The Seas Between Us
Chapter One
I dreamt of the ocean again. The dreams came more frequently as the moon rose higher in the sky, and I knew by the weekend, I’d be up all night, frantically painting some phantom I saw in those dreams. The ocean, darker and deeper blue than an endless galaxy, would gently lap at me, enticing me into the depths. That flash of pink never failed to catch my eye and I spent every second I had in this perfect, limitless blue looking for it. What was it? Where did it go?
How did something so brilliantly different shine through the water like it was calling to me and only me? How nice that thought was–something just for me.
The dream twisted and I was in the water, swimming like I’d been born a fish instead of a man. And every time, I’d wake up exhausted and spent, muscles aching from the imagined journey.
I hated waking up.
But the alarm was blaring, and I had already stayed in bed too long. No time for a shower now, and that seemed to make my heart ache again–no time to relive the last wisps of the dream before it cleared completely. Before the cobwebs of sleep fully faded and I got ready to face another endless day.
I smacked the alarm clock harder than I meant to, and the flimsy clock fell off the nightstand. It was Monday morning, which meant the coffee shop would be at its busiest–people needing their fix to make it through their days. My small apartment was splashed in every shade of blue I could find–blue paint on clearance at the hardware store, a blue blanket and sheet set I got from one of my last foster homes, blue clothes, laptop case, and shoes. Surrounding myself with the color of the sea was the only thing that made the days bearable until I could come home to sleep and dream again. That, and painting.
My green eyes looked haunted; it would be another few hours before I felt really awake again, and even as I moved through my shortened morning routine, my hands itched to paint. I’d painted every scene in those dreams, and even after scrubbing, my fingers always seemed to be dyed from the paints.
The latest creation was one that I’d never sell–between the coffee shop and selling my art on the side, things were finally more comfortable–but even if I was down to my last dime, I couldn’t sell her.
It started as a scribble, but then turned into something more, a feeling I couldn’t shake until I spent two days painting and painting before coming back up for air. I painted a mermaid with coral pink hair and lips, dazzlingly, hazy blue eyes and an expression that said she knew how hard it was to look away from the rising tides.
I cast one last look at the painting, before I tugged on my shoes. My shift started in twenty minutes, which meant that I was going to be late. Stepping out into the warm June day, I welcomed the heat, waking me up a little more. The dreams always left a chill in my bones, but the weather in south-eastern Virginia never stayed cold for long. In Virginia Beach, winter came and went quickly .
Beans and Barley was a local hangout, closer to the beach where busy corporate workers and moms desperate to get out of the house came to sip their lattes and listen to the waves. It was one of the few places that stayed open year-round at the boardwalk, and people loved it. I’d been a barista here for nearly four years, and unless my art suddenly blew up, my job prospects didn’t seem to be changing. Bouncing between houses and care centers made it hard for me to be settled in one place for any length of time, but finding Virginia Beach felt like coming home.
“Hey Owen, you made it on time today,” Anne Marie joked. She already had her hands full with a line of cups for me to start making. I washed my hands and grabbed an apron before diving in. It was oddly cathartic–I loved grinding the beans and mixing the teas. I loved the scent of the coffee as it brewed and the earthiness of the teas settled me.
“Miracles happen,” I said, already on my second latte. I knew the faces and drink orders of our regulars, but not the names. Something about names was hard to remember. Maybe harder to care about? Making connections with people was hard for me; I tried, but I stumbled over my words a lot, and felt more content to stay silent. Anne Marie was easy to talk to, mainly because she rarely stopped talking.
“It’ll be a miracle if you ever say yes to going to dinner with me. What’s one little date?” She cut her eyes and smiled until her dimples were on full display. Anne Marie was classically pretty–soft brown hair and eyes, approachable like the girl-next-door except with arms covered in flower tattoos and a nose ring. My laugh came out husky, like my throat had forgotten how to make the sound.
“I don’t–”
“Date. Yes, I know. Everyone here knows it. Sweet, baby Owen, all on his own with his paintbrushes and seashells.”
“I like my art,” I said, pretending to be wounded. I held an iced coffee to my chest, feigning true heartache, and she laughed. Anne Marie was one of my few friends–likely my best friend honestly–and I didn’t want to ruin that. I didn’t want to lose my closest friend, even if she was someone I barely chatted with. I tried to talk more though, day by day, adding another comment when I’d normally stay quiet. Now we had full conversations instead of just little, brief exchanges. It was refreshing that she was comfortable with my silence instead of put off by it.
“Speaking of art, are you getting excited about your exhibition? It’s so soon!” Anne Marie practically vibrated with energy. She was the one that got me to apply. I was excited, to tell the truth. I didn’t let myself get excited about a lot of things, because it usually turned into some kind of disaster.
“Yeah, it’s going to be good, I think. Thanks for getting me to apply.”
“Someone has to drag you out of your shell. You’re like the crustaceans you paint, always hiding out in your little cave.”
“Cute,” I said, handing the latest order over. A basic, double-shot espresso with no sugar or syrups added. He had my respect with that alone.
“If that young lady had asked me to dinner, I’d already be making reservations,” double-shot espresso said. He was probably in his thirties with a wedding ring and laugh lines. This guy wouldn’t so much as glance at another woman; I’d seen the adoring looks as he gazed at his wife on video chats before he headed to work. It made me like him more. Double-shot was a decent man.
“Careful, I might ask you out next,” Anne Marie said as she prepared a muffin for him.
“Behave,” I said. I was grinning now already, and the dream was the last thought on my mind.
“Did I overhear that you’re in a local exhibition? That’s quite a feat. It’s hard to break into the art scene at all,” he said.
“Yeah, it’s an ocean theme. I’m sure the tourists will love it,” I said, trying not to sound judgemental. The tourists kept this area afloat, and the loads of tips they brought was nothing for me to sneeze at. Last year, I earned enough in a few weeks for a brand new watercolor set–and not the cheap ones I’d been getting by on. Their presence always seemed to annoy the locals, but I loved seeing my town come alive.
“Locals, too. We live here for a reason, you know,” double-shot said, smiling. His phone rang and I knew it would be his wife, checking in before they both parted for the day.
“Take a flier, there’s some still on the bulletin board by the door. Owen needs all the support he can get,” Anne Marie said, as she stole my iced coffee.