Circling The Shadows Read online

  "Are we going to skip names?" he asks.

  She smiles again but doesn't answer right away. He watches her face while she contemplates her words. Her eyes are the color of the sky. She bites her bottom lip, considering his question. Why is that so appealing?

  "Can we enjoy a little anonymity for a while?" she asks, facing the horizon instead of him.

  John takes his time answering too. Everyone in his life is pulling at him and this beautiful stranger not knowing, not caring about him at all, is a relief. Wind surfers race in the distance. The sand between his toes feels good, familiar. He has missed this place. A family further down gathers possessions after their beach day. The little girl and her father reel in their rainbow-colored kite. John watches, feeling a wash of guilt, wondering where his little girl is right now.

  "Anonymity is good," he admits, pushing away thoughts of his daughter, wondering yet again if he should head back to the house. The memories are starting to swim a little, maybe he is drifting too far out. He isn’t used to sitting on the beach making small talk with a beautiful woman. He feels a million miles away from the life he has come to know, life on the road. Load in, watch the show, load out and take a bottle to bed. Wake up feeling like you were hit by a train, pull your shit together, move to the next city and repeat.

  After a while, she stands and takes his hand, pulling him up. He is caught off guard by her gesture and her silence, but he follows anyway. It is sudden, yet she moves without hesitation. John thinks he understands, but he’s not quite sure he believes it. Are they just done talking or is she really taking him to bed? He resists for a moment, more out of surprise than lack of desire. He hasn’t been with a woman in a hell of a long time. Still, he wordlessly lets her lead him into her house. With the lack of dialogue, he doesn’t really need to resist. Following is easy. Discussing is harder. Do people do this in real life?

  The sun is low but still bright. She leads him not to the bedroom, but to the kitchen. A big island counter stands in the center. She puts her hands in his hair, pulling his head down. John hesitates, studying her face. Her breathing is shallow. He wonders if it is shallow from desire or fear. He meets her lips slowly, testing the waters of contact. She doesn’t rush him. After a breath together, and then two, he lets go and kisses her like he has known her for years, not minutes. He isn't sure how he feels about this, but now is not a time for thought. He turns off his brain, or at least tries to.

  John releases her hair from its tie and buries his fingers in to feel every strand. He is astonished by the volume of his need. It had been quiet for so long. She returns his kiss with a force that seems like years of missed opportunities or maybe the missed opportunities are his own. She holds his face and strokes his beard. When she touches his beard, he stalls, taking his mouth from hers and leaning his face into her hand. He closes his eyes tight. He has not been with a woman since the beard. He has not been with a woman since Sarah killed herself. He is suddenly unsure of himself, and this makes him even more unsure of himself, and he is not a man who often feels this way. He thinks the moment may have passed. He ruined it. He opens his eyes, thinking he should go, and she is staring into his. Blue eyes into green eyes. She is questioning without words, but she doesn't really need answers, and he is grateful. Her hands on his face calm him and help bring him back to the moment.

  "Yes?" she asks.

  He takes a deep breath and kisses her again, righting the ship, ignoring the tightness in his throat. He pushes the past away and tastes the now. It tastes so good.

  He understands why they aren't in a bedroom. She needs this as much as he does—just the connection, not the complication. Sometimes sex is more important than intimacy. Sometimes satisfying the body is more necessary than satisfying the soul. He thinks about using a condom, but he sure as hell doesn’t have one. He figures she has taken care of herself, as far as birth control. If she has AIDS, he imagines he’ll die too. At this point in his life, he doesn’t really give a shit.

  They undress quickly with only a little awkwardness. She is thin, more angles than curves, but her skin is like silk. He lifts her. She is too light. She wraps her legs around him. He slides into her easily and they both gasp in genuine shock at this long missed pleasure. He rests her onto the island and they watch each other through their passion, like old lovers not new. He finally loses himself in the physical pleasure, letting go of the tightness he is so used to. He comes first. It isn't like a movie where they come screaming together. He comes hard, sweating, panting. It has been a long time for him. When she lies back on the counter, he pulls her to the edge, spreads her legs and thanks her with his mouth. She comes fast and quietly. After a moment, he pulls her back into his arms and holds her close. She wraps herself around him and they breathe together. Her long hair falls across his back.

  He isn't sure what is supposed to happen next. But for the moment having her wrapped around him, breathless and satisfied is just fine. Suddenly, she inhales him.

  "Are you smelling me? I must smell awful," he laughs with his face in her hair. Her hair smells like lavender. It makes him want to curl up with her and sleep the rest of the day away.

  "No, you smell perfect actually," she nearly purrs. “You smell like a perfect afternoon.”

  She breathes into his neck, wraps herself tighter around him and he likes it a lot. "Why do I feel like I could stand in this kitchen with you all day?" he asks not wanting to put her down.

  She whispers into his neck, "I feel the same way." They continue to breathe together, neither breaking the connection. After a few minutes she suggests, "Swim?"

  He assesses how he feels about spending more time together and is a little surprised that he does want to spend more time with her. "Absolutely," he agrees.

  They find a gift basket with bottled water in the living room. Lynn truly had thought of everything. They each grab a bottle and pull their clothes back on before heading outside. They unload Anna’s car together.

  “I just need a few moments to get organized,” she says. “See you on the beach in thirty?”

  He smiles and waves before heading to 516 to change. Climbing the stairs to his house, memories hit him like a punch to the gut. He tries to remember his dead wife Sarah gliding in the empty swing, swaying in the breeze. He can’t remember her without the tightness in his chest. He can’t remember her when she was smiling and full of life. He can only see her as ashen and drained of blood.

  Anna reclines on her bed with her legs propped against the wall, feeling absolutely ridiculous. Could it possibly have been that easy? She visualizes his sperm finding her somewhat antiquated eggs. After fifteen minutes, she gives up and goes digging for a bathing suit in the pile of suitcases in her hallway. She laughs at the mound of clothes she has brought and changes into a pale yellow bikini. Not bad for thirty-five. She checks herself out in the mirror.

  A rush of heat passes through her. Anna tries to remember the last time she came as hard as she just came on her counter top, and can't. He seems like a nice man, maybe a little sad. What would he think if he knew she was trying to have his baby? He’d be furious, of course. But he didn’t ask her anything about birth control and he sure didn’t pull forth a condom. Shame on him for not taking any responsibility. She purposefully pushes aside the negative thoughts that threaten to creep in. There is always self-doubt, guilt and fear—so much fear.

  She tries to forget the way her last pregnancy ended. She tries to forget the violence of her marriage. Stay in the moment, just here and now, she reminds herself, refocusing. She does refocus and remembers laying on her kitchen counter with his mouth on her and it makes her shiver. She steadies herself with a hand on the dresser, then grabs a towel and her key and walks out to meet him on the beach.

  John sits, drinking another bottle of water at his kitchen table. Something got lost, or more likely something got found, on his way back to the house, and all he can do is remember. He felt free and easy leaving next door, satisfied for the first ti
me in a long time. The closer he came to his own house, cutting through the yard, the more the memories started to flow. Sarah never even liked it here, but the last time he sat on that porch swing, she sat at his side. He tries remembering the past with some well-earned distance.

  He tries to think of his beautiful blonde neighbor, on the counter, then in his arms smelling of passion and lavender. But all he can think about is yesterday, puking at the airport, and all of the other days before he came here, the 562 days since Sarah destroyed him. Blood stains his memories. First, it is Sarah’s blood pouring from the slashes across her wrists, and then comes the blood from the fights in Argentina. He made a lot of money drawing out that blood, but it left a mark on him. He drinks more water and doesn't move from the chair.

  Thirty minutes pass, and then forty. Eventually, he hears a knock on the glass back door, but he ignores it. He feels paralyzed. Even though he wants to, he can’t move from that damn chair. He can’t more forward while the past still grips him so hard. His chest feels the familiar tightness that he can’t seem to shake. She waits a few minutes and then leaves. He sees her out the window, walking toward the surf, hips swaying slightly with a blue striped beach towel tossed over her shoulder.

  John reaches for pen and paper, like he always does, and runs his hand through his hair. His expression looks like a smile but it isn’t. Teeth grind on teeth hard. He has written a note every day for the past 562 days. Usually, he writes a few lines, crosses them out, and writes a few more. Sometimes he starts a fresh page, wanting it to look nice, with better handwriting, for whoever finds it. Today, he just sits and stares at the page, no words come. He tries for a long time, but still no words come.

  When the sun is low in the sky, he does get up from the chair. He folds the blank paper again and again, tearing it in two, then four and flushes it down the toilet. He goes out for a long hard run, showers and unpacks. He feels more relaxed, more in control. Later he locks the house, cuts through the flowerbed yet again, and walks across the lawn of 517. After a moment he goes back to the flowerbed and grabs a handful of blooms. He bundles them together as neatly as he can. He knocks, considering what to say. He has to say something.

  She opens the door, smelling lightly of shampoo, lavender again. Her golden curls hang loose beyond her shoulders, and she wears a simple blue sundress—the same color as her eyes. She steps out onto the porch, not asking him in.

  "I think I owe you an apology," she says before he can speak. "That might have been a bit much for check-in day."

  “No woman has ever had to apologize for hot sex on a kitchen counter,” he says. “I’m the one with an apology.” He hands her the flowers, not sure what else to say. "Don't tell Lynn I raided the…whatever these are called."

  "Oh, I think we have a lot we shouldn't tell Lynn," she says, hesitating for a moment before opening the door wide so he can come in. He follows her to the kitchen. She finds a vase in the cabinet, fills it with water and arranges the blooms inside. "I'm Anna."

  "Anna, I’m happy to know you. I’m John." They shake hands. He feels the electricity pass from her hand to his and wonders if the spark is real and biological or only imagined. "Can I make you dinner?" he asks without thinking.

  She is slow to answer, and he is filled with quick regret, wondering how he can retract the question without looking like an asshole.

  She stammers through an answer. "I would love that. I am absolutely famished. But...”

  So he bullshits. "Oh god. Please tell me you’re not a vegan."

  "No, no. I am one hundred percent carnivore. I just had this thought.” She stalls again, eyes darting around the room as if looking for an exit. The awkward is tangible. He considers just backing away slowly, like he would from a rabid animal.

  “We, well really me, I jumped right in this afternoon, head first. Oh no, was that weird?"

  He can’t help smiling at her blush.

  She continues anyway, "But I didn't mean to force any deep intimacy between us. Sex is so simple, but intimacy can be very complicated at times."

  Oh. "I know what you mean," he says, surprised.

  "Really? I don’t want complicated right now. Can we just share names and dinner and skip all the other crap, sad stories and the like? I don't want to sit for a meal and feel compelled to lay it all out for you. I’m an excellent conversationalist. I’m a movie fanatic and I read everything I can get my hands on, including the newspaper. I just don’t want to talk about… me," she says with a shrug.

  Unexpected indeed. “Just dinner. That works perfectly for me,” he says.

  "I just want to relax and have some fun.”

  "I'd be more than happy to keep all my bullshit stories to myself," he says, glad he didn’t run.

  "Are we good then?" she asks, unsure.

  "We are," he says, hiding his relief. "How about steaks and salad and no past-tense dialogue. While we’re at it, can we skip the future tense too? I don’t want to have a thought beyond Labor Day."

  "Wait, are you staying the whole summer too then?" she asks, eyes wide.

  “I am.”

  "Well then, here’s to the present tense." She picks up a bottle of wine from the collection on the counter, raises it high and toasts. "You have steaks. I have an endless supply of red wine and chocolate."

  "Well, aren't we a pair," he says with an easy smile.

  John grills the steaks to a perfect medium rare. Salad with a balsamic vinaigrette is full of fresh tomatoes, cucumbers, and berries he picked up at a farmers market on his way into town. They sit on John’s deck, embraced by the warm ocean breeze, moonlight, and the glow of more than a few glasses of wine. As he pours her third glass, she decides to reevaluate her timeline. This is better.

  Contemplating him, brown hair curling beneath his collar, green eyes piercing her attempt at a steeled heart, she is greedy for this. His shoulders alone are enough to make her veer off the road she is on. The memory of laying her head on those shoulders, earlier in the kitchen, is enough to fill her with desire and a feeling of entitlement that is brand new for her. She treats him to a smile.

  “What are you smiling about?” he asks, sharing a smile of his own.

  “I am just enjoying myself. Immensely.” She hasn’t felt like this in a long time… this relaxed, happy, desirable… maybe never. The only men she has seen for years have been doctors in white coats. Watching Dylan wither and die was bad enough, but the years before were difficult too. He had always been demanding. She has never permitted herself to consider her needs and wants, first and only, and this summer is her time to change all that. Right now, she absolutely needs everything that she wants. And she wants John. It is all she can do not to rip off her clothes and enjoy a replay of this afternoon on his wrought iron deck table. Manners, manners, she reminds herself sipping the dark red wine.

  She decides she’ll enjoy her wine until she knows she is pregnant. For god’s sake women were running from dinosaurs or whatever, and having healthy babies. Women were drinking and smoking and eating whatever the hell they wanted until just a few years ago. She’ll be fine with a little wine.

  Despite their agreement to keep the conversation light, there is a lot of conversation. They cover movies, books, weather forecasts, houses and furnishings, Osprey Island’s history and she sneaks in politics too. While it wouldn’t be a deal breaker, it is a good barometer of shared values and she is tired of arguments about social programs and gay rights. The bottom of the third glass of wine offers a lot of conversational freedom.

  “So, gay rights,” she says.

  “Where did that come from?” he asks shaking his head.

  “I don’t want to be screwing a homophobic asshole. Just checking,” she laughs at her own boldness. Dylan was a homophobic asshole.

  “Excellent interview technique. You caught me right off my guard. Okay, I’m all for gay rights, women’s rights and most social programs. But…”

  “Go on,” she is pleased.

  “Pro-
gun. I am a card-carrying member of the NRA.” He gives her an insincerely apologetic smile.

  “Damn it. I thought we were batting a thousand. So close.” She raises her glass to toast him, but he fills it. “Okay then, tell me this. What is your fantasy dinner party? Invite three guests, dead or alive and explain your choices.”

  “This dinner party we’re having right here is pretty good.”

  “It certainly is. Come on. Who would you pick? Dead or alive,” she repeats.

  He rubs his chin, considering her question. “Jesus.”

  She is surprised. “Are you quite religious?” She didn’t peg him for a bible thumper.

  “Not at all. There was a Jesus. Whether he was the son of God isn’t for me to say or not. But he had a philosophy and he was a great leader. I just want to know if his expectations are being met.”

  “Explain.”

  “Is this what Jesus would have intended? Huge ornate churches, overflowing coffers, women treated like second class citizens, disdain for the poor.”

  “Wow,” she agrees. “Good one. Next?”

  “Chuck Palahniuk,” he says without hesitating.

  “The Fight Club author?”

  “I fucking loved Fight Club. It goes places no one ever goes. It spoke to me about the darkness that is alive, within us all,” he says sincerely. “It is one of a kind.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” She is less pleased with his Fight Club response than his Jesus answer. “Last?”

  “You.”

  “Me? Really? And why would I rate in such extraordinary company?”

  “I’m enjoying getting to know you, and I’d hope to get laid after that dinner.”