after me. “Now, the next time I find a pretty girl for you, I want you to get her name!” Grace chimed.
“And get yourself a haircut!” Audrey shouted.
“And remember to shave!” Brenda added, before I turned for one last goodbye.
“Bye, ladies!” I lilted, as I exited the door.
“Bye, Adam!” they chortled in unison before returning to a litany of laughter at my muddled meet-cute.
I’d certainly made a mess of it. If Kenna was a disaster artist, and Lucy was an artist in the making, then I suppose that made me your average, ordinary disaster. And what gleaming girl wouldn’t run from a man so mildly run-of-the-mill?
3
Been a Long Day
[Thea]
The food filled me well. I hadn’t realized how hungry I’d been till I opened the Styrofoam container and the smell of warm french fries overtook me. I ate my first bites by the handful—not the most attractive, but then I doubted anyone was watching, and if anyone was, they’d be no one I knew or would ever see again. Anyway, it was far less embarrassing than scrambling for change at the bottom of my backpack just to get a solid meal—probably one of the last solid meals I’d have for a while.
I didn’t mean to spend the last of my money so quickly, but a new pair of running shoes seemed essential after the old ones started falling apart. And at this point, what was the difference? The junker car I had bought for cash just days ago turned out to be just that—junk. The shoes would serve me far better than a handful of meals in the coming days if I was found again.
I reached for another fry, only to realize they were gone, so I took a sip of my drink instead. It was refreshing, and the view was nice. All in all, it should have amounted to a good day, but I was too wrapped up in my own head to enjoy it. In addition to this morning’s muscle-toned reminder of a man better left as a memory, this place brought on flashes of the family I missed—like my reason for being here—my grandmother.
I barely registered the boy from the restaurant as he walked by the bench where I was eating. He didn’t seem to notice me either. My back was turned, and he seemed distracted by the enthusiastic dog that was pulling him toward what seemed to be their designated lunch area. My guess was that they came here often.
Much like the jetty, I decided he wasn’t the worst view to look at either. Sure, he could use a haircut, fresh shave, and update to his wardrobe—but there was definite potential. Along with a standard pair of denim blue jeans and an overly worn pair of Doc Martens, he wore a simple, solid black t-shirt with a slightly sunken neckline that hugged at his arms and contrasted nicely with his fairer skin and soft features. I guessed that, were it not for this overcast day, you’d likely find a pair of sensible sunglasses hanging from his neck.
He was only a few years older, and his hair, while unruly, was a nice shade of brown that turned warm when it caught the light. It swept to the side, very nearly covering a slight but distinguishable scar—that ran through his left brow just an inch from its edge—and featured prominently above his gaze. But if anything, the imperfection only added to his otherwise idyllic beauty. And I wondered to myself what led to its occurrence, as I carefully observed the rest of him.
He was well-proportioned in that you wouldn’t notice the full measure of his height until he was standing before you. He stood inches above six feet but was not imposing in the slightest. His eyes were to blame for that. They were cerulean blue with a hint of ocean gray, electric in contrast to the midnight-black shirt he was wearing. More than anything, they were kind. Wide and innocent, I wanted to say they reminded me of a child’s, but the pensive gaze they held out over the water when the breeze stood still told me that this man had not been a boy in a very long time.
I decided that the boyish charm I’d seen displayed was not that of a boy at all. He was a man, to be certain. He was patient with the woman behind the bar, and though you could tell he was being polite, he seemed to show a real interest and care when she spoke—and she spoke quite a lot. His aloofness at her not-so-subtle direction, when I realized I’d be short on the bill, was comical but endearing. He did buy my meal, after all, and happily so—even if he was coerced. For all my observations, he could be easily summed up in one word: genuine.
I watched as he opened his container to share his food with his companion and noticed that he gave up the larger share. At this point, I decided that I liked him. He was, if nothing else, one of the better examples of what mankind should be. Adam, the woman in the tavern had called him. It was a nice name. Funny, I was usually terrible with names.
The dog beside him had a radiant shine to her coat that was silvery in nature—a Weimaraner, if I wasn’t mistaken. Her eyes were as brilliant as her owner’s, even from a distance. They were a clear sky blue, in line with her matching leash and collar. By the look of her eyes, she was more puppy than dog, but a large one at that. She seemed to smile as he doted on her, her spoiled nature evident—but the love and attention she received was given back in equal measure. It was a nice distraction, to say the least.
A sudden tap on my shoulder, and suddenly my respite was over. I jumped—maybe more than I should have—startling both myself and the figure who’d been trying to grab my attention. I tried clumsily to regain my composure, taking in the warm-hearted apology that was quickly directed my way.
“Oh, I’m sorry, dear! I didn’t mean to scare you!” A woman’s face, filled with laugh lines and wrinkles, looked back at me with genuine concern in her eyes.
“It’s fine. It’s not you. I’ve just...had a long day.”
“A long day? Why, it isn’t even over yet! No telling how short or long it will be.” I smiled politely, though I didn’t quite follow her thinking.
“I was just going to see if you might have room for me to join you. You see, this is my spot,” she added.
The ample-figured old woman in a sensible blouse, but colorfully patterned skirt, didn’t wait for a response before sitting down. She appeared to be nearing seventy, if not already there, with a beautiful complexion the color of nutmeg and a sense of whimsy in her wardrobe.
“Sorry, I didn’t realize this was your spot. I can go.” The woman placed a calming hand on my shoulder as I began to get up and gently guided me back to my seat, as if I’d said something that had quite amused her.
“That’s certainly not necessary. My name isn’t on the bench, you see, so it’s not actually mine. I just like to sit with Eleanor when I come here and keep her company for a while.” She beamed a little brighter, as if she’d now amused herself.
“I’m sorry, I mean if you have a friend coming, I can certainly make room.” The old woman laughed to herself delightedly, as if she fancied herself the world’s greatest comedian.
“Oh, Eleanor isn’t coming! She’s long gone!”
She slid her body a bit to the right and glanced back toward the center of the bench, waiting for my eyes to follow. Placed between us was a placard that read, IN MEMORY OF ELEANOR (JANE) VARNDELL, and below it an inscription: HER FAVORITE SPOT. The woman glanced back at me with a silent smile, as if waiting for me to catch up.
“I see. So, did you know her?” This inspired an adjoining fit of laughter that led into a bit of a cough as she pulled a small kerchief from her purse that sat beside her.
“Are you okay?”
“Oh yes, dear, I’m fine. Just a side effect of the medicine!”
“The medicine?”
“Why, laughter, my dear! The very best kind of medicine!” She was a precocious old woman, to be sure, and I decided that I liked her, also.
“I didn’t know Eleanor, but I figure if this was her favorite spot, it had to be for a reason. So, I sit here for a bit each day and try to figure out her story.”
“Her story?”
“Why, yes, everybody has a story! We know this was Eleanor’s favorite spot, but what we don’t know is why. When was the moment this became her favorite spot?” I was liking her more and more with each passing second.
“Maybe it wasn’t a moment. Maybe it was a lot of little moments,” I ventured.
“Now you’re thinking! Maybe this is where she met a handsome sailor!”
“Or had her first kiss!”
“Or had her best kiss!”
“Or shared her last one.” We both fell silent for a moment after that.
“Do you ever think you’ll find out the real reason?” I asked, quietly.
“You know, I don’t think I will. But I don’t think that’s the point.”
“Then what is?”
“I think the point is that Eleanor isn’t here today, but there was a moment in time when she was, and this was her favorite spot. And she had a story, and it mattered.” The more she spoke, the more I became endeared to her. She reminded me, in a way, of my grandmother—who I wished was here right now.
“So, tell me, dear, what is your story?” I was a bit taken aback by the question.
“My story? I don’t really have a story.” The old woman scoffed.
“Of course you have a story! Everybody has a story! Take that young man you were looking at before I came to sit down here.”
“Oh, I wasn’t looking at—”
“Oh, for pete’s sake! You have eyes, don’t you? Even I was looking!”
I gave a bit of unexpected laughter at that. She ignored my raised eyebrow and responded with a smirk before continuing. Maybe she was the world’s greatest comedian.
“The point being that everyone has a story. That young man, for example. He comes here just about every Tuesday with that same old dog and sits here by the water like it’s his favorite spot, eating the same old hamburger and french fries, before driving the same old black pickup back home, only to do it again the next week. Why?”
“Maybe he’s a picky eater?”
“Or maybe there’s a little more to it than that. Now, I could be wrong, but I’ll bet you all the oranges south of Jacksonville that that boy has a story—same as you.”
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe he does have a story, but I still don’t know what mine is.” She leaned forward with mischief in her eyes.
“You know what that means, don’t you?”
“What?”
“You’re still writing it!” It sounded a bit cliché, and yet there was sincerity and conviction when she said it. Maybe she knew something I didn’t.
“What’s your name?”
“My name is Laura, but you can call me Sug.”
“Sug?”
“Short for Sugar, it’s what my Granddaddy used to call me!” She smiled brightly at the memory, and I found myself smiling back. It’s amazing how fast you can make a friend when you aren’t looking.
“Nice to meet you, Sug. I’m Althea, but you can call me Thea. It’s what my Daddy used to call me.” It wasn’t lost on me that I’d reverted to my childhood name for my father—as my recent lack of direction had me feeling like a child.
“Thea, now that’s a beautiful name! I bet your Daddy just loves you!” It was an innocent comment to make, a moment that would have gone by unnoticed if not for the quiet pause that followed the politely rehearsed, tight-lipped smile I was used to providing in such circumstances. But Sug was more observant than most.
“I see,” Sug said, smiling slightly as she met the moment with the warmth it required. “Everybody has a story,” she lilted, as she reached out and took my hand in hers, giving it a tight squeeze that said everything would be alright in the end—and if it wasn’t alright, it wasn’t the end.
“Sug, what’s your story?” She smiled contentedly, like one does when asked a question they readily know the answer to. “Well, that one’s easy! I’m a librarian and a detective. I search for missing stories.” She gave a mischievous wink, and suddenly her hand’s comforting squeeze came to an end. Without another word, she stood and was on her way, just as quickly as she’d appeared, leaving me to ponder the moment as if it were a riddle I could solve—if only given enough time.
Regardless, as my fingers unfurled toward the salty sea air, I knew it was a moment I’d like not to forget. So, when no one was looking, I grabbed it. It shimmered like sea glass made of bubbles and sea foam. And maybe a small dash of mischief.
