30. Arnaz
ARNAZ
“Carry on”
Stressed vines ripen fruit.
Dry spells strengthen roots.
“ H ealing is a process.”
My therapist’s voice echoes in my ears as I scrub my hands over my face.
1:42 a.m.
I blow out a breath and will myself out of bed.
The air is crisp as I break into a jog. Instead of heading toward the ocean, I weave through the deserted streets.
Every time I think of the Tuesday three weeks away, my stomach stutters like a heartbeat.
Me. Him. The cabin. Again.
When he sent me the rental confirmation, I lit up brighter than Ana?s’s neon-green skin that time we stole Carter’s stash of LSD and cut school.
Seven miles later, I round the corner of my block and almost trip on a web of leashes.
“Sorry,” an older man murmurs.
“All good.” I get one foot free and lunge over the tightening knot, then manage to work my second leg free.
“You’re always running,” he says.
I hitch an eyebrow as I jog in place. “You talk to my therapist?”
His eyes brighten. “Therapy…beautiful.”
I glance down our block. “I don’t usually see anyone out around this time.”
“Haven’t had a good night of sleep in decades. I’m usually out reading on the deck when I see you pass by. Oh, quiet, Julie!” He huffs at the yappy, smaller of the two dogs. “It’s my thirty-fifth wedding anniversary tomorrow, so figured I’d switch it up.”
“Yeah? Happy Anniversary.”
“Thanks.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded handkerchief. His hand trembles slightly as he wipes a bead of sweat from his upper lip. “Soon, it’ll be three years since she passed.”
I stop bouncing on my toes. Shit . “I’m sorry.”
“Chased her for years.” His eyes crinkle at the corners. “Thirty-five years of being married to my crush.”
He loosens the tension on the leash so the larger dog can sniff and then pee on the grass.
“My kids will be over to take me to lunch tomorrow,” he continues.
He isn’t alone. I roll my shoulders back, releasing some of the tension.
Thirty-five years. I don’t know why, but I think of Salem. “How’d you know it was real?”
His head tilts forward slightly. “Say it again.”
I clear my throat. “How did you know you loved her and she loved you?”
“Ah.” He raises his head. “It’s in here.” He taps his chest.
“No.” I shake my head. “I can’t trust that.”
I jump as both dogs growl and bark as a squirrel scurries by.
He shushes them.
“I’ll let you go,” I say, taking a step back.
“Hold on, son.” He closes the distance between us.
“If he loves you, and I mean truly loves you, and you feel it in here”—he thumbs his chest—“then you can try like hell to fight it, but you’d be running from one of the greatest experiences of your life.
If you want to run, maybe first know what or who it is you’re running from. ”
He. He knows who I am.
“Uh…th-thank you,” I mutter.
He nods. “I’ll see you around.”
“Yeah…see you.”
With a slight hitch in his gait, I watch him disappear around the corner.
Ana?s’s words from a few weeks ago bubble to the surface. “Ever since college…”
I think I’ve always known.