Reclaiming the Sand(48)

“Wow, you’re going to teach a bunch of people to sculpt with scrap metal? That sounds pretty cool,” I told him, finally falling into step beside him.

“I don’t teach them. I sculpt. They watch. They try to do the same thing I do. I don’t like talking to people. I don’t like them looking at me either. Kevin says it’s a good step for me. So I’m going to try it. He says he might try to come up from Greensboro,” he said. And the long stream of information he had just given me surprised me.

He was doing an art workshop for students. His therapist was in Greensboro. So he must have lived there at some point.

“I’m sure you’ll do great,” I said, though my encouragement felt flat.

Flynn shrugged. “Kevin says so too.”

“Kevin is one cool guy,” I smiled.

“Yes. He helps me. He tells me when I do something I shouldn’t. My mom used to do that,” he said swiftly.

“What sort of things do you do that you think you shouldn’t?” I asked him.

“Telling people they’re fat or ugly. Or yelling when they make me mad. He tells me when I should stay quiet and listen instead of talking. He also helps me know when people are happy with me and when they’re mad. But I’ve learned some of that on my own. Like I can tell you’re listening to me because you’re looking at me. You’re not mad because you’re not frowning but you’re not happy either because you smile when you’re happy. I know your face and what it looks like when you feel things.”

I couldn’t help but feel good at his words. I grinned.

Flynn pointed at my face. “See, now you’re happy. And you’re happy because of what I just said. Why is that?” he asked, cocking his head to the side, his hair falling into his face, making him look so much younger than his twenty-two years.

“Because you know me, Flynn. No one else pays attention to my feelings like you do,” I admitted.

Flynn chewed on his bottom lip and looked at me. He never once met my eyes but he stared at me intently all the same.

“I like making you smile. It makes me smile,” he said, his lips stretching into a beautiful grin.

I hesitantly reached out and took his hand, the same way I had done when we were teenagers. I linked our fingers together, pressing my palm against his.

The first time I had done this many years ago, he had pulled away. It had taken a while until he was comfortable enough for me to touch him. And I wasn’t sure we were at that stage now. So much time had passed since I had last touched him.

But seeing him happy, knowing how in tuned he was to me, I couldn’t help myself.

I shied from physical affection as much as Flynn did. That was one of the many reasons I had felt so connected to him in the early days of our friendship. Neither one of us could handle the implications of touch. Both of us were so isolated.

But then we had somehow found each other.

And here we were again. We were still those same disconnected people that we had been years ago, only now a little older and a little more damaged.

Once again I found myself reaching out to the only person I had ever felt safe with.

Flynn Hendrick.

The freak with Asperger’s. The boy whose life I had made miserable before I had made him happy. And then I had destroyed him before I could enjoy the changes he exacted in my life.

Or maybe I hadn’t destroyed him.

Maybe I had only succeeded in destroying myself.

Because Flynn didn’t seem ruined.

He seemed healthier than he had ever been before. His confidence, while still beleaguered, had grown by leaps and bounds.

This wasn’t a man who had been beaten down by circumstances. This was someone who embraced life the only way he could. The only way he allowed himself.

I pressed my hand into his and gave him a slight squeeze. I felt him stiffen and then pull away. His fingers escaping, recoiling.

Flynn clasped his hands together in front of him and started that incessant rubbing that I recognized all too well.

I curled my fingers into my palm and clenched them tightly. I felt his rejection acutely. I knew it wasn’t his fault. I knew his physical limitations. I felt them as well. But I had hoped…

That was the problem. I had hoped.

It would be so easy for me to get angry. To reject Flynn as surely as he had just rejected me. To call him names. To turn my back and walk away.

But I didn’t.

I dug my nails into my palm and gave Flynn a smile like he hadn’t just hurt me.

He had no idea what he had done.

“Where are you going now? Can I walk with you?” Flynn asked me. He was still rubbing his hands and I wished he’d stop. His anxiety was catching.

“I have a meeting with my advisor to talk about classes for next semester. I’m not sure I’m going to go though,” I said, telling him the thing I hadn’t quite admitted to myself yet.

Flynn stopped rubbing his hands and tucked them into the pocket of his pants. “Why wouldn’t you go? You have to pick out classes. That’s important,” he said, as if it were that easy.

“Did you go to college, Flynn?”

Flynn nodded. “Yes, I went to Guildford College. I graduated last year before Mom died. I majored in fine arts.” I wasn’t surprised. Flynn was smart. He was talented. Even at fifteen I had known he was destined for greater things than Wellsburg, West Virginia.