Halfway to You(112)
ANN
San Juan Island, Washington State, USA May 2019
Planted at the patio table on my deck overlooking the Haro Strait, I set down my pen and flexed my cramped fingers. A crisp wind kicked up from the sea far below, threatening to extinguish the candle in the center of the table. The air smelled of pine resin and rain. Summer was around the corner in the Pacific Northwest, but for now the balmy afternoons still succumbed to evenings made for fleece and wool.
I’d been bent over my notebook for hours, trying to tie two ideas together by way of a metaphor that just wasn’t working. I knew by then that such quagmires couldn’t be rushed or forced, but that hadn’t stopped me from obsessing over words all afternoon. Some things never changed, but I’d come to enjoy the wrestling match of syntax, truth grappling with fiction.
Behind me, the sliding glass door creaked. When I looked back, Todd was there, two wineglasses grasped in one hand, stems crossed. In his other hand: a bottle with a blue label.
“You look like you could use a break.” He settled into the chair across from me, and I moved my notebook to the side to make way for his offering.
“I’m not sure if I need a break or new story entirely.”
Todd uncorked and poured. “Why don’t you get Keith’s opinion?”
I shook my head. “Friends don’t let friends read first drafts.” I took up my glass, sniffing the familiar white. “Besides, this is my problem to solve.”
“Am I interrupting?”
I rested my palm atop his chilly fingers and squeezed. “Not at all.”
Since he’d moved to San Juan, we’d fallen into an easy rhythm. He was the sea to my beach, after all; we had drawn together and apart for thirty-five years, and I knew better than to push him away now. Our present existence was a high tide, and I would take every moment I could get—even if it meant setting my writing aside for the night.
Todd settled in, stretching his legs out underneath the table—and his foot knocked the wobbly wire base. Our wineglasses teetered; I managed to lift them before they toppled off the deck.
I chuckled at his clumsiness.
“I thought I’d grown out of spilling your wine,” Todd said, cheeks flushing.
“Good thing I still find it charming.”
Todd shook his head, tucking his feet underneath his chair. “Any more thoughts about summer travels?”
“Why don’t we stay home this summer? Let Carmella come to us?”
“I like that idea.”
I lifted the wine to my lips, belatedly realizing that I’d tasted this before—a long time ago. I twisted the bottle to examine the label. When I looked up again, Todd was grinning.
How he had managed to track down a bottle of Assyrtiko wine, I wasn’t sure—but I chose not to ask, simply for the sake of novelty. By then, mundane musings were the full extent of mystery that I could palate: the surprising notes of flint and honeysuckle in the wine, how it tasted of Santorini and yearning; the way the blue in Todd’s irises deepened as the evening swept in; how my heart still trilled like a songbird in his presence; and how his gaze remained ever trained on me, as if I was the only person in the world who mattered.
“What is it, Copper?” Todd asked.
I blinked, refocusing on that handsome face of his. “Nothing,” I said. “I’m just content.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled, and then he hefted the bottle of wine, refilling my glass. And it occurred to me that finally, finally, I was no longer waiting for him, but savoring him.
MAGGIE
Colorado Springs, Colorado, USA
Saturday, May 4, 2024
Iris is tending the grill like her father used to, the only Whitaker to inherit Keith’s skill with charcoal—but that doesn’t stop Bob, Barrett, and Uncle Jackson from hovering. The scent of brats and veggie burgers wafts through the backyard, making Maggie’s mouth water as she sits with her cousins Fiona and Beatrice on the lawn, surrounded by the familiar sights and sounds of childhood.
Until today, she hadn’t visited this backyard in years. Maggie expected it to feel like entering a funeral, a solemn affair, but when she’d pushed through the creaky side gate with a plate of cookies in hand, seeing everyone here . . . well, it had felt like a celebration, little fireworks going off in her chest, people cheering and hugging her in welcome.
In many ways, the place looks the same: the same pool, with the one cracked tile that Keith used to use as a starting point for cannonballs; the same three picnic tables, lined up banquet-style; the same old playset with the staticky plastic slide, the bolts of which used to burn the kids’ bare legs in the summertime.
But the backyard has changed in the years since Maggie has visited too. Barbara added new planter boxes, umbrellas for the tables, string lights. Glancing at the shaded patio set where Barbara, Tracey, and Natalie now sit, Maggie wonders how many of these new features Barbara bought just for this occasion: their first reunion without Keith.
When Fiona and Bea leave Maggie in search of more lemonade, Maggie checks her phone. There’s an unread notification in Keith’s Fanclub, a new text thread she created. Previous messages go all the way back to February this year, when the foundation of Maggie’s life was imploding; in the months since, amid the efforts to rebuild—family counseling sessions and visits home—the new thread has been a refuge of jokes and memories and love, with all her favorite people.