38. The Stillness After
T he sun is high and stubborn by the time I unlock the Phillips’ side gate.
Everything clings to the heat—the gate lock, the stone patio, even the lounge chairs I realign out of habit.
July in the South is thick with everything—humidity, bugs, memories.
The water’s surface is motionless, like it’s been waiting for me all day, a flat mirror of sky and clouds and the thoughts of my run-in with Kevin this morning.
The hose uncoils easily in my grip, and routine takes over—skimming the surface, checking filters, sweeping tile lines. It’s automatic. My hands know what to do, which makes it harder for my mind to stay focused and keep from drifting.
The ache is quieter now. Not the sharp kind that screams, but worn, smoothed at the edges like a river stone. I used to think someone else had to pull it out—to name the pain, to fix it. But that’s not how healing works.
Kevin showed up this morning, offering me a place to hide inside his shadow. He didn’t mention the letter. And Josh—yesterday—offering something like peace without saying it. No blame. No anger. Just grace.
I thought I wanted him. Or clarity. Or closure.
But standing there, watching him tuck his hands into his back pockets the way he always did when he didn’t know what to do with his heart, all I could think was: we missed our moment.
But maybe that’s all it ever was—a moment. And perhaps that’s enough .
A thin line of dirt clinging to the grout won’t give. The brush jerks in my hand, but I keep going. Everything has to be clean.
The truth is, I spent almost four years fixated on a memory, feeling guilty for avoiding him and believing that if I could explain myself, everything would realign.
But that night, after the swim, I didn’t run out because I didn’t enjoy what we did, or didn’t want to be with him.
I left because I did, and I didn’t know what to do with that.
That wasn’t his fault. And that one act doesn’t make me broken.
The brush clatters down. Kneeling, I catch my reflection—sweaty, tired, older than twenty-four should look. But there’s something steadier there now.
Kevin’s forgiveness was never the point. The real work was mine to do. I needed to forgive myself, and maybe for the first time, I do.
The wind kicks up, scattering a few dried petals from tiny white crape myrtle and large red hibiscus flowers across the water. Petals drift—tiny lifeboats adrift on a still surface. I’m not where I want to be, but I’m still here, and that means something.
The back door opens.
Patrick steps out barefoot, shirtless in cutoffs, squinting against the sun. His hair’s a mess, like he just woke up from one of those slow, tangled naps. There’s a hesitation in his step when he sees me, like he didn’t expect to interrupt anything.
“Hey,” he says, scratching his neck, “you’re late today.”
“I had some unexpected delays this morning,” I say.
“What are you doing next weekend?”
A blink. “Next weekend?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs, casual but not careless. “You always look busy, so I figured I’d ask early. ”
Straightening up. “You asking for a reason?”
He smiles—tilted, boyish, almost shy. “They’re showing Rebel Without a Cause at Chastain Amphitheater. I figured you should see it. I don’t know—if you’re not working or whatever it is you do at night. Maybe we could go together.”
Something about the way he says it—unpracticed and hopeful—makes me want to smile, not for what it might mean, but for the fact that someone asked.
“Why?” I ask, curious about his choice of the word ‘should.’
Patrick throws his arms up into the air. “Pool guy, are you serious? It’s a classic. James Dean. A kid wrestling with identity, masculinity, and being misunderstood. Desperate for connection, but pushing people away out of fear and confusion.”
“Did you just take a film course in school?” I ask, teasingly. I can’t help but consider the irony—Kevin taking me to a gay film festival, and now this kid asking me to go with him to a queer-coded classic.
“Yeah, I did. What are you, psychic?”
Something in me softens, reminding myself to stay present in the now, not in the anxiety of the future or the pain of the past. “I don’t know,” I say honestly, “sometimes I think I must be.”
Patrick grins. “Whatever. Let me know on Tuesday. The show is on Thursday night.” He then heads back inside as if he didn’t just crack something open.
The sun is beginning to dip behind the neighbor’s tall oak when I finish packing up. Cicadas scream like they always do when summer’s peaking. I lock the gate, toss my gear in the truck, and drive home with the windows down and the air conditioning blasting.
Back in my apartment, I pull open the windows, strip out of my work clothes, and let the evening settle over me.
I start cleaning—nothing intense, just the kitchen counters, some laundry, sweeping the floor.
I put on an album—Fleetwood Mac’s Mirage —and let Stevie Nicks tell the truth in the background while I fold towels.
The music drifts through the apartment like a spell. “Gypsy” starts up, and I catch myself swaying, just a little, as I wipe down the counter. There’s an old comfort in her voice—like she knows what it’s like to want something beautiful and not know how to keep it.
I light a candle, toss my sheets in the wash, and scrub out the inside of the fridge door. Not because it needs it, but because I want to. Because it’s mine.
No one’s waiting. No one’s coming. And still, I feel whole. No ghosts. No pretending. For the first time in a long time, Friday night feels like mine.